A scraped shin, a breezy dock, and the Gulf stretching out like a stage—this one starts chaotic and turns strangely tender. We set up at the bay in Corpus Christi, swing by the Selena statue, and talk about what it means when a city adopts an artist as family. That sparks a music thread—how Selena’s warmth and Pantera’s grit both shape identity—and why certain songs become rallying cries long after the amps go quiet.

From there we roll into the craft. Two shows in one night deliver a split-screen lesson in crowd work: a first set that floats because the host nails the warmup, and a second where two loud guys try to take the wheel. We break down reading the room without losing the room, why a well-timed pause beats a sharp put-down, and how food choices—yes, that pizza between sets—sneak into performance. New material gets a live workout, wobbling and landing all at once.

The bay keeps pulling focus. Pelicans fish, doves glide in, a duck maybe stays under too long, and we spiral into the weird beauty of not knowing what any of it means. Hotel life slips into the mix—eggs you shouldn’t trust, gyms you only admire, towels you definitely avoid—and somehow those tiny choices feel like the real bandmates of a touring comic. We wrap with a nudge toward art, nature, and adding new skills to who we are, even if it’s as simple as taking a walk and paying attention. If you’ve ever chased calm while the world feels loud, you’ll hear something familiar here.

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