Shag Pile City

It's like walking on marshmallow. You know that jet lag feeling? (The one that Bruce Willis cures by walking barefoot on a shag-pile rug in 'Die Hard'?) Well, I'm getting used to having it daily. Woke at 3am in Toronto, stuffed my bags with nearly dry laundry and ran for the taxi to the airport. Barely caught the flight to Salt Lake City via Denver after sweating to verify the street address of our inbound hotel for Homeland Security. (Erm, tour manager? What on earth is one of those? Frankly, not seen one for a while...) Arrived feeling other-worldly, which is actually a great way to be for Salt Lake. First impression, imagine Disney, The Stepford Wives and Westworld rolled into an uglier package. After the sullen taxi driver attempted to destroy our luggage by compressing it violently with the boot lid, we made it to The Depot, an old railway shed turned venue. Primary news was that the promoter had only sold 190 tickets by weekend, and had wanted to pull the gig. Instead, he'd opted for the 'half-payment clause', which luckily he'd just invented. Secondary news was, we had no hotel for the night. (When I opened the dressing room door, I half expected to see Bobby Ewing in the shower, 'cos this must all be a dream)
Hot tears of unbridled joy were about to seep out of me, so I had a walk outside to try and calm them and the marshmallow. I was back after 10mins, the searing heat and piped music in the streets was enough to drive a man straight into the nearest Latter Day Saints temple shouting 'bollocks'.
After a short lie down in a dark room, I decided to take some pics to remove myself from the situation. Here's my favorite useless one:

Me, in a hub cap. Genius.

Really tired, I made it through the gig on adrenaline and then collapsed in a grumpy heap on the bus. Another day without hot food. It's a glamorous life.