I’m writing this poolside at the Sportman’s Lodge in Studio City, plans of being erudite derailed by midday gin and tonics - it’s a day off, and there’s a celebratory mood in the air after four consecutive sold out shows. Days off on the road are precious, and I plan on spending this one - our first - pleasantly inebriated, in the company of fellow battle-hardened, road-weary degenerates.

The Sportman’s notorious in the touring world - as one of the only hotels in LA proper that accommodates tour busses, the amount of steam let loose here by over-worked touring pros is legendary, to the extent that they had to shut the place down a few years ago and give it a complete overhaul. The pool’s inevitably ringed by bearded weirdos in steel toe boots and metal t-shirts, and the bartenders don’t try to up sell you - they’re happy letting well whiskey flow like water, knowing fat tips from cash rich guitar techs, per diems fresh in hand, are soon to follow.

The cloudless sky’s transitioning from blue to purple, and as the fading light emboldens additional nocturnal road crew to emerge from their rooms, I’m feeling peaceful and calm, content with my place in the world.