Mohegan Sun Casino, CT – LA –  “What if I Quit?” – The Wolf Den – August 29, 2001

A laptop, bottle of water, tape recorder, cashmere cardigan, a couple’a pens, a guitar tuner, day timer, wallet, cell phone, couple’a battery chargers, a packet of throat lozenges, and a glossy red lipstick. These are the contents of my overnight bag. It’s the curse of the chronic over-packers, that the one time we actually need 1/2 of what we bring, it’s the one time we decide to travel light.

I was nursing a hangover after a particularly raucous late-night, after-show party at The Wolf Den when the phone rang.  I almost didn’t answer.  I was captivated by a Gilligan’s Island episode on the hotel TV — The one right after The Minnow gets wrecked, and the crew realizes they’re goanna have to build some huts. Pretty exciting stuff.

I inched my hand toward the phone on the nightstand, eyes still glued on Ginger, who was using her hips and lips to inspire Gilligan to lend her some tools for her hut.  It was my publicist, Ariel, with a “simple” request.  She said, “Could I get you to just pop out to LA today for the Vanity Fair photo shoot you’ve been postponing because you have a hot new beau you’d rather be in bed with?” 

Shit.  Busted. I knew I shouldn’t have picked up. She was right, I was dodging my musical obligations left and right, and suddenly, I felt very guilty and sad. After all, I’d promised Dean I’d link up with him in Colorado today.  He was already there waiting for me, tucked away in my little A-frame house outside of Golden.  The image of his warm body nesting in my sheets nearly wrecked me.

“I wish I could R, but I didn’t bring anything with me—just the clothes on my back. Not even a toothbrush and frankly, I’m a hungover mess, not a pretty picture.” I tried my best to weasel my way out of the shoot.  But Ariel, the super publicist she is, was not taking no for an answer.

“What’s your shoe size, dress size, bra size?” “What products do you use in your hair?” “What’s your moisturizer brand?” “How much do you weigh?” “How tall are you?” “You’ll be on the 11:45 United flight to Chicago and the 2:20 to LA. Have fun.”  She said and hung up.

No excuses with that girl. Very impressive, I must say…. Damn!  I hung up feeling dejected and wondered how on earth I had the hutzpah to be disappointed by a Vanity Fair shoot?

In truth, ever since I met Dean, I’ve been seriously reconsidering my life on the road.  I’m painfully aware, as the child of two musicians, of what touring does to relationships and I’m not sure I’m willing to do that sort of damage to this one. 

But these are huge considerations, ones with serious ramifications. After all, I’ve worked my ass off these past five years paying my dues, learning the ins and outs of the music industry, running a record label and honing my craft on stage. But of of even greater concern to me are the consequences that extend beyond my own self-interests.  My band—They’ve sacrificed everything for me—money, security, comfort and much much more.  They’ve hitched their star to my wagon, and I owe them more than my life.  How could I ever let them down?  What would happen if I just gave this all up?  And for what? For love?!?!  Am I insane?!?!?!?!

Maybe I’m just burned out.  I mean, of course, I’m burned out.  We’ve been going at this non-stop since 1998.  Write, write, write, Make an album, rehearse, get out on the road, eat crappy food, stay in crappy hotels, drink, drink, drink, drive, drive, drive, play, play, play, repeat. 

But is all this hard work even paying off?  If I’m honest, I’m not where I hoped we’d be by now—3 albums in, 500+ shows down, $80,000 in debt, People, Us, CNN, Oprah, Vanity Fair be damned.  Where am I?  Where do I want to be?  I need some time to think, retrieve myself, peel my road-kill of a soul off the blacktop and figure some shit out.  Luckily, my ol’ man has asked me to join him for a stack of shows starting in a few weeks and perhaps getting some time away from everything will give me a little perspective.

So now I’m on flight #115 to LA, through Chicago, and over CO where my true love waits for me.The flight’s uneventful.  Even the movie goes nowhere —A Woody Alan, Helen Hunt and a Jewel Thief affair I can’t concentrate on so I read the rough draft of the Vanity Fair article this shoot is for. I’ll be part of The 2002 Music Issue —something called the Fanfare section under the banner of “Sons & Daughters.” Even though I escape some of the more grotesque indictments,  the article as a whole, is about how pathetic we all are—all us sons and daughters of—how ungrateful and lazy and fucked up and doped out we are “but they couldn’t help it and shouldn’t be blamed.  They’re innocent victims of the rock n roll machine.”  It’s a whole bunch of crap and I feel dirty for having read it and dirtier for flying over the one thing that feels true and important to me to shoot for an article that makes me look like a right scab.