Are we obsessed with tour dates? Do we really think that the schedules for Brian Auger’s Oblivion Express or Jimmy Buffett are the most important things in the world? Do we actually live to enter new dates for Nelly Furtado or Phish? Are we on an even keel? Does our elevator stop on all floors? Do we have enough fries for a Happy Meal?

Do you ever find yourself thinking thoughts such as these? Do you ever ponder whether you’re wasting your life chasing something that only you deem to be significant? Have you ever considered what life would be like without the schedules for Hatebreed and Orgy? Do you ever wonder if you’re talking to yourself a wee bit too much lately?

But are questions such as these the first sign of a problem? Is it a catastrophe if we miss an extra date for Shania Twain? Will the world come to an end if we transpose the dates for Madonna and Van Halen? Will the locusts swarm, the skies grow dark and the rivers run red if we were to up and quit this relentless date, city, state and venue existence? Are we missing out on life’s great gifts, foregoing family and friends so that we may continue to sit in this cubicle pounding out the dates for Orgy, Life Of Agony and Fleetwood Mac? Are we finally, dare we say, losing it?

Or are we asking the wrong questions? Rather than contemplate the importance of procuring accurate schedules for the Eagles or John Mayer, should we be asking ourselves if we’ve chosen the proper path upon which to tread? Or should we have heeded our parents advice and become a doctor, a lawyer, a bodybuilder or the governor of California? Have we totally missed out on living a life full of riches and rewards so that we may concentrate on dates for Bob Dylan, Jackson Browne or Galactic? Has our life become nothing but one big question mark? Must we phrase every sentence in the form of a question?

How the hell would we know? After all, this is Not Jeopardy.