And now I’m laying down on my very own couch with the laptop propped up on my knees.
(The photo above by Todd Roeth)
We drove out of Aspen, CO at 9 am Mountain Time, Saturday morning–we pulled in front of my building on the Lower East Side at 9 pm Eastern Standard, Sunday night. Other than three individual stops at three individual Cracker Barrels–in Lincoln, Toledo, and somewhere in Pennsylvania–and a couple of fill-ups, the van ran straight for 34 hours. Chuck took the long night shift–from the Nebraska Cracker Barrel to breakfast at the one in Ohio–and Dan and I divided up the daytime shifts.
Aspen show was weird. It’s a rich town–like a miniaturized Boulder, but with Prada and Ralph Lauren stores–and it’s the off-season. There was almost nobody there. This after a pretty triumphant tour in which all the shows bar three sold out–what a weird note to end it on.
There were a couple of blaring drunks jabbering up front, so Handsome Dan and I threw out the set list, I picked up the electric guitar–Greeny–and we blasted through twenty tunes at top volume and breakneck speed.
It was fun–we made the best of it. There was a girl in a blue dress dancing on the near-empty dance floor, and I tried to focus on her sway and not the inebriated rich kids that yelled patronizing compliments at us.
Anyhow. I’m back. It’s really strange. Sitting in that van as we passed from Pennsylvania into Jersey–and as anybody who’s driven I-80 East to NYC knows, there is a SHITLOAD of Pennsylvania–I was exhilarated, captivated by thoughts of my clean sheets and the soy yogurts in my fridge. And how amazing to see that New York skyline when it first appears on the horizon.
But there’s always this sense of dread; just barely a trace of mysterious dread. When I’m off the road, I dread going on tour; when I come back, I dread coming home.