Only three days left of tour. I am in fine shape and spirit aside from a pesky swollen tonsil and the requisite scrapes and bruises that always litter my hands by this point in any trip. We're in Chicago at our friend Sara's place and Zach and I are waiting on a pizza we ordered 45 minutes ago, which has long since lost any appeal, probably due to our discovery of a list of restaurant reviews that repeatedly described the fare of this particular joint as "vomit worthy." Billy and Sara are asleep in the living room, Rod's sleeping in the "art" room, and Zalamia is snoring so hard in Sara's bedroom down the hall that even with the door closed we have to talk over his racket. It sounds like he's either making an ice carving via chainsaw, or making margaritas on super-slow pulse. Its fucking savage.
This tour has been awesome - maybe my favorite one yet. The turnouts have been good, the other bands fun as hell, and the late-night hi-jinks pretty fucking stellar to boot. I don't want to be home, but I could sure as hell use two or three days spent high as hell watching baseball. Then I'll be good for another month.
Tomorrow Louisville, then Charlottesville on Friday. At least the latter drive will be scenic, as we cross the Blue Ridge south of Charleston, WV. Tomorrow is just five more hours of boring Indiana flat-land. I swear to Christ that state is the biggest piece of shit on the continent. That or Ohio.
Pizza just got here and was promptly downed. Capsule review - passable sauce, non-descript cheese, absolutely god-fucking-awful crust that we agreed could best be described as "hardtack." Its like Civil War pizza.
I need to go crawl into bed with Z., and give him the old "please fucking stop snoring" kick in the ass thats become routine this tour. My two going-to-sleep choices - The Louvin Brothers' "The Family Who Prays" and "Nilsson Sings Newman."
Over and out..