This is my first summer off the road in five years. It’s weird, seeing all my friend’s views through tour bus windows, knowing I’ll be populating my Instagram feed with kittens. Possibly miniature pigs.
For the time being, sitting back and breathing deep the glorious perfume of Music City suits me fine. Any non-douche thriving in this business has earned their weight in Simolians, and many of my friends are successful beyond their wildest childhood dreams. They’re legends, all of them. And it’ll be my turn soon enough to embody that Bob Seger song.
I realized early in my current chapter that jumping between extreme noise and quiet's a recipe for alcoholism. Balance is a taboo subject amongst touring folks- we define ourselves by pain endured and calamity’s dodged. But getting eight hours sleep feels good. Oh, it really does. Enjoying a Tennessee sunrise does wonders for the soul, and my spirit's somewhat fragile after hammering at the red line for a half decade.
I’m boring. I mean, I’m writing a blog post about balance, for god’s sake. It's a hipster cornucopia outside the Frothy Monkey, every beard gleaming and immaculate. I’m in a gray t-shirt and non-skinny jeans. Just a beige wall of a human being. Boring. Or, perhaps, incognito? Somehow, over the past five years of relentless travel, mistakes and minuscule victories, I’ve cultivated a sense of presence and trust in myself. Weird. Mercifully, “me” has become something worth embracing.
So, for now, my tucus rests in Nashville. I think I'll take a distillery tour next week. They’re starting to play Phish through the outside speakers. Time to go.