I’m coming home. ‘Cause I’ve missed you most.
And I’ve never been so lost. Now I’m coming home.
And when I wake in the morning, I’ll be all right.

-Kansas City Mike

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It’s eight and a half more hours to LA. I feel like a million lira. I have hangover depression, end-of-tour depression, I-don’t-want-to-have-to-talk-to-anyone-back-home-yet depression, and “What am I gonna do with myself now?” depression. Did I mention I’m hungover?

We’ve crossed the Intl. Date Line, but not the Equator. Southern Hemisphere Greg might still have a chance. Ha ha. Forget it, it’s over. The outside air temp is -47 F. I feel like I’m on a fuckin’ time machine because we are flying straight into yesterday morning. Whoa! Heavy shit, Greg. ;)

So, here I sit, seat belt fastened at 35k feet, Crooked Fingers provides the soundtrack to, what I have built up in my mind to be, the blog to end all blogs. My epic (that’s a bit arrogant to say myself) tribute to our little trip to the other side of the world. For rock ‘n’ roll and Murder Burger, for good times that will eventually be the “good old days”. For new friends and old fans, and for the story, not the glory. For you, for me… this fictional romance.