Pitching A Script. How Hard Can It Be?

Like many of my peers, and former colleagues, I’m in the midst of a career change. Again.  Actually, a career modification is better term. I spent my early years as a writer, then slid into publicity and then back into writing. Now I’m trying my talents as a scriptwriter.

There’s been a lot to learn. I’m discovering something that  any first grader will tell you; learning new stuff is hard!

I thought I knew the writing basics. As a journalist grammar is God and the AP Stylebook is the bible. Not so much with scriptwriting. It has its own very precise format and structure rules, and tosses the AP Stylebook out the window. Where I’ve often thought it belonged anyway.

With a little, okay a lot, of help from my teachers and fellow classmates (thank you everyone at Studio 4!) I banged out my first script. I know it’s not perfect; actually it’s far from it. Still, I’ve decided to let a classmate read it and give me feedback before I try to send it to anyone who might actually do something with it.

But before I could do that though, there was an event in Burbank called “The Great American Pitchfest and Screenwriting Conference.”  It’s a meeting where the organizers gather hundreds of managers and production companies – the folks who determine which scripts get made into movies—and give budding screenwriters a chance to present their scripts. Because I wasn’t sure my script was ready to be pitched, I didn’t sign up for the full conference

I opted instead for the “Pitching Boot Camp.”  This gives scriptwriters the chance to learn how to correctly pitch their movies to producers etc. Sad as it might be, the pitch is almost as important as good writing. 

I showed up for the workshop not really knowing what to expect.  I’ve been to literally dozens of music industry conferences and sat on panels. I even attended a huge fashion expo once. Never once before have I been nervous. This even more ludicrous because I’m a publicist—pitching ideas, people and products are my business. I can do it with my eyes closed and half asleep.  And believe me I have.

This was different. Mostly because it was me I was pitching.  I can concisely summarize everybody else’s project easily. But this was personal.  I was a wreck.

The set up was much like what I’ve heard speed-dating is—there are rows of chairs set up facing each other.  You have five minutes to pitch your script to the person sitting across from you. Then they take a pre-printed report card and grade your pitch.

 Not your idea, but your actual pitch: whether you had a decent logline, were clear, had a good idea of plot etc. Then you each move one chair to the right and do it again. I stunk at it. 

I had not done enough preparation for the darn thing. I should have been working on my pitch for days, if not weeks. In my defense, I signed up at the last minute and I knew I wasn’t ready to speak to real producers. But who knew I’d screw up just pitching to other writers?

I did get better, which of course is the point. But I pretty much had no choice—I couldn’t have gotten worse. Really. I was a mess.

I couldn’t remember my logline—which I’d practiced endlessly. I stumbled over the plot, which I know inside out, and even fumbled when I discussed the main character—who know intimately. By the end of the process—five pitches in—I was a little tighter, but I was still speaking too fast, sputtering and cluttering my ideas with gobbledy gook and long pauses.

The things that other people seemed to have trouble with such as keeping eye contact, knowing their presumed audience demographic and marketing, I had down. Yay! My background is finally useful for something.

I came home with some pertinent ideas, both for my script and me.  I’m going to make a few specific tweaks to my script. I’ve also set up a meeting with corporate media coach. He is actually a friend who trains CEOs and corporate honchos how to do interviews without looking like an ass.  

It’s something I’ve done for clients for years, but it’s now my turn.  I’m a little embarrassed, but I’m willing to take all the help I can get.  I need a lot.

It’s not all potholes in the path to this new so-called career. There are perks as well: I get to watch tons of movies and call it research.  Problem is, I’m so familiar with structure now that I spend the entire time deconstructing the film instead of just enjoying it. Seriously, I can tell you every point about 22 Jump Street and The Neighbors Now if only I could write like that...

Procrastination and Writer's Block: Welcome to My World

I once had a wonderful client who told me that 90% of what he paid me to do was to stare out of the window looking for inspiration, and 10% was for the actual work. I loved that man.

So this week when I had writer’s block and a lot of deadlines, I did the right thing. I took it very seriously and immediately set about cleaning my office.

My office, ah… When I moved into my house it came with a writer’s dream—a little building out back that had served as a storage room.  I immediately converted that into a real office.  For the first time in my life I was going to have a dedicated space to write. Not a spare corner, not a ‘guest’ room, but an actual office.

The great thing about being a freelancer is that you have control of your time because you have no boss. The bad news is that means you toil constantly, because you are never sure when you will work again. When the office is in your house, it’s even worse.

Wherever you go in the place, you see your work and hear it call. It’s not a myth that some freelancers never get out of their pajamas during the day. It’s not that they’re lazy; it’s just the opposite. They just get up, get coffee and start working. They mean to get dressed; it just never seems to happen. They’re too busy.

Anyway, when I moved into my office, the first thing I unpacked was my laptop. Then I built the wall of shelving to store my albums.  It’s important to note that I am not handy. So while the guy at Lowes assured me that a monkey with its eyes closed could assemble the metal shelves in a snap, it took me two days. 

Cursing seemed to help. A whole lot of cursing.

Next I unpacked the 27 boxes of vinyl . That I had lugged there by myself.  Because I didn’t trust the movers not to drop and break them.  Of course, the boxes were all mixed up, so I had to re-alphabetize them. This took a while. Not to mention that it was a lot of fun. Who knew I still had the entire Nils Lofgren catalog? And that awesome Boo Hewerdine album? David + David anyone?

After that  came the cartons of CDs. They were all messed up, so they too had to be alphabetized. Eventually though, I really needed to get to work so I could afford to keep the office.  So I unpacked the printer and arranged to get the internet.  That was a lot less entertaining.

Which leads me back to this week’s deadlines.  Being a freelancer is a bit weird. I currently have a bunch of work, but some of it—the interesting stuff --is spec jobs and proposals. These are often cool, but just as regularly don’t pan out into actual work. Sometimes that makes it difficult to find the initiative to sit down and create.

I know I need to do it—and I will—I’ve never missed a deadline. Yet….  

But my office is located about 20 feet from the horse paddock. While I’m staring out windows (there’s that 90%), I can’t help but notice that the horses are disgusting—they’ve been rolling and now are covered with dust and mud.  How can I possibly concentrate when I know they’re miserable? Or at least I am miserable looking at them.

Then there’s the dogs. They haven’t been walked yet. A recent study claimed that taking a short walk was the best way to kick start a stalled thought process.  I bet though, that walking three dogs for 20 minutes each wasn’t what they had in mind.

Besides, I feel guilty if I actually leave the office. Even though, in this world of cell phones, voice recorders, email , texts, Facebook and Twitter, it is actually impossible to miss a message, I still don’t believe it. I act as if Paramount is going to contact me about that script and I’m going to miss it. No matter that I haven’t even submitted the damn thing to anyone yet.

Which is how I have come to the conclusion that I need to clean the office.  I won’t even have to leave. There’s plenty to do. The place is piled with papers, scripts and books. Music is stacked on the floor. The pictures are all crooked.  It’s impossible to work under these conditions.

The reality is this: as soon as I start dusting, I’ll realize how much more I like to write than clean.  Which is why my office will never really be spic and span and I never blow a deadline.

I Am A Career Necrophiliac; I'm Attracted to Dying Trades

Not long ago my mother told me, “I always worried about the fact that you were a music journalist. I never thought that it was a good career.”

I have to allow that it turns out she was right. But not in the way that she probably meant.

It has become apparent to me that I am attracted to dying industries. It’s not that my interest is piqued when I hear a business is doomed. I’m not that insane. Businesses just seem to fade as soon as I become involved in them.

I began my career writing about pop music. This was actually an exacta of collapse. Yup, two! two! two! collapsing  industries in one. I didn’t know that at the time. 

When I started out, print journalism was thriving. Almost every big city had at least two daily newspapers. It was preposterous to imagine a day when everyone would get their daily news on their phones. For that matter, phones were things that sat in your house with big buttons that you pushed, not computers the size of a candy bar.

Practically everyone got a paper, if only because it had coupons and the movie times.  When I moved to Los Angeles there were two dailies, the now deceased The Herald Examiner (which had once been two papers) and The Los Angeles Times. There was, and is still another one, The Daily News, but that one carries the taint of being a San Fernando Valley paper. (Cue shuddering hipsters.) When I started freelancing for the Times’ pop music section I thought I was on my way to, if not stardom -I was still a journalist, after all- but a regular paycheck.  At the time I was working for a number of print magazines as well.  (Musician, The Record, Creem, we hardly knew ya.) I was a real working writer.  Whee!

I supplemented my journalism with occasional forays into bio and press release writing for record companies. So when the magazines I wrote for slashed their freelance budgets I slid pretty easily into record company publicity. It was a fun time to be in the business. Records, (actually cassettes and then CDs) were selling like hotcakes, and we, in the record companies were part of the engine that fueled demand. Or something like that. Mostly we worked hard and played harder.

But that was then. Now most  people get their news online.  Bands use numerous different platforms to get their music heard; they don’t need a major record label to do it for them.  Case in point: Justin Bieber. I will never forgive YouTube for that one.  And you shouldn’t either.

So there went my career.  Most of my music biz colleagues have since changed careers. There’s a strikingly large number of former publicists who have become nurses. I’m sure there’s a correlation, but I haven’t figured it out yet.

Most of my journalist friends have also been made redundant. Papers and magazines folded, and in general, online sites pay writers next to nothing.  Websites lean heavily on ‘user generated’ content.  Which is free. And free doesn’t pay electric bills. To power computers. To write for free. You see where I’m going here?

Anyway as my career was falling apart, I once again became enamored by horse racing. Not because I like to gamble—a $2 bet is all they ever get out of me—but because I love everything about the sport. The people, the horses, the spectacle; it’s all great.  I started writing about it for a couple of outlets. Yee ha!! I was on my way again, or so I thought.

Silly me. If there’s a business that’s going the way of the dodo bird faster than print journalism, it’s probably horse racing.   Hollywood Park closed the very year it celebrated its 75^th anniversary.  Where they used to average 20,000 people a day, attendance of 10,000 is now considered a good weekend at Santa Anita. People have endless other ways to gamble now, most of them available online.

One of my big problems is that I’m either a luddite or just naïve. Maybe both. I still listen to CDs—I enjoy reading album notes and seeing who  played on what .  I still have about 3000 pieces of vinyl.  I like actual newspapers. The kind that get ink all over your hands when you read them in the morning.  I love going to the track and seeing the horses in real life, as opposed to gaming online.

I’m not sure I’m actually causing all these businesses to fail—I don’t think I have that kind of power—but there does seem to be some connection between me and doors closing forever.

Which means now that I’m writing screenplays, the movie industry is doomed. Sorry about that Stephen Spielberg

!

From the Redwood Forests, to the Gulfstream Waters, California Chrome Belongs to You and Me

As most of you know, I’m a horse racing enthusiast.  Though, like practically everything I’m involved in, it’s a dying industry. (See: newspapers, magazines, music business)

But  I love the sport. I adore the horses  and am proud to call some of the best  people in racing my friends. 

Contrary to popular belief, most people involved in the sport are real horseman. They care deeply about their animals. It’s pretty much a career requirement. To dedicate your life 365/52/12 to horses  you have to love them. The simple fact is that it’s too difficult a job, with too little return if you don’t. Which doesn’t mean that there aren’t a few people looking for shortcuts and fast paydays.

Right now is the best of times and the worst of times for horse racing. Let’s start with the good news. 

Obviously, at this moment in time—right before the Belmont  Stakes, the third leg of the Triple Crown,—that means California Chrome.

He is the little horse that could. He’s not royally bred—though his parents do have pretty pedigrees. His mom, Love the Chase was an $8000 claimer, which may be real money to you and me, but in racing that’s chicken feed. (Hell, anybody who has fed chickens lately knows that chicken feed isn’t chicken feed any more. But I digress.) His daddy, Lucky Pulpit had a reasonable stud fee as well –just  $2000. Curlin, the sire of California Chrome's main competition, Ride On Curlin’s costs $25,000.

CC, as his fans call him has terrific

connections. His owners are a pair of real folks with a wonderful sense of humor. Who else would call themselves Dumb Ass Partners and put a jackass on their racing silks?  His trainer, Art Sherman has been plugging away with moderate success for most of his 77 years. (Though when he was just 19, he was the exercise rider for the wonderful  Kentucky Derby winning Swaps)

All along DAP  had Triple Crown dreams . This isn’t surprising—virtually all Throroughbred owner/breeders in the country have the same vision.  But DAP outlined a path to get there and held  Art Sherman to the plan. And unlike the 20,000 other owners of three-year-olds, they were right.

I  came late to the party.  I missed the horse’s entire forgettable two-year-old season; I may have seen him run but I don’t remember.  But when jockey Victor Espinoza started raving about his mount, shortly before the San Felipe Stakes, I started listening. When I watched CC play with the field in the San Felipe, I became a convert.

I missed going to the Santa Anita Derby because I had the flu. But I blew out my throat screaming at the TV when he romped home.  I was at Santa Anita with a crowd of his hometown fans for the Kentucky Derby; for the Preakness I was in a dive bar in New York cheering on my homey.

Whether or not he takes home the Belmont gold, California Chrome has developed a fan base not seen for a racehorse since Zenyatta. Is it just a coincidence that he too is a California resident? I don’t think so.  We love our racehorse heroes! And since the Kentucky elite perpetually condescend to us, it’s nice to be able to stick out our tongues at them. Nyah nyah nyah!  California Chrome is ours!

If CC wins though, he’s everybody’s. He already is.

Which is important, because the bad news in racing is the recent PETA video.  It was ugly, revolting and disgusting. That anyone—particularly the assistant for one of racing’s most successful trainers --could do and say the things that were heard and seen is unforgivable.  But sadly, not unimaginable.

The reason this stuff happens is simple—and it occurs in sports across the board. It’s money. It’s the same motivation that cyclists dope, and baseball players use steroids. Racing is a business, and success equals cash.

Personally, I’m disappointed when human athletes cheat—ethically  it’s wrong. But the decision to use drugs is their own. A horse doesn’t have that choice. It’s immoral to hurt an animal under your care for any reason whatsoever.

The huge majority of people in racing agree. Which doesn’t mean that the boundaries of performance enhancing drugs aren’t being constantly pushed.  But most trainers won’t go so far as to run injured horses knowingly. Most. Not all. Evil exists in racing as it does in all facets of life.

Which puts the responsibility to advocate for the horses and police trainers firmly on individual states’ governing boards. And they’re doing a lousy job.

There is a great opportunity in racing right now. California Chrome is a freak- a great story and an amazing horse. He can bring a positive spotlight to a sport that badly needs one. But those in charge must make sure racing can stand the scrutiny.

Excuse me now—I have to put on my California Chrome hat and California Chrome Made in California t-shirt ,and prepare to scream him home in front of the Belmont field. Fingers crossed.

Everyone in LA Has a Screenplay, Right?

I’ve been a writer for a long time. A really long time. When I was in first grade I put out a neighborhood newspaper, printed on mimeograph sheets called the Sometimes Sun, which came out, well, occasionally.

Since all I’ve ever wanted to be is a writer.  It’s pretty lucky for me then, that except for a lengthy detour into publicity, where I continued to write on the side,  I’ve managed to write for a living. Or something akin to that.

I’ve written and been published in most formats: journalism, non-fiction, press releases, etc. Hell, I even took a painfully awful stab at fiction and poetry. Be glad you will never read them.  Unfortunately for me, I wrote them and therefore can never forget.  It’s sort of like viewing a train crash.

But strangely, considering that I live in Los Angeles, I never tried scriptwriting.  The common lore is that everyone here has a script under their desk. I thought that was just a nasty myth until I took a taxi home from the airport. When the driver found out I was a writer -he didn’t care that I was a journalist- he literally locked the doors and wouldn’t let me out until he told me about his script. It wasn’t good.

That experience scarred me deeply. I never considered scriptwriting. For one thing, it seemed like an insurmountable task.  Good scripts make you forget they were ever written. They just seem to exist.

But in my constant search to keep myself from becoming even stupider (see: grad school and GREs) I decided to give it a whirl. I may be dumb, but I’m smart enough to know what I don’t know, so I searched around and found a class. I figured I needed all the help I could get.

Since I am in Los Angeles, there was no shortage of possibilities. I could go to a Learning Annex or give some random guy money and do something online; there were a lot of choices. I ended up picking a new program that was affiliated with an acting and directing school under the auspices of a famous actor. For me, the teachers and the curriculum were the main draw.

The class was eight hours a week, divided between a lecture and a workshop.  The plan was to finish the program with a first draft of a script. It was a commitment with an end goal, which I love.

The classes were taught by two experienced, successful and talented writers who were also actors. This turned out to be important, at least for me. As useless as many actors think writers are, a lot of writers feel that actors are just dopes out to screw up their brilliant words and great ideas. I learned quickly that this is not true. Add in the fact that both teachers rock, the whole experience was pretty cool.

Mondays and Thursdays were class days, and became the absolute highlights of my week. Thursday was a workshop day, where the teacher and the other students would critique the pages I brought. Afterwards I’d drive home in a fog, busily plotting how I would work their suggestions into my script. It’s amazing I didn’t rack up the car; I don’t remember any of those rides. I hadn’t been this excited about writing since I sold a piece to Sports Illustrated.

Surprisingly, the most inspiring thing about this experience was the one that had worried me the most—age. Mine. I’m older than most of the people in my class. Going into the first session I was terrified that my classmates would dismiss me as the crazy old broad. They probably do think of me as a crazy old broad, but they don’t dismiss me.  And I’m glad, because I think they’re a remarkable group of people, and I feel like they’ve accepted me as an equal.

Some are actors trying to get a bead on what writers do, others are fiction writers looking to broaden their horizons. But there are many who are deadly serious about making screenwriting their careers. They work hard and leap at any opportunity to get ahead. I’m positive these folks are going to be successful. Several of them already have made short films. And they’re good.

Officially the class is over. But a group of us are determined to figure out a way to continue the workshops, which would be terrific.

I really hope that this new venture works out for me. I’m dedicated to following it through where ever it may take me—which hopefully will be to a theater near you.

MD, Schmd, The Next Time I'm Sick I'm Going to the Vet

In my household I’ve always believed that the animals have it better than the people.  But now I have absolute proof.

It started, as these things tend to do, with a visit to mom on the East Coast.  Which involved an airplane. Actually two—one to New York and one returning. Oh, the joys of flying commercial coach!

Naturally, I got sick.  Which then turned into a sinus infection. As is typical, I didn’t believe I had anything more than a sniffle.  The first day it was almost kind of fun—I slept most of the time, and the dogs sat around on my bed snoring. But by the second day they – and I -were bored with it. They wanted walks, potty breaks and two catered meals.

I still didn’t think I was ill; my belief in denial is strong.  But eventually it got past the point where I could plausibly blame it on drinking or the time change.

I started considering going to a doctor. The problem is that I don’t actually have one.  My regular MD retired a few years ago without giving any referrals. Which is kind of bitchy of her if you ask me.

As one does, I asked my friends if they had a doctor they liked.  I came up with a surprisingly short list. When I called those MDs, none were accepting any new patients. Not even if I asked nicely.

I finally found a doctor who would see me—in three weeks. By which time I would have been feeling badly for so long that I’d be contemplating suicide. ‘Cause if you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a big baby about being sick.

Eventually I gave in and went to a walk-in clinic near my house. It was lovely. In 20 minutes I saw a doctor and walked out with a prescription for meds. I was better in a few days.  Better living through chemistry, folks!

My cat became really sick about that time as well. It was a whole different experience.  I called my vet and made an appointment to bring her in that very afternoon. Of course she needed a specialist. I got her an immediate referral and the specialist saw her two days later. Tilly was pissed about having her stomach shaved for the ultrasound, but within days she was as healthy as ever.  But the truly amazing thing is that both vets called me two times to check on her. Two times!  I’ve had surgery and the doctors never called to find out if I was still alive!

An even bigger contrast for me is with equine doctors.  One of the horses became ill too.  (These things seem to happen in threes.) Naturally it was Lucy, the pregnant mare. It appeared to be colic, which is similar to that illness in people, except that in horses it can often be fatal. Lucy has already had colic surgery once, so I’m a little touchy about her health

. Okay, truth time, I am obsessed with her right now; I was frantic.

So I called my regular vet. (Again notice the difference. I don’t have a doctor but I have three equine vets on speed dial: My regular vet, a surgeon and Lucy’s OB-GYN.)  Neil was very nice and calm. And he arrived on my doorstep within the hour. Notice: he came to me.  When she wasn’t better in a day, he arranged for me to take her to a clinic. I showed up with Lucy literally in tow about two hours later than expected. Still, practically the entire hospital staff was waiting to greet us, and within minutes she was being examined. 

Shortly thereafter she was on an IV.  I’d still be filling out liability forms and surveys if it were a human hospital. Lucy was ready to go home three days later.

A few years ago one of my old horses tried to rip his lower eyelid off while scratching an itch. It wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done. It looked ghastly. But it didn’t seem to bother him as much as it freaked me out..

Once again an emergency call was made to Neil.  (The good doctor takes awesome vacations, most of which I believe I’ve financed. But he’s generous about sharing the photos with me. So I can live at least vicariously.) Within the hour my Neil came out and stitched up the eye. It was perfect, and there isn’t even a scar.  

So this is the deal.  The next time I get sick, I’m going to call the vet. 

Don't Even Try to Argue with Me: Bruce Springsteen is God

I have post-Springsteen depression. It’s that feeling that follows an amazing Bruce Springsteen concert. Which is to say, it happens after almost every Springsteen show.

I guess you could say I’m a fan. And have been since, oh, Greetings from Asbury Park. Which came out 1973. When I was still very, very young.

It isn’t so easy being a Springsteen fan anymore. It’s considered uncool. The Boss hasn’t been hip since before the Republican party tried to co-opt “Born in the USA,” which they not only didn’t understand, but didn’t ask permission to use. It ended badly for GOP, but also left a bad taste in the mouths of the arbiters of cool.

I don’t care. I adore Springsteen. I love his songs, which are often short stories. They create entire worlds. In three minutes. I dream of writing screenplays based them.

All of this is why, in early February when I heard that he was doing a series of New England shows  in smallish venues, I decided to go. The shows were all somewhat near where my mom lives and it was a good excuse to visit.  This involved some preparation.

First on the agenda was getting tickets.  This is not nearly as easy as it was when I was almost somebody. In the good old days I could call someone who owed me a favor or just plain liked me, and they’d hook me up. Those days are long gone. Now, like the rest of the 99%, I’m screwed.

I called my friend Randi, who decided that she and Bill wanted to go to the Connecticut shows too and we put an plan in place. We’d both get online shortly before the on-sale time and sign up to the Ticketmaster website.  Surely between the two of us, we could get four tickets.

With military precision we began our assault on Ticketmaster’s site. And the tickets were sold out literally a minute after the on-sale time. Before we could get through. This was a frustrating on several fronts. How could 36,000 seats sell in less than a minute? Even if a couple of thousand tickets per show were being held for friends, family and radio stations, that should have left a hell of a lot of tickets for poor slobs with cash. But no.

Then there was the fact that the day before tickets were officially on sale, dozens of brokers were advertising ducats at triple face value. They had specific seats which meant they already had the tickets in their possession. Which explains how 36,000 tickets were gone in 30 seconds. They were sold before we even had a chance.

This left Randi and I sputtering with fury. And more importantly, plotting. How could we get

into the show without succumbing to the scalpers? We were flummoxed.  And furious.

Instant messages and texts sprinkled with curse words flew across the country. Then Bill, who is nothing if not practical, decided to go to one of the ticket outlets, just on the off chance that they might still have seats.  I thought he was dreaming.

He wasn’t.  He went to a Wal-Mart, a store I’ve never set foot in for political reasons, which had a Ticketmaster outlet. He handed them money and they gave him four seats in back of the stage. We took them gratefully.

Which is how, after practically begging someone to housesit the menagerie and a fight with Delta airlines about frequent flier mileage, I ended up sitting in a car in Albany with Bill, Randi and my nephew, Peter,  and his girlfriend. Peter is a HUGE fan. So are many of his 20-something friends. Pete had somehow finagled his own seats, so we split up at the show with a plan to meet afterwords.

Yes, we were in back of the stage, but we were low enough to read the little sign that read ‘Albany’ on the stairs going to the stage. And there was an awesome video screen just above us.

Bruce is a force of nature. At nearly 65 he looks better than 90% of my friends, and some of them are in their 20s. He plays to the entire crowd – front, sides and back, and acts like he couldn’t imagine anything better to do with his time. He probably can’t. Lord knows, he’s not performing because he needs the money. He probably has more money than he can spend (even if one of his daughters is an Olympic show jumping hopeful). Nope, he plays because he loves it.

It’s contagious.  From the little ‘tweeners’ that he pulled onstage to dance with him, to the grandma he waltzed with, to the man in near us in a wheelchair, the crowd was joyous. For all three hours and 27 songs.

But now I have that inevitable let-down that happens after a Bruce show. But it’s worth it