From the Road

I haven't shaved in about a week, and I'm beginning to enjoy the beginnings of my beard's itchiness. We're done with the drive for the day, having wound through the forest-topped mountains and clouds of northern California to our fuzzy iPod soundtrack, ranging from Justin Timberlake through Ghostface Killa and the new, bizarre Dr. Octagon album (ironically, we sat at the base of a hill and listened to him recite "trees are dying" as we impatiently admired the pines, waiting for the construction worker to lower the stop sign). Now at a FedEx/Kinko's on the main drag of this small town of Arcata, Busdriver looks over responses to his Myspace bulletin post about needing a place to stay tonight while I breeze quickly through emails on an outdated browser. It's perfectly quiet except for the humming of equipment and the soft radio, and the sun is beginning to set.

We have three shows behind us- four if you count the Cocorosie gig in Los Angeles- and I finally feel more entrenched in the adventure as each experience unfolds: the drives through all the middles-of-nowhere which blur together in fields you forget as soon as you pass them, miniature naps on hotel beds with the television softly lulling you into a dream, and then the newfound energy as the concert-goers fill the once-empty floors of the venue, somewhat anxiously nodding their heads to the familiar kicks and snares. With fatigue and mood swings as my enemies, but nearly everything else on my side, it's hard not to be excited about all the things to come.