There are weeks that are so filled with starjam and spacehoney that they might burst at the seams, it seems. Secret shows, picture takings, guerilla videos (the best workout I've had in years, also), birthdays and recordings. A week is fun when the man you tapped to produce a christmas song calls and asks your drummer his opinion on timpanis (the answer, of course, is that we support them).
Quinzmas is being pinned down in a greasy wrestling match, and some magical elves have been leaving chords and lyrics under my pillow for a new album. Order is being imposed onto chaos, and chaos is holding its tattered bowler in its hands and muttering words of thanks.
