Last we play Sacramento. An early show at an old-school bar called the Press Room. Onstage I say how happy I am to be there—I truly would not rather be anywhere at the moment. Some wondrously nice locals take us to get pizza afterwards. It’s a warm ending to a really satisfying tour. I am grateful we get to do this with our lives. And yes, I want to go home.
After the show, where I’ve had too much Coffee Patron (tequila), we gun for home, making it only to Redding. We watch Adult Swim, which makes me feel as if I’ve been dosed with acid.
Then I start compulsively reading the electric stove ratings on Consumer Reports in some wayward, distant claim on domesticity.
The next day, we finally make it home. My room is clean, my laundry is dirty. My bones are tired.
Who am I, Bob Seger?
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