The title of this piece is from one of my favorite Los Lobos songs. Today, in a gorgeous and strange church in Kufstein, Austria, I saw a real saint behind what I assume to be real glass.

Bejeweled like a Damian Hearst skull, this full-length skeleton had robes encrusted with every gem known to man in whatever miraculous century its immortal soul wound its way upward to heaven. The eyes seemed to be filled with diamonds, and you’d think I’d remember the name of this strange apparition, but I’m feeling a little strange myself after a 2 a.m. nod off and a fairly early start to get here.

There were hints when we left the autobahn and headed through a series of postcard villages that I would have my Catholic childhood dredged up. Like the big Passion Play signs with a dead ringer for our Lord and the stunning modern church set at the bottom of Mount Kaiser where people were filing in to start the festivities. By the way, everything is set at the bottom of a mountain except the castles. Yes, I said castles, and I don't mean Mars Cheese Castle.

Speaking of mountains, I am reminded once more of what an absolute flatlander I am in this area where people seem to have no idea just how crazy their surroundings are. You can always tell the boss (make that Kaiser) mountain in the neighborhood, as it wears a cloud at a jaunty angle and seems to be keeping an eye on its lesser neighbors. The autobahn has tunnels through these behemoths that make you wonder if you will ever see daylight again and qualify as jaw-gaping achievements. Hoan Bridge, you just got a little more ordinary.

Last night's hotel is the one I am certain my wife fantasizes about — all modern and designy. It was clean and cute, and she would imigrate if she saw it.

Today, we drop our bags in something that looks like my mother decorated it. I will not complain about three consectutive nights with my own room, even though thoroughly professional Klaus seems apologetic. This is because the shower and toilet are down the hall. And make no mistake about it, if WWII had been awarded to the country with the best plumbing, England would have fallen first and the rest would sprechen sie Deutsch nowadays. German engineering is a cliche because it's true.

Tonight is the third gig in a long string, and I realize now that I will have to behave if I don't want to wake up in some effecient hauspital (I made that word up) with a fluid drip and doctors scolding me with odd sounding words. I am not a party boy by any means, but a gig usually means two or three drinks. The last time I toured, you would have had to multiply that by a factor of at least four. I survived, but just barely. This time, I will hydrate, exercise (if we ever get time) and behave.

I don't want to wind up displayed behind glass with rhinestones in my sockets.