Oh, Milosh

Day Eight.

Woke up in Solana Beach this morning. That's the magic of tour. You pass out in a parking lot in the middle of the Mojave Desert, and you come to a few hundred feet away from the Pacific Ocean. Rented a bike from a wide-open corner shop and spent an hour riding up and down Highway 101, marveling at the glowing, open expanse across from the expertly-manicured lawns of what surely must be multimillion-dollar bungalows-

Wait, is there such a thing as a multimillion-dollar bungalow? Do they make expensive bungalows? I'm realizing I don't think I know what a bungalow is. I absolutely cannot articulate what I think should or should not constitute a bungalow. Please don't look it up and give me a textbook definition or anything. It's 2017, and I'm here to bask in my own willful ignorance.

Also, why are all travel-size deodorants anti-perspirant? This is true across all states, stores and brands where I've ever bothered to look. How did this become standard? I've said approximately seventeen billion times over the course of my career that sweaty shows are better shows, so I'm not trying to buy something that's going to make me sweat less and play worse. Sweat is rad, friends.

Anyway, if the content and quality of this entry weren't sufficient indication:  Fuck it. I'm going for it. Nineteen blogs in nineteen days. Granted, I'l have a bit more relevant information to convey when we aren't coming off of two idle days on the road, but I still suspect most of them will be as hastily written and irrelevant as this one. I apologize.

For nothing.