I awake around 7:30 this morning. The same time as yesterday, and the day before that. I believe I have been waking up at 7:30 for a couple months now. We aren’t slated to be at the studio until 11:00, so there is no real reason for my early rise aside from the fact that when I am home, my dog, without fail, pokes his head in the door every morning at precisely 7:30. So now, a thousand miles away from him, I am still waking up at the same time. After the washroom visit, I make my way outside to the walkway where I find the Bearded One, who is also a morning man. We share a cigarette and speak in hushed tones about the colorful neighbors that share the surrounding rooms of our hotel. Beneath us a door opens and a middle-aged gentleman walks out into the sun, blinking and rubbing his eyes. In his dirty yellow sock feet he makes his way slowly toward the middle of the parking lot, back bent, head turning from side to side in slow, precise sweeps. At some point he stops, bends down with the agility of a 90-year-old man, and retrieves a squashed cigarette but from the warm black top. He picks at it for a spell, whisking away invisible dirt and then rolls it back and forth between his tar stained thumb and forefinger before pinching it tight like a teenager smoking their first joint, and, bringing it to his lips, simultaneously ignites a flame. He inhales deeply then exhales through his nose, tilting his graying head back toward the sky, eyes closed and hands stretched outward. The smoke rises, carrying his thoughts out into the world, slowly dissolving into nothing. He returns, dispensing the filter into a Pepsi can that sits by his door, then disappears into his room.

Texas is big. Everything in it is bigger. They say it. You’ve heard it a thousand times. Its one of those cliché sayings that makes you cringe every time you hear it. But, dag nabbit, its true. About three months ago, when we decided that we would be recording our new album with John Congleton, we were under the impression that we would be tracking at a studio deep in the Minnesota woods. The view from the control room looked out over a beautiful spring-fed trout stream and a landscape of mature trees. The forest floor was adorned with footpaths set of by various wild flowers and plant life while many woodland creatures scurried about with happy faces.

This is the last day of the tour, and people are packing and getting ready for departure. We've had a great tour thanks to our helpful crew; Joe Puleo (fantasy-baseball expert and fine-deli adventurer), Frank Marchand III (sound man deluxe and fine purveyor of 15-year scotch), Karin Sung (the person with the friendliest smile and laugh, instigator of many a fine celebration) and Jason Yakel (driver, pilot and international man of mystery).

Good morning sunshine. Now I know we are nearing home.

Bus driver Jason Yakel is ready to have a beer after his long night of driving through snow and ice. Hopefully this is the last of it as we finally head south on our North American tour. Fortunately, there is a cafe next door to the Slowdown that is serving espresso AND beer. Everyone in our crew is camped at the cafe. It's Sunday morning and the air is relaxed and everyone is recharging their cellular make-up.

Football is the focus here. Even before heading to do an acoustic session for KCMP at 10 a.m. with Martin and Jacob, the streets are swarming with team colors. Yellow and Black = Iowa. I think they win tonight, but it doesn't stop the craziness from trying to spread.

Apparently there's been some dangerous drives these past two days through the fresh batch of snow and ice. However, Jason, our driver, has everything under control.

The downtown is empty. No one is on the streets. We've never played Pontiac but promoter Greg Baise has been telling us about the Crofoot and sure enough the place is sprawling hub for all things nightlife and music.

I sleep in and try to clear my head of any things needed to be done. It doesn't last long, but I do feel well rested. Looking outside the window it looks as though winter has arrived here in Toronto on our day off.

Here we are at the Phoenix club. Little did I know that Toronto had such talented whistlers. During the song "El Gatillo," Martin's whistle melody is matched with a wild chorus.