While playing a show in a Poughkeepsie pizza place I happened to meet a former financial manager for the Deep Listening Institute. He seemed a little bitter about everything, especially the fact that now he makes pizza for a living. His pizza was a little dry and bitter as well.
I am now pooping that pizza in a bar restroom in Lowell, MA before playing at an art Gallery.
Life on a road is always interesting, never thinking of things in terms of "I'm going to be here for a while" but rather taking all situations and conversations as they come is calming to me. And though this particular poo is somewhat of a workout (as I always find to be the case with meat product, in this case pepperoni), the smells are not offensive and the fan in here is blowing quite sweetly in a rusty pink noise kind of way.
The bartender who doesn't drink is also a cancer and is pelting us with questions about our music and what it's like.
I think my biggest regret/non-regret is a refusal to nail down specific definitions for how I talk about my art. I want the work to speak for itself, but for people to want to come that doesn't cut it.
"what's your work like?"
"my work speaks for itself"
"oh...asshole"
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