The battered buildings, pocked streets, and steep, triangled roofs betray a reality far more brutal than my sunglasses-bedecked face suggests, and while today isn’t testicle-shatteringly frigid and I’m sitting outside in short freaking sleeves, I’ve been brought to my knees in Pittsburgh, where one too many wind chill body shots agitates the bubbling cauldron of whiskey and riffs on potato and, hey presto, I’m kissing porcelain.

But today I’m writing this a seasoned goddamn professional, measured and sweat panted and holy smokes do I love this town. Incredible food, and pragmatic, inspiringly sardonic people, who will not be impressed if we fuck this show up tonight.

Days like today remind me, in all the best ways, that I’m not a rock star. I’m a working musician, and there should be respect paid to the craft and the opportunity and here, in this proud, blue collar place, I’m going to do just that.