Sometimes playing TV can be really nerve-wracking, and I think I tend to handle that by trying to look at my band-mates as frequently as possible and ignore everything else.

London is always fun, obviously, but something about Glasgow really speaks to me. Usually what it says, though, is "Let's get wasted."

I've evolved enough that I've learned to not subject others to the fallout of my own unhappiness. I think that's a significant, hard-won behavioral leap that, sadly, a staggering percent of the population of folks I know haven't quite mastered.

My girlfriend says that I thrash throughout the night, for longer periods than are generally accepted as corresponding to REM sleep, and she often has to move to the couch to get any sort of rest before she goes to work in the morning.

My hair is my everything: my best friend, my mentor, my moral compass.

It also makes me worry about photos of me that exist that I might not even know about. How do I appear in these unwitting photographs? Who is taking them, without my knowledge or consent, and from where?

Got more milky syllables than alphabet cereals.