One of our merch shirts. I’m proud to offer it, proud to stand behind it and proud to be a heterosexual man that understand homosexuality is not a choice or an illness.

That captures tours perfectly. Exhilarating and addictive, but exhausting as all hell.

True words, Mr. Beckett.

Tours are a blessing and a curse. I want nothing more than to sleep in my own bed, yet when I get there it’s not moving in the back of a bus. It’s a surreal sensation, a hopeful realization. Sometimes things fall apart so that others can come together. I’m not sad, nor am I bitter. I’m just drinking a beer in the back of a bar pondering the meaning of skinny jeans.

Look at those ankles! I’m envious. The shoes are nice too, I guess.

My girl’s got good taste. I think these are from her Spring collection. Pretty fancy. You got any of her stuff? I know she’s been working a lot with Zooey.

My girl’s got some swinging shoes.

There are things you miss on tour; the warmth of your own bed, the sound of your neighbors, the smell of breakfast or the familiar creak in the floor boards that you always hit on  your way to take a leak at 3am. But the thing you always miss the most is the thing you usually take for granted to always be around. Limited to text and phone calls, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Touring is hard work. I’ll be on and off the internet machine tonight if anyone wants to talk about sexy legs or kegel exercises. Or beer.