Rock Springs, WY.

Concert tours magnify my human tendency to realize satisfaction in the small things; nothing cries awesome better than a hot tub and a solid wi-fi connection, though the ingrained bi-coastal snobbery rooted in my genetic makeup can't help but find an equal amount of enjoyment in tattoed middle-aged hillbillies with names like Starla or Ginger.

Tours are therapeutic in so much as they force an intense focus on only one thing; most of the time, I can't answer a cell phone call even if I wanted to.

A girl in Montana told me I was good looking. I barely had two seconds to revel in this compliment before I noticed that she had extreme Down Syndrome.