It's a magical world, Hobbes ol' buddy. Let's go exploring.

Bloody fingernails? Sleeping on the carpet? Sense
of confused displacement? Yes. Back on tour we
are. (Ignore the fact I just sounded like Yoda, if
you wouldn't mind). I didn't fully realize it until
this morning, when I woke up sore and confused
after last night's proper kick off in Anaheim, where
there was lots of loudness, pissed off waitresses,
and hair-dye. In fact, even though we've been
preparing for weeks and we've lined up all our little
ducks, this trip still took me by surprise. All of a
sudden it was two in the morning, my laundry
wasn't dry, and I realized I'd forgotten to pay any
of my bills. A bummer, certainly, but I figure I
need the money more than Verizon does. Plus, I
think I could beat up their goons. Especially if they
look like that four-eyed pantywaist on their
commercials.

I drove yesterday, for the sake of tradition.
Tevya would be proud. I think I've taken the
innagural down-towards-L.A. shift every tour.
Why? Because I love sucker-punch lane changing,
pointless traffic jams, and that stretch in the
middle where everything smells like tar, french
fries, or manure. That's why, silly. We made a
gentleman's bet regarding what the overall mileage
of the journey will be and put in 400 yesterday.
Guesses range from 8400 to 11,000. Daunting,
certainly, but, like Calvin said in the last,
bittersweet comic Bill Watterson ever wrote, "It's
a wonderful world, Hobbes ol' buddy. Let's go
exploring." Patrick Stewart, so far, has leaked
nothing but some excess gas (par for the course)
and, I say, if you make it over the grapevine, you
can make it anywhere. It's like New York that
way. But only that way.

So, Anaheim: 'twas a good start. It was an all
ages, alcohol-free good time. Like a Mormon
barbeque full of well dressed high schoolers. We
were without any of our tourmates, a situation
which gets rectified this evening, and I had the
pleasure of seeing some old friends I hadn't seen in
five years, one who I saw recently but who is
fleeing the city-sized strip mall known as Tustin
for Costa Rica in a few short weeks, and I got to
meet Gasoline Hobo. A weird thing about
the internets: you can know odd and personal
things about people you've met once in your life
and you almost feel stalker-y mentioning them
when you do finally meet. It's like when you had
that pen pal from Austria they assigned you in
middle school and you asked him if there really are
koalas everywhere and he wrote you back and
reminded you that you're a moron. Oh, that wasn't
you? Hmmm. Must've been me then.

Tonight: Spaceland with the venerable Divison
Day. I broke my tamborine last night (and
thankfully not my hand), so I will be stealing
theirs and likely breaking that as well. Spaceland
also means delicious, BYOB Thai food next door.
I'll be getting the Silver Kindling and basking in its
salty glory. Of course, Spaceland must open its
doors first. Which is what I'm waiting for. At least
I'm drinking coffee and sweating and listening to
Rod Stewart croon "Forever Young" while I'm
waiting. I think I like this song. It's no Lady in Red,
of course, but with soft rock, you must enjoy
what you can.