A boy’s first boob. It is a mystical, magical occurrence… the first time an artist is asked to sign a woman’s boob. I had dreamed about this moment from the mud of Woodstock when I first dreamed of being a musician. What would it be like? Would I choke and drop the pen? Would I get all sweaty and grab something for a firmer signature… and get punched by a jealous husband? Would Georgia let me do it at all?

We had a great show in Beaver Creek, CO. We needed it. The audience was totally on our side and got deeper and deeper into it with every song. After the last couple of shows where WE were our biggest fans our fragile little psyches were reevaluating every bad decision in our youth that led us to this moment. Tonight we were reassured that we made the right choices after all. We made them laugh… we made them cry… we made them uncomfortable with our passive aggressive “humor.” We shamelessly manipulated them into asking for an encore and by God…. we got one. Then we went to the merch table.

The merch table can be a sad and awkward place. On a bad night it is Georgia and I trying to catch people’s eyes as they walk past us on the way to the bathrooms. On a good night we get mobbed and can hardly sign fast enough. On a GREAT night I sign a boob.

I always joke on stage that we are willing to sign any and all body parts but I’ve never had anyone take me up on it till tonight. Tonight I am a man. This lovely lady asked me to do it. At first I tried to laugh it off as a joke but she (and her husband/boyfriend) insisted. She discretely exposed a perfectly lovely writing surface while not breaking any municipal codes and I grabbed my black Sharpie. I figured black would be better for her skin tone. She was a “Fall.” I signed with a flourish. I wanted to sign my entire name, Gary Scott Burr Esquire… but Georgia kind of gave me a look so I stuck to my usual autograph. It was the perfect end to a perfect show.

Of course I also signed two guys boobs. This is where the story gets weird.