This past week’s been such a whirlwind that it’s only just occurred to me I was in freaking Australia, like, a week ago. As I’m writing this in the front lounge of our tour bus, several fourteen hour rehearsal days and bouts of jet-lag fueled insomnia looming large in the rear view mirror, I’m registering how exhausted I am, the kind you feel deep in your bones and leads to writing run-on sentences.

I’m grateful for our leisurely drive up to the PNW - it’ll allow ample time for rest and, more significantly, recalibrating. I am now officially on tour. For seventy-one days. And whatever ambitions I have outside the band, important as they are, must be tempered by my commitment to kicking this tour squarely in the happy sacks. I have to play well every night, rest amply, not eat like a jack ass and, for the love of god, try not to get sick. As much as a goon wearing ironically oversized slippers (as I am currently) takes anything seriously, I take my never having had a real job seriously, and goddammit this tour won’t jeopardize such a satisfyingly dubious distinction.