Zen And The Art of Getting Over

I am trying to make sense of how it will be for the next few months. It all seems pretty chaotic these days. I see friends all the time and tell them that it's great. That there is lots of time off. That it really is a breeze, but I'm not entirely sure that it's true. I am civered in bruises and sometimes my feet ache at the end of the day. It's the point in a cycle where life becomes a cluttered, confusing string of hotel rooms that all look the same, and creature comforts like q-tips and carrot juice seem ridiculously far away.
















Long, long days, 16 hours or more on a bus make me seasick, and it matters less and less where it stops. Unless of course it's Chicago. I really like Chicago.


















The shows can be really empty from time to time. I am officially over the small time radio festivals that suck the creative life out of everyone involved. They are consistently odd groupings of bands who want nothing to do with one another, much less whatever backwater town they are playing in, and the worst of it seems to be the fact that my downward spiral of a day begins at the crack of dawn.

















I have to say that the analogy came quickly after watching Chris Cornell howl something reminiscent of a Soundgarden song at a half-full ampitheatre. Bugs smashed in the grill of a semi. It made sense at the time.
















Today I found Toronto to be pretty inspiring. It was a chilly morning, but by noon the sun shot straight down through the clouds and warmed the city. I bought some socks and listened to the national record. I took my shoes off and did the crossword puzzle. Today was alright. Take that tour dredgery.