Today I’m in my 10th hotel room in 12 days. One of the underrated sciences of the proverbial tour life is remembering your room number day after day after day after day. Of course you can simply keep the little cardboard sleeve with your key-card but where’s the fun in that? So I was trying to analyze what goes on in my head when I step into that elevator and think, “Shit, what’s my room?”

When I check in and first find out my room number I try to come up with some sort of mnemonic trick to remember it. But how do I remember which mnemonic trick I’m on today when there’s a new one every day? I think it’s a 2-step process. The first is remembering what floor I’m on, and from there I try to recall what hints I might have given myself with that first number. For example the other day I was in room 718. Easy, right? Brooklyyyyn. Still when I walked into the elevator at 5am after a gig I was like “Shit, what’s my room?” That turned into “What’s my floor? 7? Yeah 7. Oh yeah, duh, 718. Brooklyyyn!”

For some reason that reminds me of my dad’s obsessive storing habits. My parents are neat-freaks and my dad is so quick to put something away deep inside a closet that he does it on autopilot and forgets where he actually puts things. Back when I was living with them, sometimes I’d ask “Dad did you put away my mixer?” and his reaction would be something like “Oh did you need that? Yes I saw it lying around so I put it away. Let’s see, mixer, mixer…” and visibly he wouldn’t remember where he’d stored it. So he’d tell himself, if I saw a mixer lying around now, where would I put it? He’d let the thought of a loitering mixer simmer inside him for a sec, then he’d go look under the staircase and sure enough it would be there.