Cause see here at the Ramada we are basically adjoined to a funky club. And when walking into our hotel after the show, not only do we get to wade through all the girls in their stilettos, God bless, with their lack of any clothing that acknowledges the fact that it is winter and therefore cold, as well as the men who happily stand warmly next to them because fashion has been kind for once and doesn’t dictate that they bare their shoulders or their legs, we also get to listen to their fat beats.

All night long.

And since the walls here are pretty thin, the party sounds like it’s happening right next door. Oh wait, maybe that’s because it is happening right next door.

So the thumping bass gets through loud and clear but you know what these paper thin walls are pretty good at keeping out?

The internet.

Yep, when it comes to the world wide web, suddenly the Ramada resembles the Secret Service and nothing, that’s right nothing gets through on their watch. Which is why you need to be sneaky and wander the halls at night, much like a disgruntled ghost only you are very much alive, so I guess you are more just a disgruntled guest, but the point is you are pacing and watching those empty little bars at the top of your screen like you’re looking for a heartbeat. You’re waiting for them to fill, watching for them to darken, when finally bam! you’re in business. So you sit down right there, right next to the ice machine on the fifth floor as it were, and smile and nod when people walk by, pretending that it’s the most normal thing in the world for you to be there, sitting on the seventies shag carpet with the psychedelic shapes and really, the real question is: why aren’t you?

So it’s a good trade, I think. I mean, I get to listen to house music till the wee hours of the morning and hardly have a shot at SKYPING MY HUSBAND.

…Awesome…

Too bad this tour is closing in a week.

No actually, there are some things that I will miss. Um, the paycheck comes to mind but how about the people too? And then there’s the whole I get to go to work and dress up and dance and sing and act and that’s work thing.

Actually, it really is work. Hard, hard work.

Just ask my feet.

Or lately, my rib.

Or my husband who hasn’t seen me for a while.

But anyway.

I’m gonna get to work with my guitar now, if you don’t mind. I’m still trying to work on this strumming pattern that keeps proving to be trickier than I am. And then there’s the time signature. I am pretty sure the chorus changes time signatures from the verse and I am also pretty sure Drew is going to inform me that I’ve broken some kind of rule when I get home.

I am such a rebel.