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Been a busy few weeks.

After a brief 4th of July trip to Alohaland we launched into another Room 205 session, this time with Keith & Mario's band—OFF.

Taking inspiration from the truly sketchy Sunset Pacific Motel (aka the "Bates Motel") near Sunset Junction, we re-imaged the space as a rickety motel room. Hi Tammy.

Abandoned. Delinquint. Ruined. Destroyed. Battered. Delapidated. Broken down. Dumpy. Drab. Full of worn out suitcases and ravaged guitars... Like my mind.

Hi Chris. Thanks for helping Tammy and I with all that wacky stuff.

Hi Mario and Dimitri. Good idea.

Hi Monika, Eric and Jason.

Hi Keith. Thanks.

Engineer Jon Gilbert flew in from a cross-country bike trip just to record the session. Thanks Jon.

OFF brought their own props, including this lovely Wella Balsam posterboard advert of Farrah Fawcett, as well as several show flyers and various bits of other "punk" ephemera. *On top of the TV, that is in fact a copy of "Young Guns," the astoundingly bad, early 90s skateboarding film.

Over the course of a few days we built the set, then spent the afternoon and evening of July 8th filming & audio recording three songs. Had a surprisingly fun time. Then just like that —POOF!—I had to fly to...

Chicago... Land of good food, great friends, flat streets, and monstrously expensive used guitars. Why did I go?

...to attend Pitchfork Music Festival.

Which basically meant watching a whole lotta live sets, meeting Jessica & Matt's wonderful new baby, eating questionable lunch meals, having dinner/mind-melds with Morgan Henderson, shooting ass loads of half-assed photos, dripping sweat, huffing dirts, and talking to deep nerds about deep nerd stuff.

OFF! played. Deja dudes.

Destroyer destroyed. As always.

Friends gesticulated.

Crap got moved around.

Ice got made.

Things occasionally got weird.

KT, thanks.

*Pause—Rollerblades—let's discuss. Aside from all the groovy rollerskaters skate-dancing around Central Park's Naumburg Bandshell, I can't recall the last time I saw an honest-to-God rollerblader. Wearing a burgundy-colored backpack no less... waiting at the crosswalk in front of a freeway offramp while an equally burgundy-colored semi-truck lurches by. Never. But in Chicago anything is possible.

Hi Morgan.

Where's Bebop?

There you are. Bebop you are such a sweet dog. Morgan, thanks for spazzing out. Say hi to Zach.

Back at the hotel... Provisions for a long festival lurk. Fox News, such a bummer.

Lots of breeze-shooting, lots of staring at stuff.

All rather warm and damp.

Hi GBV. I love your band.

Especially Tobin.

Leather vest. Striped pants. Shocking poses. Hectic shredding.

Pig guarding Porta-potties. So odd.

Hi Johnny. You're a long way from Austin. Nice beard. I'll see you in September.

Matt & Mr. Baby. Epic.

Deep thoughts with Dimitri Coats.

So gross.

Sadly underused.

Mouth-breather chamber folk vibes. Real talk.

Necessary.

So gross, Part II.

All in all I'd have to say it was a productive trip. Albeit perhaps a bit too mellow.

Nonetheless, at the very least it was much better than last year when we had a systemic reaction to poison oak. That was hell.

This was merely tame by comparison.

The midwest is truly its own animal. My flight out of O'Hare was delayed 4-hours.

They couldn't quite comprehend the clear fluid gushing from the underside of the airplane. Nor did they really want to say. Instead the gate agent just kept announcing over the intercom, "Passengers of flight____, do not ask me what's wrong with the aircraft, please. I only scan your boarding passes. I can't tell you anything about flight maintenance. You're all gonna have to wait until they fix the problem or find you another airplane".

Gush...gush...gush...gush...gush....