Wait. It's the Thirtieth?

Alright. There's today, then there's tomorrow. Then there's San Francisco. That's it. I feel like its the end of a particularly great vacation, except instead of a bullshit shotglass, we'll get an LP. Beat that, Reno.

It's early Monday (2 a.m. early) and we're pretty much wrapped up. Except a vocal or two, and some random how-'bout-a-slide-guitar-here? sort of experiments, everything's done. The van, which nearly murdered me with coolant fumes, miraculously repaired itself after a cataclysmic Thursday errand. And we've almost come up with a set list for tonight's show (which is free, by the way, at Spaceland--hint). Then, we wrap up every little loose end and vamoose. A bit surreal, honestly.

Right now, I'm decompressing after a long day with some unwatchable TV. You know, I think if TV's bad enough, it's actually like giving your brain a massage. If you don't believe me, work all day, make yourself a gimlet, and watch Over the Top.

At least our ears still work though. Somehow, we've all managed to keep a discerning ear throughout the process. I was a bit worried that, by now, everything would end up sounding like the equivalent of that ugly purple color you get when you mash all your oil paints together. Today, Pete sang some vocal's through Brad's Scully, which is a montrous eight-track tape machine that lives in the corner of the studio. I think there's a picture in here somewhere...yes. There is. But I can't download it. Well, use your imagination.

Something on the TV just told me I should care about the Winter X Games. That makes me sad.

I sort of lost my train of thought there. I think that's obvious. And there's a cozy bed waiting somewhere back there. I could use that.