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Saturday, Jun. 07, 2003 @ 12:29 pm

Saturday June 7, 4:30am -- Friends, I write to you from a less-than-adequate hotel room in Portland with the sun threatening to rise on me without a single moment of peaceful sleep. The room is about half of what youíd expect from a name like Econo Lodge, but I did talk the drowsy Indian woman at the front desk down to $52 from the standard $59 rate. The place sits just a few steps from the Blackbird, where we played out second show of the tour last night.

We got settled in at the hotel a few hours ago, lulled into duel-bed and dirty-carpet mode by the opening credits of Ferris Bís Day Off on the Superstation. By 3:45, Rocky slept soundly and Damien snored loudly. Wide awake and frustrated, I tried reading Rockyís copy of Civil Disobedience with earplugs, but it was no use. While my eyes did begin to pull themselves shut as I re-read the same paragraph over and over trying to decipher any sliver of meaning, when I closed the book and turned out the light, the dread crept back into that almost quiet spot in my head. I tried another bad movie edited for cable, something with a fat guy whoís been in lots of famous movies whose name now escapes me. I drove the car around the empty streets of Portland, watching early-risers begin their routine. Canít fucking sleep. Canít sleep. Cannot sleep.

I didnít write anything during/about the last tour. I should tell you that I had the misfortune of suffering sever panic attacks while touring the Midwest an East Coast. It wasnít a pretty scene, and certainly writing about the cold sweats, headaches, stomach cramps, fevers, and accelerated heart beats did not seem like the best plan Ė sometimes just the mention of the problem would kick off another attack. I think Iíll continue to leave any detailed information about that trip alone for the time being, but would you like to hear about insomnia? Seriously, Iíve got plenty of time.

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