There are a few thoughts that go through my head each time we return from tour. Things like "Wait. There are fruits and vegitables?" and "Oh yes. That bill." Also, you take solace in the knowledge that you'll have your own bed instead of a tiny, dorm-sized cot, covered in a blanket which may or may not be harboring germs of the next great pandemic. Then there's the remembrance that you know people beyond the three guys in your band and that each day doesn't have to begin in a van or in a diner or in a state of hungover confusion. Plus, all the routine things you do and places you visit when you're home are suddenly interesting---at least until you visit that bagel place for the third time in four days and it's old hat all over again.
So, yes. We're home. And what's a better homecoming than taking $50 you don't have and betting at the track? Nothing, that's what. I had a red letter evening on Friday, winning an astounding zero times and coming dreadfully close only once. And I was so sure I knew what I was doing too. I mean, I know how to box a trifecta, how to avoid unsightly puddles in the men's room, how to scream wildly at animals that can't understand me and jockeys who can't hear me. I was even fairly certain that after a few one dollar beers (the teaser that got us to the track in the first place), I had suddenly become the horse whisperer. I kept going down to the paddock and saying things like "Oh, you can see it in his eyes: he wants it," and then discovering, fifteen minutes later, that what he wants is to finish twenty lengths off the leader and be turned into a vat of Elmer's.
Besides that borderline financially catastrophic trip to the ponies, though, I've just been catching up. I watched all the LOSTs from this season (and let me say: much better than last season already and I enjoyed last season immensely. Except this: the new people at the camp. You can't expect me to take that lying down. Memo to the producers: kill them before I get angry. And make it violent. Especially for the guy. He has no personality. He's halfway to corpse-dom already). I cooked something that didn't involve fried meat. I lounged around like a drugged house cat. We even had time to play a show on Saturday. If you would've told me a while ago that somehow, we'd have played the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium twice in less than a year, I would've laughed in your face and maybe called you something unpleasant. Yet, well, we have. Sometimes, I feel like Queensryche. Soon: well-conditioned hair down to my knee-caps.
Now? Back at work. Which means I can again comment back and will be spending most mornings writing about Godknowswhat for far too many paragraphs. Do come back. Oh, and I must, must, must mention this: We're playing our favorite club in the world on New Year's Eve this year. In other words: Bottom of the Hill, 12/31. If you're in San Francisco, please come by. We'll have some new songs, a cover or two, and would love to slur Auld Lang Syne with you. No one knows those lyrics anyhow.