I can’t leave my apartment. Sometimes I feel as if the walls are closing in. Sometimes I feel like I’m banging my head against the wall. Other times I’m bored to tears. Then there are those times I feel as if I have butterflies in my stomach and they’re bustin’ my gut trying to get out.

“Go to a show,” say my friends. “Like Asleep At The Wheel or Alice Cooper,” they say. “All work and no play, yada yada yada.” Sheesh…

But they don’t know what’s really wrong with me. They don’t know about my fear of the great outdoors. That I feel like I’m caught between a rock and a hard place, and that no matter who comes to town – Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey, Randy Travis or Violent Femmes – I’ll still feel like I’ve got a rough road to hoe, and if I don’t get over my problem, or at least, get over the hump, that I’ll eventually go bananas.

Of course, they could be right. Maybe if I caught a good concert, like The Donnas or Santana, I’d be able to solve my problem. You know, look it square in the eye, climb back into the driver’s seat and think outside the box. However, I’ve been down that road before, and as soon as I try to leave my apartment I know I’ll hear that little voice inside of my head yelling out, “there’s no place like home.”

But I’ve got to stop pussy-footin’ around. I’ve got to take the bull by the horns, keep my chin up and my nose to the grindstone. For I know if I don’t get out from behind the eight-ball, if I don’t leave my home, hit the road and see, I dunno, maybe Legendary Pink Dots or Lonestar, I’ll knuckle under to the dark fear inside of me and feel like I’ve been left out to dry.

That’s it! Enough already. I’m steppin’ out tonight. And the next night. And the night after next. Come hell or high water I’m gonna see Elvis Costello, Eagles and Fritz’s Polka Band, and let the chips fall where they may. Yeah, I’m going to be puttin’ on the ritz, and regardless of whether I go belly up, sink or swim or do or die, I’m going to put all my eggs into one basket, go out in a blaze of glory, bet the farm and party ’till the cows come home. I’m gonna shoot the moon, keep my fingers crossed and hope for the best. I’ll just step out and face the music. Yeah, that’s the way to conquer my problem. That’s the ticket. That is, if only… If only…

If only I could get over this feeling that my life is nothing but one big cliché.