I’m writing this in my bunk, with Allen warming up his voice in the front lounge and the neighborhood of Ybor City in Tampa, FL bracing for imminent debauchery courtesy of tourists hammered on Fireball, on the hunt for hastily rolled cigars. I’m listening to Sigur Ros through fancy noise canceling headphones, but today’s one of those days where you can’t quite steal a moment for yourself, and Jonsi’s soaring falsetto’s only hammering home that broods of feral chickens await outside rather than gorgeous Icelandic vistas.

I’m feeling the tour grind pretty hard today, probably due to these goddamn disco loud outs moving everything up a couple hours, more than enough to disrupt self-care rituals, compounded with the indignation that we’re evidently lower on the totem pole than some dingus with a laptop entertaining small time coke dealers. But, as I mentioned yesterday, the fans are out in force, a visit from Al Stone and friends long overdue, and I’m grateful for the chemistry we’ve built as a band and crew - I may feel out of sorts, but a truly bad night’s impossible thanks to my comrades in arms.