Blog, or Do Not; There Is No Try.

Pre-tour's end anxiety; Pennsylvania atmosphere.

I'm at the venue in Pittsburgh, and whoa, this place is fucking hip. A converted church. I'm up in the dressing room, the old clerics' apartment. Very funkily accoutered.

I forget how atmospheric this town is. Really lovely. The bridges, the rivers, the hills, the old brick houses, the decrepit structures. I always think of August Wilson, who set his plays in the Hill District here.

I am excited but melancholy because we'll be home in three days. When I'm home I dread the road; when I'm on the road, I dread returning. But the thought of my own bed is awfully fine.