Just like Tony Bennett, except less old and way, way more destitute

I miss San Francisco. I miss everything about it. I
miss my friends, my friend's friends, the friendly
bum across from my office. I miss being elbowed
by geriatric, cut-throat ladies on my afternoon
commute. I miss the fog, the mist, the surprising
half hours of pleasant sun before more fog and
mist. I miss my bed. Hell, I watched the Rock a
few weeks ago and I got all homesick. No, Ed
Harris! Don't you dare launch VX gas into my town!
Or, alternately, I'm gonna take pleasure in gutting
you, boy.

Like Dorothy, there's no place like home. Except,
well, no offense Dorothy, but my home is way
more interesting than a runty terrier and a couple
wizened aunties and uncles. San Francisco is more
like Oz. (I once saw a flying monkey in the
Presidio). Like Tony Bennett, I left my heart in
San Francisco. Or, maybe I left it Montreal when I
ate that vile Chinese slurry...no, wait, that wasn't
my heart. That was my colon. Or my sanity. Not
sure.

Like so many wagon riders of a time period I can't
exactly pin down, we're riding westward. Well, no.
More southward. We're eight hours from home. I'm
excited. I'm giddy. I'm loaded up with gifts so
handsome that they'll likely be thrown out two
months from now. Hope someone has a brandy milk
punch waiting for me.

Of course, there's a flip side. There's rent and
consequently a seemingly innevitable return to the
cubicle gallows. And there's no more tour. No more
traveling. No more Taco John's (thank some diety).
Rolling through the country on a perpetual
roadtrip, jumping around playing music, watching
terrible late night Showtime movies with embolism
inducing plot holes: it's all quite fun. You hear
strange accents, accidentally adopt them, drive
away. You meet new bands, memorize their songs,
drive away. You eat poorly, moan extensively,
drive away. Just not before visiting the water
closet.

But that's (almost) all over now. And you know
how we're celebrating? By playing another show,
of course. When we get home, we've got a couple
afternoons to relax, a couple evenings to eat,
drink, and be merry, a couple mornings to sleep
through completely, then: Slim's.

So, what can you expect if you come out (and I do
hope you can)? Well, I've got a beard. Peter has
enough hair for a seventeenth century ponytail.
Zach has bat wings. Also, Two Seconds will be
releasing their CD the very same day and they're
oh so fantastic. Division Day will be playing too,
which means, at the very least, more beards. And
more rocking. And everyone can come because it's
all ages. And it's on a Friday night, so you don't
have anything to do in the morning, unless your kid
has a soccer game, in which case, tell him to kick
the other guy right above the shin guard and below
the knee.

Speaking of Divison Day: they're free men. Their
charges were reduced from miscarriage of justice
to trespassing, which involves, tragically, another
trip to a Spokane courthouse, but likely a small
fee. They made (plutonic) friends in jail though.
They wore extra large blue jumpsuits and pink
boxerbriefs provided by the state. They were
mocked mercilessly but playfully by the remaining
DDayers and most of Birdmonster. But, not unlike
a small bottle of wine on an international flight,
they're free.

Long drives, sleeping in The Castle, and a pair of
shows have waylayed the blog the last couple
days. We had an instudio at KEXP that was a ball
and is probably up on their website. We did a mean
Spaceman. And now, somehow, it's over. 35 shows.
Maybe 36. Hell, I stopped counting in August. And
you know what? I'm not too sore, White Castle
cured all my illnesses, and we all still love each
other. Success is easy to define.

Tonight: a long, long sleep in my own bed. I can't
begin to fathom how lovely that's going to be.