In the summer of 2005, I followed my girlfriend out to Glenwood Springs, Colorado without much of a plan for myself. I got a job building strawbale houses. At this point, I was still used to using half a brick as a hammer and barn siding for drywall. Soon, my knees buckled, my hands went numb, and I shot my finger with a nail gun. I had bought a little chinese 3/4 size nylon string guitar earlier that summer at a bookstore in Flagstaff for ten dollars and found that now it was the only thing I could play with my bum finger.
We lived in a small hovel with angry neighbors and slept on a mattress we found on the street. I built our furniture out of discarded concrete form boards. There was no place to be at home and the mountains raised a beckoning finger to my Guatemalan taxi, so I ductaped a mic to the steering wheel, drove to the top of the pass, shaking every rusty panel of my Appalachian coach, and set down whatever songs I could on the ten dollar guitar. Here's what happened.