Hello America, Rob here.
I apologize for the lapse in communication. I’ve been having trouble accessing both the internet and downtime over the first few days of this tour.
I meant to post an update earlier, consisting solely of a transcript of the following text message, sent from George to the rest of the band late Monday evening:
“Remember to bring all flips, cameras, and other documentation materials. Be prepared to leave your hygiene, Reagan administration anti-fun policies, and dignity in New Orleans because it’s tour time. If we play our cards right there will be plenty of hot dudes* for everyone. So be on your best behavior and put it on the porch now and get born.”
More than anything else, George’s text is telling because it captures the way that you adjust your concept of “normal” when you’re on tour. You start out in a familiar situation, and somehow it evolves into a surreal experience. The weirdness creeps up gradually, as if to catch you off guard.
You step out of the bathroom. You take a moment and let your eyes adjust to the darkness so you can navigate the unfamiliar surroundings. You see your bandmates crowding the floor with air mattresses. Huddled under blankets. Sprawled over couches.
Temporarily occupying space. Like gypsies, you’ll all be gone in the morning.
You think about the things you’ve learned about your host in the two hours or so that you’ve actually known him. His name is Reed. He’s 23. He’s from Texas. He has a remarkable collection of recreational glassware. He is a talented musician, but he hasn’t been active since a blender stole the tip of his left index finger.
When he told you about his unjury, he said he didn’t feel much. Probably due to shock. He showed you a picture he took on his iPhone the day of the accident. You looked at the image, “red_and_purple_lump.jpg”, and then remembered to finish the spaghetti you had leftover from dinner.
Still thinking about Reed, you tiptoe across the darkened room. You look down to make sure you don’t step on Andrew, who is sleeping on the floor next to the couch you “called.” “Shotgunned,” to be more precise. You pause before you settling into your couch. You face a dilemma. It’s a matter of etiquette:
Is it acceptable to strip to one’s underwear before sleeping on a complete stranger’s couch?
You worry your host’s roommates will object. You worry you will overstay your welcome. You worry that you won’t have time to take a shower before you leave tomorrow. You worry that tomorrow the host will forget he invited you into his home and he will come down screaming at you.
You go ahead and sleep in your boxers, because, fuck it, you’re on tour.
That’s what it’s like.
*: Do not, even for a single second, allow yourself to think that “hot dudes” is some sort of inside joke. We’re all just really into dudes.
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