The Adderalled Masses

I’m sitting on the porch of our Air BnB, enjoying a self-imposed jet lag day and 24 hours worth of blissful calm before a three month long storm. The band arrives tomorrow, the crew’s hard at work, and I’m luxuriating, swine that I am, coffee in hand, with the dulcet tones of the Devin Townsend Project keeping me company.

I’m not ready to mingle with the adderalled masses just yet. There’re views of both downtown and the Hollywood sign from where I’m sitting, and a favorite watering hole’s right around the corner, but I’m daydreaming about renting a caravan and disappearing into the Australian Outback until the universe tells me exactly what the fuck’s going on. Which really just means I need a massage or something.

I received a nice message yesterday from a MoaT reader, describing this newsletter as uplifting. As someone with the propensity and fortitude to dwell in dark places, I appreciate hearing that, sincerely. I’ve worked hard at finding humor in shared absurdity and, in some small way, I hope these daily writes help make clear that we are none of us alone.