So we know it’s not the best name, but it is alliterated. If you don’t know what “alliterated” means, you might learn it this year in 9th grade English. We tour and tour and love our lives and work and hate our lives and tour and tour and raise ourselves from the dead again. And again. We play instruments for people and sometimes for no people, sometimes just a bartender or a sound guy. [If you’re a sweet record label or high-caliber booking agent or magic manager, change that last sentence to the following: “We play instruments for thousands of people and sometimes for hundreds of people, sometimes just for Bono or Chris Martin (if they really beg us).”]

We’re all college graduates and have forsaken our degrees and nine to fives and high school teaching positions and law schools for one big shot in the dark. Some people call this “chasing your dreams.” Those people are optimists. Some people call this “insanity.” Those people are pessimists. Some people send us texts that say, “wtf r u doing w/ ur life?” Those people are us.

Beds are pretty cool things but sometimes scarce when in strange places. Floors are plentiful. Carpet is generally more comfortable than kitchen tile, and kitchen tile is generally more comfortable than the blacktop of a Wal-Mart parking lot. Two weird feelings are when you eat a pseudo-stranger’s leftovers for the first time because you’re pretty much completely broke and also when you actually use “ya’ll” in a sentence and don’t think twice about it.

In three years, we’ll challenge Kanye West to an album sell-off, with our respective careers on the line. After which, somewhat coincidentally, the band ends.