Fruitcake Merrily On High.

When did Christmas get all prima donna and demand its own month?

Every other holiday gets merely a single day.  In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue, but he doesn't even get more than 24 hours and a lame excuse for financial institutions to take the day off?  Do you know how hard it was to sail around the earth back when it was flat?  This is how we say thanks?

Sure, some of the more prestigious holidays might command a weekend.  Halloween stores do open up a couple weeks before Oct. 31, and Irish people find reasons to get drunk year-round, not just on March 17.  But, Christmas is still in a class all its own.

Sadly, Yuletide's length enshrouds some other meaningful December holidays in its bloated wreath-shaped shadow.  Holidays like Forefathers' Day, December 21, which shouldn't be confused with Four Fathers Day, a celebration of homosexual plural marriage.  Holidays like Pepper Pot Day, December 29. And, of course, my personal favorite, December 8...

Take It In The Ear Day.  Look it up.

Despite my unabashed affinity for it, I have questions about this holiday.  How do I celebrate?  What exactly am I supposed to be taking in my ear?  And, most importantly, which ear should I take it in?

Perhaps the Christmas season is so long simply because of the lack of ample competition from any other December holiday.  Perhaps Christmas helps us forget that Pearl Harbor Day and National Cotton Candy Day fall on the same date, and helps us avoid the inherent bipolar mood swings that this juxtaposition would provoke.

Sure, Christmas is a great holiday, one that billions, young and old, look forward to annually.  However, plenty of other holidays encourage family togetherness.  Plenty of other holidays encourage wanton spending and lavish consumerism. Furthermore, those individuals, myself included, who point to the birth of Jesus as being a seminal event worthy of extended celebration should be reminded that most scholars agree that Jesus was actually most likely born around September.

This leaves us with two theories as to why we celebrate Christmas in December:

1.  The celebration of the birth of Jesus was moved in order to better coincide with the celebration of the Roman winter solstice.

2.  Chuck Norris once accidentally sent Jesus a birthday card in December.  Jesus was too embarrassed to inform Chuck of his mistake.  Thus, we've celebrated Christmas in December ever since.

For the record, I'm not opposed to Christmas claiming the entire month of December.  It's kind of a worthless month with nothing else going on.  It's the Edsel of months, at least at higher latitudes here in the Northern Hemisphere.  And if you're in the Southern Hemisphere, what happens to your Christmas carols this time of year?  Do Australian families gather around their air conditioning units and sing "Let It Sun"?  Or "Frosty the Foster's"?  "Go Tell It In The Outback"?  "I Heard The Didgeridoo On Christmas Day"?  "Bring A 3-Foot Hunting Knife, Jeanette Isabella"?  "Summer Wonderland"?

I could go on.

But, if Yuletide is going to last as long as it does, some changes need to take place, especially when it comes to Christmas music.  My first suggestion for improvement?  Pass laws that prevent this poor excuse for music, at least the really cheesy kind, from being played until, say, around December 23.  Anywhere.  Everywhere.  I mean, "Santa Baby"?  Really?  How many rich old sugar daddies did the singer confess her love to in exchange for gifts before she settled for one that doesn't actually exist?

And "Come On A My House"?  Really, Rosemary Clooney?  In the good ol' days, they used to lock people away for confessing to pedophilia, like you do numerous times in this song.  Fortunately, you failed to provide your address, so hopefully not too many children were able to take you up on your creepy offer.

My second suggestion would be to update the woefully antiquated ditty "Twelve Days Of Christmas".  If my true love gave me ten lords a-leaping, I would be taken aback, to say the least, although I'm curious to see how long said lords could maintain their jumping routine.  The song implicitly promises me that these lords simply don't quit.  If I caught a lord taking a break, could I borrow a drumstick from one of the twelve drummers and beat him with it?

Furthermore, since I don't own cattle, what exactly would those eight maids be milking?  Does anyone even know what a colly bird is?  (Yes, that's the original lyric.)  It's time to bring this song back to cultural relevance by replacing these hopelessly superannuated gifts with things that members of today's society would actually be happy to receive:  divorce papers, welfare checks, and a 40 of Old E.

The last item actually fits neatly into the song, right where the partridge line used to be.  Plus, Old E is conveniently sold everywhere.  Who knows where you can purchase a pear tree these days, much less a partridge who would be content remaining in one for an extended period of time.

Come to think of it, we might as well overhaul America's entire repertoire of Christmas carols.

"Winter Wonderland" sucks.  It must go.

"What Child Is This"?  Duh, it's Jesus.  Stupid question.  Next.

"I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In"?  Good for you, dollard.  You're at a port.  Lots of ships sail in daily.

"Carol Of The Bells", "Jingle Bells", "Silver Bells" and "I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day" need an instrument change.  Bells are annoying at best.  I was forced to play in a bell choir with a bunch of nerdy girls for a few months growing up.  This was arguably the worst parenting decision my parents ever made.

And, finally, "Ding Dong Merrily On High"?  Stupid.  But, if we're going to keep it, let's at least give a nod to other dessert snack makers.  Hostess has had the corner on this song, and therefore this market, for far too long.  I would vote for either "Oatmeal Cream Pie Merrily On High" or "Zebra Cakes Merrily On High", but I'm open to suggestions.

In reality, we should probably vote in the most austere and revered dessert snack of all, that holiday institution, the gift that keeps on giving.  Let's go with "Fruitcake Merrily On High".  Cut. Print.  That's a wrap.

Stop Talking. Start Doing.

Ah, the dichotomy that is Thanksgiving.

On the one hand, it's the only national holiday, in my opinion, that has retained much of its original, beautiful meaning and purpose, which is, of course, slaughtering turkeys, celebrating obesity, and taking land from indigenous people.

In all seriousness, it's great that we have a day set aside for the sole purpose of giving thanks for the good things in our lives.  Although, if you work retail, you really don't have a lot to be thankful for this time of year.  And, if you're Canadian, you celebrate a different date altogether in your tireless yet pointless attempt to be viewed as more than just America's hat.

On the other hand, all the warm, fuzzy altruism of Thanksgiving Thursday is quickly swallowed up by the rampant consumerism that is Black Friday.  This year, Thanksgiving didn't even get the chance to end peacefully before major sales at numerous nationwide retailers, including Walmart, had already begun.  Thankfully, no one was trampled to death in this year's savings scrum.  Instead, we saw consumers handling the shopping stress in much more mature, considerate ways:  with knives, guns and pepper spray.

God bless America.

I realize that countless individuals have already come to these same conclusions; I'm not breaking any idealogical new ground here.  However, never has this inherent dichotomy been more apparent to me than this year.

I, like most Americans, spent my Thanksgiving day awash in self-indulgent gluttony.  By three PM, I'd already gorged myself, and a happy little food fetus was growing inside of me.  (I will withhold the details of the birth of said child.)  I watched two and a half NFL games.  I think I got up off the couch a grand total of four times in eight hours.

At nine PM, I was craving orange juice.  Trop50, to be exact.  Sweetened with stevia.  Less sugar.  All natural.  Cures cancer, mumps and the whooping cough.

Who has the largest selection of orange juice in America?  Walmart, that's who. So, forgetting all the ads I'd seen throughout the day about the 10 PM Black Friday Walmart sale kickoff, I drove to the normally unassuming Walmart on Mill Plain in Vancouver, WA.

The fact that I practically had to park across the river in Oregon should've been my first clue.  Upon entering, I was greeted by the sight of literally over a thousand people milling around the store like frugal, questionably sentient zombies, some pushing multiple carts, waiting for the clock to strike ten so that they could save $6 on their video games or buy another ridiculously cheap, soon-to-be-obsolete 3D TV, thereby ensuring that their family wouldn't have to interact at all for at least another year.

Pushing my way through hordes of people gathered around a guy who was break dancing in the frozen foods aisle, and through another group gathered around two hopelessly overweight women screaming threats at each other, I grabbed my Trop50, paid, and left.

I couldn't shake the sickened feeling in my stomach.  Hundreds of thousands of families across America, spending what little potential quality time they had with each other waiting in line to buy the next thing they didn't need.

I stopped for gas on the way home, at a Texaco that I never go to because it's never all that cheap.  But, it was the only station open, so I pulled in and was greeted by a smiling little old lady.  Never once complaining about the cold weather or the fact that she was working, alone, on Thanksgiving, she pumped my gas, washed my windshield, and asked me all about how my holiday had been.

As she was washing my rear window, I reached into my wallet and took out a $5.

When she handed me my receipt, I handed her the money.  She looked at me funny and reminded me that I'd already paid with my credit card.

"That's for you," I said.  "Thanks for smiling.  Happy Thanksgiving."

"That's too much," she said.  I insisted that she take it, suddenly feeling the weight of my own selfishness.

Her eyes filled with tears.  "Thank you," she said.  "No, thank YOU," I said, and drove off.

As soon as I pulled out of the station and onto Stark Street, I burst into tears, my mind a mess.

Jesus had it right.  It is so much better to give than to receive.

What if?  What if I had spent my Thanksgiving at a homeless shelter or soup kitchen?  What if I would've given that lady a $20 instead of thinking about how much I needed the money?  What if I had taken the time to call or text some people and let them know how thankful I am for them?  What if I would've done anything besides stuff my face and rot my brain on this, the day for giving thanks?  And, more importantly, why do I need a federal holiday to remind me to be, for three minutes at a deserted gas station, the kind of person that I
want to be 24/7?

One simple act of giving so little was the best thing that happened to me all day.

Maybe, just maybe, I need to figure a few things out.  Stop talking.  Start doing.

My Opinions On The Top 20 Rock Albums Of The Last Decade Are Way Better Than Yours

Rock music, I'm told, is a dying genre.

Purists from every decade and every walk of life will spout veritable tomes on why the music of their day or of their subgenre is superior, and why rock needs to return to its roots, whichever they may be, to avoid vanishing forever.

Well, I'm here to testify that rock is alive and well, that new rock can be good rock, and that it still frees my soul when the boys give me the beat.  (I'm quoting Bill Withers here.  Sorry, Uncle K.)

I've had a rough day. My parents' home in Michigan, the house that I grew up in, nearly burned to the ground today.  Their entire basement was gutted by fire, and literally everything in the house is damaged by smoke.  Fortunately, they are safe and sound; unfortunately, their cat Mitey Mite, whom I grew up with, didn't make it.

I've been trying to process this today as I've played an outdoor festival, sung the national anthem at a minor-league basketball game, had band practice, grocery shopped (I was out of spinach and I couldn't go on), and tried to get a million other things done.  I didn't even have time to eat, much less think, until around 11 PM.

When my agenda finally lay conquered in some kind of Pyrrhic victory, I pulled over on the side of the road, connected my iPod, tilted my seat back, and did something I hadn't done in awhile. I listened to music.  Not to critique; not in the studio; not to learn a love song for someone's wedding; not for writing inspiration.  I simply listened, and let it take me where I needed to go.

I simply listened.  Broke out some hard rock.  Some metalcore.  Some indie pop.  Some post-alt-art-math-scream-prog-rock (or however it is that Porcupine Tree should be categorized). The point is, I listened to songs that I like.

When I finally finished this cathartic experience and realized that there were frozen foods (or Foods Formerly Known As Frozen) in my trunk, I drove home.  I started to analyze just what I'd been listening to.  Even though I swear by the music I grew up on, I realized that almost all of what had calmed my soul was rock, and almost all of it had been released within the last decade.

Being a stats geek, I felt the need to quantify, for you, in the form of a list, my Top 20 Rock Albums Of The Last Decade.

I'm talking about cohesive albums here, not releases with one or two great tracks and then a bunch of diarrhea noises as filler.  (South Park season 15 reference, in case you missed it. Yup, South Park is still around, too, and actually funnier and more relevant than ever.  But that's another blog altogether.)

Please, feel free to let me know which ones I've missed, or just let me know what a moron I am in general.  However, keep in mind that my opinions are way better than yours.

I can't shake the feeling that I'm forgetting a very important album.

Whatever.  Here they are:

20.  System Of A Down:  Toxicity
19.  Audiovent-- Dirty Sexy Knights In Paris
18.  Chevelle-- This Type Of Thinking (Could Do Us In)
17.  Jars Of Clay:  Who We Are Instead
16.  Anberlin-- New Surrender
15.  Brand New-- The Devil And God Are Raging Inside Of Me
14.  Needtobreathe-- The Heat
13.  Hurt-- Vol. 1
12.  Incubus-- A Crow Left Of The Murder
11.  Lifehouse-- No Name Face
10.  Atreyu-- Lead Sails Paper Anchor
9.  Thrice-- Vhiessu
8.  Porcupine Tree-- Deadwing
7.  Muse-- Absolution
6.  Chevelle-- Vena Sera
5.  Strata--  Strata Presents The End Of The World
4.  Chiodos-- Bone Palace Ballet
3.  A Perfect Circle-- Thirteenth Step
2.  My Chemical Romance--  The Black Parade
1.  Thrice--  Beggars

And there you have it.   By the way, if you don't own "Beggars", there is something seriously wrong with your head.  Get it in your ears.

I honestly don't know if I would be at least partially sane today without these twenty albums. Thanks, rock & roll, for not dying on us just yet.

Patience. Wait For It.

Patience.

Wish I could hurry up and find some.

I once wrote a song that included the lyric:  "I pray for patience, and I need it right this second."  Patience is a quality that I'm impatient for.  Obviously, I need a South Beach Diet for the soul.  'Wait' and 'weight' are homophones, after all.

It almost seems as though patience is something genetic, something you're either born with or you're not.  Like gout.

Actually, I'm not sure if gout is genetic.  Since I'm writing this on a flight to Chicago, I can't Google it without paying eleventeen dollars for in-flight wi-fi.  Guess I'll have to patiently wait till we land.

I always kind of wanted to get gout, just because I've always wanted to use the sentence "Sorry, my gout is flaring up again" in casual conversation during a fine dining experience.  Or, "Pardon me, I'm having a bout with gout."  In fact, if I were dictator of anything, I would dictate that all words containing 'out' should be upgraded to 'gout', simply for entertainment purposes.

Goutside Magazine.  Goutlet mall.  Goutdoor school. Gout in left field.  Down and gout.  Goutback Steakhouse.  Gouter space.  The list is endless.

How does a Canadian pronounce "gout", anyway?

I digress.

Thanks for patiently waiting for me to get back on track.

What makes some people casually let the person with fewer items behind them go ahead in the grocery line, while other people freak out while an elderly lady attempts to find her checkbook?  The foot tapping, the gum snapping, the exaggerated sighs.  The "get a debit card" comment.  The "shop at Safeway.com--they deliver" comment.

It's funny how the speed of technology has completely changed our time paradigm.  I remember growing up with my parents' lightning-slow dialup internet connection, and actually having to set significant amounts of time aside to check my email.  I also had to schedule time when no one else in our family needed to use the phone line.  Which, if you know my parents, was practically never.

Hulu?  All the episodes of South Park, free on Southparkstudios.com?  Crown Point's hilarious YouTube videos (shameless plug)?  Forget it.

On a side note, it's ironic that 'patience' and 'patients' are also homophones.  When was the last time that you had an in-and-out experience with healthcare?  If you're more than 10 minutes late for your appointment, it gets canceled, yet the doctor can keep you waiting, seemingly capriciously, as long as he or she wants.

And, more importantly, why is it that the only magazine that hospitals subscribe to is Cosmopolitan?  Thankfully, I have seized this opportunity to learn all 50 secrets that will drive a man wild.

So what is patience, and where can I get some?

It seems that patience is more of a way of life than a spontaneous feeling.  A deep-seated contentment that allows the individual who possesses it to be happy, despite, or perhaps because of, the ability to put their agendas and schedules on the back burner.  I often feel like patience and productivity can't go hand-in-hand.  Truth is, though, it's the times when I'm the least stressed, the times when I am able to stop worrying about everything that I need to accomplish, that I'm able to be the most creative and the most productive.

I just switched seats.  The guy beside me (truthfully, I thought he was a woman until a few minutes ago) has had verbal diarrhea for the first hour of the flight, not to mention pepperoni-scented burps.  Ironically, I was impatient with the fact that he was impeding my progress on writing this blog.

About patience.

Guess I have a lot to learn.

Mwahahahahahaha!

Mwahahahahahaha.


Yup, that's the transliteration of my evil laugh as I fly to the Philippines to produce an album and assume creative control of someone else's musical aspirations.

This sadistic desire dates from the days of 'group learning' projects in high school where, much to the delight of the rest of my group, I would often complete the entire assignment myself to make sure it was done, and done right.

I also take charge of my wardrobe. I iron my own shirts, but I don't fold my underwear. Nobody folds my underwear.

This may be news to some of you, but I also like to dominate grapes. I love popping the hapless fruits between my lips so that they snap back against the roof of my mouth, sometimes two or three at a time. In grape-tossing situations, I also prefer to be the 'pitcher', not the 'catcher', despite the large size of my mouth.

It was this desire to call the shots and exercise creative control, while in the studio with my hard rock band Silversafe, that initially led me to record (and produce) my first solo album, and embark on my career as a solo artist. While working on Crown Point's new album in Vancouver, BC, it was this same desire that caused renowned producer Jeff Johnson to, I imagine, want to pat me on the back at times. By 'pat', I mean 'slap', and by 'back' I mean 'face', of course.

Now, for the first time, I've been hired to produce an album. The artist? An up-and-coming singer/songwriter from Guam, Cara Flores.

As a result, I find myself sitting in seat 29G on Korean Air Flight 20, headed for Seoul and ultimately Manila.

I have one word for you. That word, of course, is Gochujang.

Never heard of it? You will. It's the Korean hot pepper paste that, for an afternoon at 35,000 feet, made my mouth very, very happy, salvaging an otherwise blandtastic meal of rice, seaweed soup, some chili pickle concoction, and of course honeydew.

To be honest, Gochujang and honeydew were meant for each other. It was a beautiful thing. Brought tears to my eyes, tears which had much to do with the fact that I emptied the rest of the 20-gram tube on the hapless honeydew before inserting the whole mess in my mouth amid the polite giggles of my seatmate.

Little does she know that I'm only laughing because she smells like baby powder. Did she just have her diaper changed? I have no idea.

Two thumbs up for Korean Air and their extraordinary hospitality, by the way. If I had been blessed with a third thumb, it would be up as well.  Honestly the most courteous and helpful flight attendants I've ever seen.

In any case, I couldn't be more excited to work with Cara. Her songs are lyrically-driven and stand on their own with nothing more than a piano and vocal, which always makes a producer's job easier. Little does she know that I'm about to find a way to sneak the words "oily discharge" into every single song.

Who knows? This could be the start of an unexpected career path for me. Long after I've passed the age of commercial viability as an artist, and long after my face has been repeatedly steam-pressed by the ubiquitous Botox iron, I could still be lending my creative input to young artists who are thankfully too young to remember and remind me of the 'other' John Davidson, not to mention the landmark embarrassments of my time: New Coke, Darfur, George W., and, of course, Three Doors Down.

There's an ad in the Korean Air in-flight magazine that declares: "2010-2012: Visit Korea Year."

Here's hoping that these next three years will be one amazing year.

I've slept for four hours in the last 40, and delirium is starting to kick in. We're starting to descend into Seoul, and it's a gloomy day. I was just informed over the loudspeaker that it's 25 degrees Celsius on the ground, which, I'm told, is equivalent to 55 degrees Fahrenheit. Hmm. Probably just the exchange rate.

I've got a two-hour layover in Seoul, and a four-hour flight to Manila, followed by an hour taxi ride to Makati City.

Annyonghi kasayo.

Size Does Matter

Size does matter.

When it comes to Alaska, everyone knows that everything is bigger.  Everything except for the cramped Economy class seat that I'm sitting in on my flight to Anchorage.  Nothing but a flimsy armrest is keeping the kind lady seated next to me from oozing into my personal man-space.

However, Juneau that this is the last time I'll be cramped on this trip.  Only a Homer doesn't Nome that Alaska is the biggest state in the US, and I'll have plenty of room to roam.  Kenai tell you how excited I am to get there?  My Haines are all in a wad, and I can't Barrow the suspense.  If you don't think Alaska is unbelievable, you are in Denali.  I'm looking forward to the State Fair, where you can do everything from admire enormous pumpkins to watch professionals give a bear a body piercing or give a Yakutat.  I might have to Wrangell for a place to Sitka at a few events, and hopefully I don't end up near anyone who smells like open Seward.  I should probably stop at a store and Ketchikan of Axe Body Spray to take with me, just in case.  I don't mean to beat a Deadhorse, but I Kiana can't wait to arrive.

Thus far, this is quite possibly the corniest blog entry I've ever written.

Somebody, please pry this laptop from my hands.

I seem to have digressed from what matters:  Size.  Length, width, girth:  Alaska has it all.  One would assume that significant shrinkage would occur due to the cold, but Alaska has managed to retain its original size.

I once saw a t-shirt with the outline of Alaska encompassing the outline of Texas, with the caption "Ain't Texas Cute?"

Did you know that the land area of the city limits and borough of Juneau, Alaska's capital, are larger than Rhode Island and Delaware combined?  And that Juneau is only Alaska's third-largest city by area?

You could fit over five Oregons neatly inside Alaska's boundaries.  

Sorry, Texas.  You got pwned.

I'm actually more excited for our three days off in Alaska than I am for our two Alaska State Fair shows, our radio appearance, and our Anchorage concert.  Glaciers, mountains, fjords, and, of course, America's #1 threat, bears!

I'm also pretty excited to share with you the fact that Russell, my bandmate in Crown Point, a grown man of sound mind in his 20s, literally just learned about four hours ago that the plural of "moose" was, in fact, not "meese".  True story.

And now, to pressing public health issues:  How is it possible that cigarette smoking is banned on domestic flights, while it's perfectly legal to open and consume noxious containers of garlic-ridden potato salad, of questionable freshness, at will?  C'mon lady, I'm dying here.

Through a break in the clouds, I can see massive Mt. Fairweather.  Our kind flight attendant has just informed us that "it's that magic hour where we get to put away our electronic devices."  What are we, twelve?  "Jonny, have we cleaned our room?"  "Mom, if this is a team effort, you certainly haven't done your part."  And magic hour?  Does my laptop disappear when I put it in the case?  What am I going to see?  Rabbits?  Unicorns?  A bag of mystery cocaine miraculously appear in Paris Hilton's purse?

Alaska, here I come.  Something tells me that amidst your unbelievably massive natural beauty, I'll be reminded of how small we really are, yet how much our lives really matter.

Blog Nectar

Once upon a time, the blog nectar was flowing. I wrote every week, or at least a couple times a month; my management was exploring publishing options for my writing, and all was right in the world.

Once upon a time, a Jon Davidson blog entry was something you could count on regularly, like the Old Faithful geyser, Lindsey Lohan getting a DUI, cocaine being found in Lindsey Lohan's car, Lindsey Lohan going to rehab, Lindsey Lohan going to the hospital, et al..

What happened?

Now, blogs seemingly come as infrequently as Lindsey Lohan appearing in a movie, or Lindsey Lohan making a good decision of any kind.

Why am I picking on Ms. Lohan? I don't know. This is old news. Forgive me for not having the time to keep up on the latest brainless she-tabloid fodder.

Well, for those of you who haven't yet switched over to Facebook (only to find out that in a lot of ways [insert Farmville-esque game here] it's just as annoying as MySpace) and followed my status updates, here's a little of what's been going on.

But first, I'd like to thank Ms. White, my junior high English teacher, for cementing in my brain the rules regarding using brackets inside parentheses, as well as creepily and almost daily telling me that I should wear pleated khakis because she was sure I looked so good in them. For the record, it is mathematically impossible to look good in pleated khakis. Then again, Ms. White didn't teach math.

Insert Family Guy digressive vignette here.

As you probably know, I'm in a new band called Crown Point. Last month, we toured to Illinois and back, playing at Cornerstone Festival and breaking down eight times along the way. Over the last couple weeks, we've been recording our debut album in Vancouver, BC with Jeff Johnson, a producer with an affinity for zipper masks (don't ask) who has worked with the likes of Nickelback, Jet Black Stare, Adelita's Way, and Divide The Day. Nickelback's drummer, Daniel Adair, even played drums on one song on the album, much to the chagrin of rock purists and the joy of everyone else who is smiling everywhere.

Did you know that in Pocatello, Idaho, the self-proclaimed Smile Capital of the US, you can be issued a ticket for frowning in public? Look it up. It seems like a vicious cycle to me: you're issued a ticket, causing you to frown even more. At this point, you're issued another ticket, and so on. Hey, who am I to judge the means by which a city creates revenue? Unless it's child prostitution, of course. At that point, I could probably feel good about judging.

I commuted back and forth to Canada so as to not cancel any shows. If Chester's Chicken can feature a smiling cowboy chicken in its logo, who is undoubtedly a) thrilled about the fact that he's about to be cruelly slaughtered and eaten and b) a diehard country music fan, I can call it a commute, okay?

After a couple of weekend tours to eastern Idaho, we're headed to Alaska next week for two shows at the Alaska State Fair. We'll be sharing the bill with Shinedown and Collective Soul, and getting a couple days off to visit Denali and consume an entire hippo-sized gourd.

I'll then be in Portland for two days before flying to the Philippines to produce an album for Cara Flores, an alt/pop/soul artist from Guam.

Then, after another two days in Portland, Crown Point and I are embarking on a 7-week nationwide tour, opening for Tyrone Wells and Andrew Belle. If you haven't checked out Tyrone and Andrew, do yourself a favor, get cozy in your limited-edition Weezer Snuggie, and listen to their music. Tyrone, the former lead singer of Skypark, is signed to Universal Republic and is best known for a couple of Top-20 hits, including "More." If his music doesn't make you think about what really matters, then you most likely don't understand English, which makes the fact that you're managing to read this dramatically undermine your credibility. Andrew has had songs in shows such as Grey's Anatomy and won some VMA Awards.

Chances are, we're playing in your city. Dallas, Austin, Oklahoma City, Houston, Birmingham, Nashville, DC, New York, Philly, Chicago, Indy, St. Louis, Boston, Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Denver, Salt Lake, Boise, Spokane, San Luis Obispo, Portland, LA, Sacramento, San Francisco, Seattle, Wichita. To name a few. I reckon I would love to shoot the breeze with all y'all at a show (sorry, Chester and I have obviously been spending too much time together).

I'm really excited about this tour, mainly because I get to see 35 Tyrone Wells shows for free, but also because Mr. Wells is a class act with a calling, we're playing some great venues, and we'll have a chance to meet a lot of amazing individuals and hit a bunch of cities whose radio stations will be spinning singles off of our new album.

I'll be back home in Portland around November 20. Hopefully, my cat will still remember her daddy.

I can't wait to keep you posted on the tour, and to hopefully see you at a show.

If I don't get the chance to write another blog entry for awhile, you'll know what happened to the blog nectar.