The place is Neon Cactus studios in Akron, Ohio. My partner, Neil Zaza, and I have been sequestered away here for the better part of two months doing final assembly and mix-down on a new live record we've been working on. Because of the ever-present budget constraints, we've been more or less at the studio's good graces, working around their schedule - and around the clock - trying to get this thing done. I cannot return to LA until it's finished so, basically, we've moved in.

A restroom sink can be a multi-faceted thing. In the past three weeks, I've learned that, in addition to its kitchen-like function of rinsing out my blender, it's also perfect for bathing and laundry. In either case, hotel-sized samples of Flex shampoo work beautifully...my skin and my clothes smell the same. I wouldn't put the shit in my hair but, hey, I wouldn't wash my socks with $18 shampoo, either.

Something important is going on at the studio this morning. It must be some kind of money meeting. Three or four men in crisp, new suits, neatly-coifed hair and tangy after shave are being led around the facility by the studio accountant, Kelly, who's looking rather regal himself in a fresh-pressed, Brooks Brother's ensemble. They poke their collective heads in the door of the control room and take in our world. It's 11:00 A.M. and we're just getting up and running after a very late night/early morning of work. I'm doing some writing in my usual spot behind a cluttery table to the rear of the room. The lights are dim and the ever-present candles and incense are burning near my laptop. Zaza's still asleep, wrapped in a white bedspread on the floor of the adjacent iso-booth, with his head crooked against a bunched-up jacket, which he's using for a pillow. Manuals, magazines, chords, outboard gear, guitars and ADAT tapes litter the remains of the place as the fellas take a quick glance around the room with stiff smiles. We briefly exchange pleasantries before Kelly explains what a control room is and they all shuffle out of the room.

I process a quick evaluation of our guests; late thirties-early forties, soft around the midsection, married with a couple kids, Taurus or Tercel out in the parking lot, cookie-cutter home in a new suburban subdivision, weeknight sitcoms, weekend dinners with couples from work comprised of buttery Better Homes and Gardens recipes, served by an aproned wife amidst track lighting - you get the picture. In other words, a life so far removed from mine, I wonder what happened to me. And I wonder why I would feel so nutted and gutted in their world as I contemplate the agony of trading places with one of them declawed in front of a TV watching "Ally McBeal."

But then again, what could be so bad with that life? These guys probably slept next to a sensible woman in a warm bed last night before stepping into a hot shower earlier this morning...right about the time I was calling it a night with a packing blanket on the thinly-carpeted floor of the studio. And by the time they get to return to that warm bed tonight after the news, we'll still be in full swing, hours away from bedtime.

But, after a brief tangent of self-reflection, I'm not sure what's more disturbing - the fact that I still lead such a life, or the fact that I still love the life I lead.