Day 70

I decided to get my daily potassium in style at the Urban Egg, which is a higher-end breakfast chain (NH readers, think Tucker’s but for hipsters). On my way over, the Low Tire Pressure light was flashing, but like any true New Englander, I know the ideal gas law. True to physics, as soon as the temperature warmed over 40 degrees, my tires were fine. It’s usually the spare that makes a fuss anyways.

The Urban Egg had an hour wait, but there was a single seat open at the bar, so I slid in like Frozone and surveyed the menu. Potatoes, avocados, spinach, tomatoes, and dairy are all on my approved foods list, which made my breakfast bowl exceedingly healthy. It looked so delicious that I forgot to take a picture. Maybe I’ll have to get another one for posterity’s sake.

Belly stuffed, I drove to a nearby park. While I am trying to stay present at all times, I did need to think ahead to the shows my band was playing in December and January. My saxophone playing is already suspect, and if I slack off too much, it’ll be altogether embarrassing. So I found a bench on a lightly traveled trail, opened up my case, and started developing a solo. Over the course of an hour, only half a dozen people passed by; all were complimentary, which was an ego boost. One was a professional photographer who took a magazine’s worth of shots. Maybe I’ll end up in a stock image.

As I drove north, growing ever closer to Denver, I realized just how uniform these Colorado suburbs are. New England suburbs are like oaks: wide, sprawling, inscrutable. Colorado suburbs are aspens: straight, logical, and, in many cases, genetically identical. These are the city-planned subdivisions that Rush sang about. There is less vitality here, but the traffic flows better.

As I sign off for the night, a quick housekeeping note. Livi is flying out to Denver and gracing Colorado with her presence, so I may or may not post while she’s out here. In either case, expect regular reporting to start back up on Thursday. See you then.