A beach, a phone on 0.5 zoom, and a comedian trying to outrun a stubborn year—this one starts fast and refuses to walk it back. We kick things off with a flurry of winter tour dates and then throw ourselves into the Gulf-side chaos: strangers staring, cargo ships hulking on the horizon, and the mind game of recording while the world pretends not to notice. It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s honest about what touring feels like when the budget is thin and the calendar is full.
We dig into concert joy and the sacred act of screaming a deep cut louder than the crowd, the survival math of road food versus body pain, and why 2025 feels like a restaurant that won’t bring the check. Resolutions get stripped down to something real: stay alive, keep moving, and stop pretending reinvention happens overnight. Along the way, we torch Elf on the Shelf as a goofy surveillance state, poke at autoplay platforms that push you into shows you didn’t pick, and question pop-culture darlings without pretending we’re above the fray. The sciatica saga becomes a running gag and a real lesson: sustainability beats bravado when your job is laughing for strangers.
Underneath the jokes, there’s a clear heartbeat: comedy is lonely, then suddenly communal; it hurts, then it heals; it’s the quick, silly ritual that lets the heavy stuff breathe. If you need a release valve for a year that overstayed, pull up a chair on the seawall and ride the noise with us.
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