Tour Beginnings: Part 1, Night Before

You know you have been too long without a hot shower, without a run in clean air, without a good diet and good shows when things start jiggle as you brush your teeth. Now, I'm not talking about women. They move naturally. But personally, I feel that no part of myself should move in coordination with the strokes of my toothbrush. I notice these things. I notice them because not enough time has passed between tours. The tour is still all over me, like an extra layer I can't scrub off. 

I was jiggling when this idea came to me: To write here about jiggling. It wasn't my balls. My stomach moved. My chest moved. My face, too, seemed in motion. This tour, I think, will be a lean tour. Not a party or celebration where the face puffs up bright and pink and I get happy. 

A new sense of purpose has arisen from the ashes of the Tahoe. The winebago stands ready for the test. At the helm of the RV I'm a grizzled veteran, a trucker with a stash of porn and methamphetamines beating the road down into its grave like a dirty animal. I want to tip my hat to the truckers at gas stops; pick up a conversation like old friends. When some little toyota cuts you off and the wind is howling and almost tips your rig over, you understand why truckers are so goddamned angry all the time. Maybe it's the feeling of riding over everybody and controlling a machine of such bulk that instills such a deep disgust for lesser motor pedestrians. But Camrys and Tundras come across as persistent automatons. They are bent on disturbing the path of the real motor-vehicle, the RV. And that makes me angry and gets my temperature up.

The outing is short one; we've been prudent with scheduling. Nonetheless, the material voyage is a vast one, through miles of empty and full places. But we don't mind, because we're the best band in the world. If you like our music, thank you. If you don't, then fuck you.