So I got back to LA and, well, I'll call it like it is. Like I said in the Hell for Leather interview, when you're on the road there are no yesterdays. Time is a series of nows and maybe a tomorrow or two. On the back of an 1199 cities and scenery and people and treacherous conditions fire in your direction at 200 rounds a second. Stopping? Fuck. Fuck what a bad idea. Uncertainty and the perplexity of constantly trying to figure out where to hide for the night is positively reassuring compared to what happens when you stop. Whenever I thought about finding a place to 'live' I imagined a chic, sterile apartment, one with stainless appliances, exposed pipes and polished concrete floors covered in a half-inch of water. Water? Why water? Because the only furniture is an electric chair in the center (no, not quite the center) of the room. And I imagined after signing a lease I'd be strapped to that chair, with one sock on and one sock off (because it's more humiliating that way). A blindfold would be next. Then a bowl of potpourri would be placed on my lap (WTF?). And as I prepared for the worst all the electricity in the building would be routed not to the chair, but to a CD player loaded with Celine Dion's greatest hits. Stopping, returning to normalcy, would not be a quick death. Stopping would be long and drawn out: death by irritation and immobility and boredom.
So I turned the key and hit ignite.
(And found a better half inch of water.)