Traditional units of time and measurement, and measurements of units of time are irrelevant at this point. For the purpose of this text my week started on a Wednesday, one day before my clothes were held hostage by a dry cleaner in a prestigious New York town filled with summer houses. It ended with a dance party on a million dollar, twinky shaped motor home in a city regularly topping the list for the most murderous in America. Between those strange bookends I drank approximately 1000 cups of coffee and an undisclosed ocean of rye whisky. I blew off fire works with Party Baby, played half my unfinished record for some kids I met at a bar and had a heart to heart with my daughter about respect for restaurateurs outside a Ramen Joint. Somewhere in the middle of it all I slept away my 4th of July in the birth place of American independence. Talk about freedom. I don’t know what any of this really means, but I know I’m leaning into it. I know I can’t see enough, feel enough, carry my tired body across enough state lines. I know that there are 2 doors on either side of the bunk area where I’m currently writing these words. On one side of one of those doors, two fourths of my band are blaring Nirvana and probably beating the shit out of each other for fun. On one side of the other door my daughter and wife are fast asleep. I’ve spent most of my life straddling some imaginary or not so imaginary line. A toe in two worlds, both so extreme, and so extremely opposite. They don’t feel so far apart tonight.