Mmmm. Phantom Road Plague.

I’ve been on the road several times in my life as a musician, and somewhere along in every trip, no matter the scope or duration, I get sick. It’s a given.

On the Albuquerque trip with Mark and Chris I tried to make the best of the shitty venue by drinking too much cider and smoking WAY too much weed (Hi Mom!) and ended up issuing the Eight Minute Warning seven minutes and fourteen seconds before bombing a gas station restroom at 2am. Yes, self inflicted, but it counts.

(I’m not really any variety of stoner – I sometimes accept when it comes around, and that’s pretty much the extent of it. I’m a mooch.)

I got sick on both Battery Park tours – spent the first night of tour one nestled in the Brown family guest room with acute Aquarium Head while everyone but Jodie and I went out and caught some Omaha nightlife. Not sure who got the better of the deal there.

Tour 2 involved a lot of Pepto.

So. Here I sit, bandmates on tour, effectively enjoying a week off and time with the kids, and I’m just totalled. Yuck.

Maggie is at that age where everything is either edible or a temporary remedy for teething pain, so I have to police everything that isn’t nailed down, including medicines. And nothing is nailed down in this house, trust me.

Anna NEEDS spaghettios, and I can’t say I disagree. Be right back, perhaps..

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