I'm Yours Tonight

Outside of a mexican restaurant on the border with Mexico just beyond the highway, kissing the horizon. Migraine headaches and guacamole don’t mix. Whiskey and secondhand smoke choke sunrise conversation. Strained souls from six straight bask in self recovery on such days.

Flying used to do considerably different things to my perception. The cutting contrast sharp, yet not alarming. For instance, in the past, flying domestically on the same day as a show was met with spoiled-brat belly aching, pervading prima donna parallels. I’d huff and I’d puff and I’d blow my manager’s email inbox down. As sand-blasting, throat-parching, and voice-crackling airplane cabin air can be, I find myself complaining less these days. Whether it be a product of maturity, exhaustion, apathy, or a cocktail of all three, I can proudly say that I no longer bitch and moan about day-of-show travel. Nope. These days I’ll use that time to write, reflect, or fall asleep mid-chapter in another futile attempt at reading while in motion. Fuck Ambien. Give me Atlas Shrugged and I’m out like a fat kid in T-Ball before the first “Who is John Galt?” inquiry.

The same usually goes for me with driving. Day or night, rain or shine, behind the wheel I’m liable to go narcoleptic at the blink of a turn signal. As terribly catastrophic as that is, if you’ve ever dozed off while driving, despite every desperate effort to stay awake: (leg pinching, face slapping, windows down in winter, ear piercing stereo levels, hair pulling, talking to yourself, talking to your cell phone, etcetera etcetera). Despite every aforementioned desperate effort, if you for only a split second succumb to the weight of your eye lids and let them drop to your cheeks, then and only then will you know the most satisfying and unrivaled kind of sleep known to man. Perhaps comparable in the animal kingdom to say, hibernation, [or in the real (mortal) world, DEATH.] This split second of sedated sanctuary is the closest to peace you’re likely to get.