They’re Not Dolls. They’re Figurines.

It’s my first day at home and already I miss Shane’s studio. The smell of incense. Dim lights. Rolling Stones in the bathroom. Spending the day marveling at Shane, Steven, Chris and Ken making my pretty downright OK music a whole heckuva lot better.

And then there were the dolls figurines. Lots of ’em.

Lounge Sign

The Monkees. The head of Dwight Schrute. And a “figurine we can believe in,” the box said. How could we not make something, um, special in such good company?

Lava lamp

These guys helped us wrestle more than a few squirrelly background vocals into submission (along with Andrew Osenga, who made a cameo and a quick $5 for singing/arranging on one tune. That’s what happens when you drop out of college, kids. Stay in school.)

Sumo wrestler bobbles

Ah, and then there’s the King. Beside him, yes, that is a picture of french fries. It’s all part of some bizarre Christian offshoot thing Shane’s into these days: lots of chanting, sacrificing fatty foods to three paintings of Elvis hourly, sojourning to Memphis every year, and producing hits for Christian radio.

Velvet Elvis painting with sacrifice of french fries

Yes, it’s all very strange. Strangely beautiful.

And I miss it today.

There’s no Elvis in my house. No figurines, unless Barbie counts…and when does she ever? No incense or hip magazines. Just me twiddling my thumbs waiting until I get to go play at Shane’s hear the final mixes of the songs we recorded this week.