Hello again, music fans. Here’s the diary entry I promised!

Friday, 7 September

Dear Rock’n'Roll Diary:

It’s time to pack for a weekend recording! Here is my suitcase:

Upon switching to my current rig, my case was vastly overpowered by cable and pedals, so I was graciously rewarded an upgrade in the form of the band’s old merch suitcase. There was extra space, so late on Thursday night, I dumped some clothing, $200 of homeopathic meds prescribed by my new doctor who recently affirmed that I am indeed as consistently ill as I have always suspected, my teddy bear, and some pink pajama shorts, which later doubled as a dust cloth upon realizing how dirty the keys of the aforementioned Roland Jupiter 6 happened to be.

On Friday afternoon, Trevor and I piled three or four synths into Joe’s car, microwaved some burritos, closed up our house, shed a collective tear over our aquatic snail who passed away this week, and left about 40 minutes later than we had planned. I made my typical nest in the back seat, wedging myself in between yet another synth, a trumpet and a cooler containing approximately 1.7 pounds of dark chocolate and a large bowl of homemade salsa.

About four minutes into our trip, hunger struck: it was time to test the salsa. The salsa had enjoyed its night marinating in the fridge: full of a friend’s urban farm tomato goodness, lime juice, locally grown garlic that must have been picked yesterday, and fresh cilantro, it had turned itself into a fresh cold summery soup. Which, at a stop sign on our steep hill, was promptly sloshed directly from the bowl in my lap onto my Personal Nether Regions. That is to say, for the next three hours, I traveled with salsa soaked underwear.

When we finally stopped at a Sheetz I was excited to see that the ladies’ room came equipped with both paper towels, for mopping up salsa, and a hand dryer, whose nozzle I aimed past my waistband directly into my now clean but very wet pants.

And then we left, and drove several more hours until we reached New Jersey.

Believe me, Diary, this rock-n-roll lifestyle is every bit as glamorous as it looks in those press photos. To quote my beloved college roommate: “Cha cha cha!”