It seems the good weather has brought New Yorkers right back up to their old selves. Today I went to J&R for a new
electronics gadget. They have an odd system where you give a salesman the merchandise, then go pay for it, then pick it up in another area on your
way out. I went to the pickup area with my receipt and the guy seemed to be kind of ignoring me. I got a bit irritated when a woman walked up and
he immediately took her receipt and delivered her purchases, thinking, typical screwover. Then he suddenly says "oh I'm sorry, I didn't see you had
it" and takes mine. I say "it's okay" and he says "no, it's not okay" and gives me the gadget. I walk out thinking I guess he's not so typical,
although he needn't get down on himself. Then I hear someone calling out down the street, and after the third round I turn and see it's the pickup
guy, calling to me. I think oh great, they want to check my bag again to make sure I didn't steal anything, right? Instead he stuffs a t-shirt into
my bag and says "this is for the grave injustice." A bit melodramatic, but what a guy! The t-shirt is for the J&R Summerfest, and features the
statue of liberty wearing sunglasses and playing the trumpet.

I then got a hot dog, I'm not sure why I'm mentioning that, but there was something very earnest about the hot dog guy, and
the dog was only $1. But as I was walking through City Hall Park I passed an old guy saying to someone next to him on the bench, "it's good to be
able to enjoy life." So, it was a very nice span of a few minutes there.

With that out of the way, how about the past several days. On Saturday I had a box social, and it was almost a disaster
which I was very late for, but turned out pretty well in the end. Getting Gray's Papaya at 4:30 in the morning is happiness. On Sunday I had a great
time walking around with Al, who decided on a whim to take the bus here from Michigan. We made a huge zigzag around downtown, going up from the
Trade Center site, across Canal, back across Houston, back across 4th St., up to the Strand, and then home where he helped me create some more sound
effects.

On Monday and Tuesday I took what I believe to be my first ever business trip, to report to the army on our progress with
the robot. It was quite intense, with a panel made up of Colonels, MDs and PhDs, who were quite harsh on some of the projects, but loved ours. By
the by, this might be a good time to present another summary of the projects I'm involved in, and the various ways in which I refer to them:
Robot = the surgeon = Dr. Treat = Robotic Surgical Tech
Band = tour = A+ Attitude = emo
Dark Alloy = Game Boy Advance (GBA) Game = Ed = sound effects/music
Dictionary = Obscure and Archaic Word Dictionary = OED Project

That is all.

Last night was a good last night in NYC for a while. I picked up my new addiction, fresh mozzarella from zabar's, along
with some chicken salad and a baguette. Later I got sushi alone across the street, which was a very calming and pleasant experience. When the chefs
get bored they make little things and hand them out to people sitting at the bar--I got Toro with special sauce, which was very tasty. Before I left
they also made me an orange that was sliced up in a really cool way. Since then I've spent the night getting ready for what is to be my main
occupation for the next 5 weeks or so, a tour around the country with my new band. A spectrum of things
could happen to this site in that time. I could update it every now and then from the journal I'll be keeping in my shiny pure white iBook. I could
not have the chance to update it, and this entry will sit here for a long time keeping you company. Or either of those things could happen, and the
site could then go down because I lose my umich web space. So, we shall see what happens.

After staying up all night packing and readying, I wait for Scott to pick me up, watching the Blind Swordsman on IFC. It turns out he overslept, and we
may well not make it to Ypsilanti in time for our first show, at the Elbow Room. On Riverside Dr. we are behind a taxi attached to a big truck with a film
crew and cameras on it; we decide it may be for Spiderman 2.

The van has been very nicely equipped by Mike with two LCD screens mounted behind the front seats, attached to a VCR and a DVD player. We
later discover that one of the LCDs vibrates rather vigorously when the van is at speed. I sleep a lot on the trip, sometimes suddenly in the middle of a
conversation.

A planned lunch in Pittsburgh, prepared by Mike¹s mother, turns into a quick handoff at a gas station and a meal on the road because of our lateness. It is
delicious nonetheless.

A quirk of the van that I quickly discover is that the front passenger seat is by far the least desirable. It has very little legroom and lacks the LCD screens
that the back seats now have. It may improve however, when we get a car adaptor for the CD player, and this seat provides control over music in the
van.

We stop to take a Polaroid of an overpass that bears the name "Fangboner Rd." This is to be the first in a collection of photos of humorous road and
place names. Unfortunately the Polaroid camera has an incredibly wide field of view, and I was unable to get close enough to capture the sign in detail
without endangering my life.

Somehow we get to the Elbow Room in time to play, but we have been unable to coerce any of our friends into showing up. The audience is small but
friendly, and we play decently, then get out of there and come to ann arbor. Thankfully we are not victims of the lighted "LAST SONG" sign that hangs
on a wall next to the stage.

In Ann Arbor I hook up with the Dark Alloy team at their HQ in my former apartment, hard at work and deprived of sleep, just as they are ready to take a
break and see Terminator 3. After all the work I¹ve been doing on sound effects, I find myself paying a lot of attention to the sound, which is excellent. I
cannot tell you how much I enjoy sleeping on the old couch in the apartment.

It is strange to be back in Ann Arbor at this point. It hasn¹t been long enough for real nostalgia or reminiscence, but it is long enough that it¹s not normal to
be here. It¹s also strange to be in my apartment now that it isn¹t my apartment, and without the people that used to hang around it. We don¹t play a
show today, instead we get various things done and I attend a Dark Alloy meeting.

Tonight, settling onto the couch and watching the lightning for a bit, I have a dream experience that is unique in my memory, rather unpleasant, and at the
time, seemingly profound. As I am falling asleep, I see someone come up and start tapping me, trying to wake me up. I try to say "okay, I¹m awake" or
"what is it?" but find myself unable to speak, or make any sound at all. Becoming panicky, I try desperately to communicate something to this person.
The only thing I can do is tap my index finger on my collarbone, where the hand is resting. I do this repeatedly while continuing to try to speak, but the
person does not seem to notice. Finally I awake with something of a jolt, and I think I say "okay I¹m awake" as I had been trying to do for so long. I
realize now that I was dreaming at least to some extent, because although the environment of the dream was very similar to my real environment at the
time, I was in the other room of the apartment in the dream, and on the floor, and there is no person there. I have willed myself awake with the panicking.

The reason I consider this a profound experience is that I believe I really was tapping my finger on my shoulder when I did it in the dream. When we
sleep, and dream, of course our physical movements are somehow disabled, so that when we talk in a dream we don¹t really talk, but we think we are
talking. Of course sometimes we really do talk, or make other movements. In this case it seems the inverse happened: I didn¹t really talk, and was also
aware that I was not talking, rather than thinking I was talking in the dream. And I was really tapping my finger, and was aware of that. Now it¹s quite
possible that this was simply a dream in which I was unable to speak, and maybe I wasn¹t really tapping my finger at all. But it¹s also possible that I was
somehow in an in-between state, in the processes of shutting down my physical movements and convincing me that I was really doing things like talking
in dreams. My mouth had been shut down, but I still perceived correctly whether I was talking, and the same was true for the rest of my body, except
my finger, which was still moving in the real world. When I think about it now this scenario seems less likely than it did when I first woke up from the
dream, but it¹s still a tantalizing thought.

Today we drive to Chicago, but our show there fell through, so we are merely tourists. I¹ve decided by now that ignorance is bliss for me on this
tour--the less I know about where we're going, where we're playing, and where we¹re staying, the better. Que sera, sera. If I overhear something, it's
alright, but I¹m not going to actively pursue any information. Perhaps this is a result of reading Smullyan's "The Tao is Silent."

After reaching our hotel we take a shuttle to O'Hare and then the train into the downtown area. Once on the subway/el, my instincts kick in and I fall asleep.
Chicago's system shares an annoying feature with Boston's: the maps in the cars don¹t show any geographical features, and aren¹t spatially accurate at all,
they just look like a bunch of colored lines going in 90 and 45 degree angles on a white background. I¹m sure this is fine for residents, but it doesn't help
out-of-towners much. At some point we simply decide to get off, having no idea whatsoever where we are (which is fine by me of course). We are in
downtown alright, but it's pretty desolate, like a lot of downtowns other than New York's. A lot of skyscrapers, but few people, and all the stores and
eateries are closed. Eventually we find a restaurant where the others can get deep dish pizza; I abstain.

Walking around some more, we find some cooler stuff. Apparently it's a law in Chicago that every office building have a piece of corporate art in front of
it. The Sears tower does not look very impressive, I must say. It isn't majestic and the TV/radio towers at the top are providing a lot of its height. But
getting to the cool stuff, we find a park where an amphitheatre is under construction that can only have been designed by Frank Gehry or a rabid imitator.
This is quite fortuitous, as I have just mentioned how much I¹d like to see some Gehry buildings on the tour. Seeing one in the middle of construction is
equally interesting, and I can tell you now this is going to be some amphitheatre. Seen from afar it reminds me of the alien travel machine from "Contact,"
on a smaller scale.

Back at the hotel we discover some pita bread left by previous occupants behind the dresser. Everyone is disgusted and no one does anything about
it. It doesn¹t bother me all that much.

We leave Chicago to drive through Wisconsin to Minneapolis. In Wisconsin we stop twice buy cheese. I make the mistake of buying Colby in a wax
cylinder shell and then realizing I did forget my swiss army knife. But the other cheese is very tasty.

The show tonight is in the basement of a Taco restaurant, a place rather reminiscent of the Halfass. I never figure out what arrangement allows them to
have shows here. The proprietor of the taco establishment is concerned about the time the show ends, but other than that is very nice. The food isn't
bad.

The PA is pretty sorry here, but the clientele seems alright. A lot of emo/hip people, but some of them are girls, and they all seem pretty harmless and
interested in the music. The sound guy has a policy I can appreciate: a 20 minute set, because if you¹re playing here, the audience is probably hearing
you for the first time, and they don¹t need 10 songs to decide if they like you. The audience seems to enjoy our music, but they don¹t talk to us much
afterward, at least not to me. The other bands are pretty good, although they do more screaming than I think necessary.

The bass player from one of the other bands is kind enough to let us stay in the living room of his very nice apartment. Once we all go to bed the place
turns into some kind of sound chamber--none of us can make a move without causing some loud noise. I take my shoes off and one smacks into a glass
table...The armchair where Mike reclines un-reclines itself explosively...I open the door and the loose knob knocks against its fitting...other unidentified
crashes and booms sound with no apparent provocation at all. But eventually we find sleep.

Driving down the middle of Minnesota, we enter Iowa, stopping for a late lunch in its capital, Des Moines. It seems we are culinarily cursed, because
while everything in Chicago closed at 5pm, before we had arrived, everything here opens at 5pm, in more than an hour. This includes "Judge Roy
Bean¹s Eatin¹ and Drinkin¹ Emporium," to our great disappointment.

Our show today is at RNS Skateboard Shop in Omaha, Nebraska. We already found out this morning that a band dropped out, leaving one other band
playing. When we get there we are told by two approximately 12 year-old employees that the show is cancelled. Eventually an adult appears and
explains that the show¹s organizer is a flaky kid with good intentions who has been scheduling lots of shows that were never meant to happen. As
compensation for our trouble he offers us beverages. We make a brief attempt to get on a show at a bowling alley where we originally meant to play,
but find a whole lot of Goth kids hanging out in front, and some MTV beach house denizens playing volleyball in the back. Neither group is likely to
enjoy watching us.

A show ruled out, we try to make the best of our night in Omaha. I suggest that it is a perfect opportunity for some dumpster diving, but no one else is
up for it. I really need several different circles of friends to accommodate all my interests.

We leave Omaha and drive across Missouri to St. Louis. Our show isn¹t until tomorrow, so we go to our hotel, where the only other guests we see are
the members of a junior baseball team called the Cobras. They seem to be traveling with a rather large entourage of adults, and having a big pizza
party in the lobby and hallways. Their rooms are marked with their names like college dorm rooms, and the coach¹s room is directly across from ours.
When we settle into our room I decide to do a bit of peep-hole spying on the coach¹s room, and I see a woman going in and out of it. Then it looks like
the room has some kind of haze in it, but I think it must be an illusion. Then I hear a beeping noise... Mike opens the door and sure enough, smoke is
billowing out of the coach¹s room. I suspect a fire but it turns out one of the team moms burnt a muffin in the room¹s microwave. The smell is quite
offensive for a mere muffin. The scene is chaotic as kids from the team run around the room and hallway waving pillows in the air to scatter the smoke,
and another team mom holds a pillow over the smoke alarm.

After things settle down we go out for dinner, and then into downtown Seattle. The only obvious point of interest is the Arch, which looks amazing, and
actually casts a shadow on the clouds from the lights on the ground illuminating it. But the interior is closed and it¹s too dark for photos, so we resolve to
come back tomorrow to go to the top.

Again I request some dumpster diving, and though the others think this would probably be a good place for it, they aren¹t up for it tonight, promising we
will do it on the morrow.

Today is our show in St. Louis. We head back to the Arch, but it ends up being too late for our trip to the top, because we will be late for the show. So
we resolve to return tomorrrow morning, for the third time in as many days.
The show is at the "Lemp Arts Center," which sounds like an arena or something, but it¹s actually closer to a large living room, with lots of comfy old
armchairs and couches, and no real PA. As the show approaches it looks like not many people are going to show up, and Scott and Mike start talking
about how embarrassed they are, and how Scott¹s relatives are going to be quickly disabused of the notion that he¹s a rock star, and even murmur about
cancelling a large portion of the rest of the tour, I have no idea why. Me, I don¹t really care how many people there are. Maybe it¹s that I¹m not as
emotionally invested in the band as they are. Maybe it¹s my perspective as a former booking person, when I hated hearing bands whine about the
venue or lack of audience. I don¹t think a band in our position, playing in a city where no one has ever heard of us, needs to be embarrassed about a
small audience. But I do think Scott and Mike are learning not to trust other bands when we ask if they¹re going to draw people to the show. What are
they going to say, no? It¹s kind of a rude question anyway. But that¹s enough out of me.
So we stick it out and play the show, and it goes very well, people seem to really like us. My right hand bleeds for the first time on the tour, the only
indicator I need. The band after us is called Catatomic, and we all have a feeling they are going to be really good. It turns out the hunch is accurate, they
really are awesome. The best comparison I can make is Built to Spill, with some great unconventional chord progressions, cool piano, and very
excellent vocals from their singer, Sebastian Bach.

After the show we want to hang out with the Catatomic guys and their friends, and they suggest the Courtesy Diner. It¹s a 24 hour diner that has existed
since 1935, and looks like real 50s, with prices almost as low. We all goof around for a while and have some good diner food, then we hang out outside
and discuss whether or not St. Louis is part of the Bible Belt. A woman exiting the diner enters the discussion briefly, saying it is a very sinful city,
because of the "titty bars" across the river in East St. Louis.
Several minutes later some clean-cut young diner patrons start staring and pointing at us, and then two of them come outside. I cannot possibly
exaggerate their behavior--think David Spade¹s character in PCU, only moreso. They tell us that the restaurant employees don¹t like us being here, then
move onto careers. They ask some of us where we work, we reply that we are musicians, they snicker (too bad they didn¹t ask me). One of them
proudly says he works at A.G. Edwards, but is rebuffed when Mike honestly asks "what¹s that?" He says "you know the movie Wall Street? it¹s like
that." They also talk about high schools, saying "see you¹re not from around here. Usually we judge people by what high school they went to here. If
they went to private school, ok, if not, [brushing aside motion]." When Mike asks one of their names he says, "Greg Christian, and don¹t you fuckin¹ forget
it." We decide this resolves the Bible Belt question.
Eventually it becomes clear that the guy thought we had made a lewd remark at his girlfriend and that he¹d like to have it out with Mike, but we make it
clear that we didn¹t, and he backs down. Before they go inside, Mr. A.G. Edwards seriously pulls the fake handshake--hand through hair maneuver.
Wow, these guys really define the word 'prick.'

When we get near home we realize we didn¹t leave a tip for the waitress in the diner, and get into a debate about whether or not we should go back now
and give her something. We get into a lot of debates. Three of us want to go back, so we do, and she is very appreciative.

Today we start the drive from St. Louis to Lawrence, Kansas, but our show isn’t until tomorrow, so we can take it easy and just get to Kansas City,
directly across Missouri on the western border. But first, we go back to the Arch and, after some more debates, go to the top. It’s a nice view,
blah blah blah. Then we go to lunch with Scott’s uncle, who was nice enough to get our hotel room in town for these two days. Curiously though, the
other two band members had packages sent by their families to him so they could receive them here, and it appears he opened both of them, and watched
some of the videotape that was included in one. Apparently he's not big on 'boundaries.'

It’s nice driving and looking for a motel because they put their prices and features on billboards, so you can comparison shop. The only problem is
remembering it all and then finding the motel. We settle on one that purports to offer internet access. It turns out this consists of a data port in
the room’s phone, and oddly, some wireless access points in the hallway. Guess I should’ve gotten an airport. But in the circumstances, the best we
can do is pull the cable going into the access point out of the ceiling and put it into my computer. This means using the computer in the hallway,
where there are security cameras, but no one bothers us.

In the morning we catch a showing of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, which is so absurd, even I cannot sufficiently suspend my disbelief. On
the way out, the car doesn’t start. It seems like a dead battery. Mike is a gold AAA member, so we call them, and a mechanic arrives very quickly to
give us a jump. We’re all a bit unsettled by this, but are assured that if we leave the motor running for a few hours, the battery should be okay.

We get to Lawrence, Kansas without further ado, and well, the venue is a park. It’s a nice park, and there’s a piece of paper saying we have the area
reserved for the day, which is kind of cool: we drove to Kansas and there’s a piece of paper with our name on it. There aren’t a lot of people
though, so that again is a concern.

Things again go pretty well anyway. The local band that is headlining draws a lot of kids, and several of them buy our CD. Outdoor shows are always
a little weird, but considering this is very much a DIY operation, it’s pretty good, although I fuck up a lot because my hand is cramped up and
bloody.

Tonight we go out to a bar with the bass player of the headlining band and some of his friends. This is the first time we’ve really done this and
it’s a good time. His friends are college students, and they’re very intelligent and progressive people, which I guess defies my stereotype of
Kansas. We talk for a while and they get rather drunk, then we go to another bar where the bartender does cool tricks like throwing the bottles
and breathing fire. They tell us many details of their personal lives--Scott reports that the guy of the guy-girl pair is obviously in the closet,
despite having a girlfriend, and resorts to fondling Scott’s chest at one point. Later we make an attempt at going dumpster diving, but Barnes and
Noble locks up their magazines (which there are a LOT of), and right after we go there, our two new friends seem very intent on going home. So we go
back to Tim the bass player of the headlining band’s house, where he is cat-sitting for five cats. The cats are very cute and act very funny, but I
am horribly allergic to them, so I sleep outside on a couch on the porch. I’m definitely sleeping in some interesting places on this trip--no beds
yet, mind you.

I am awakened on this sunny and scorchingly hot Bastille Day by the irritating song of a Blue Jay who flits about several feet away. Going back into
the house for two minutes, I manage to pick up more cat-stuff and am terribly congested and dehydrated for the first two hours after we set out. The
others have been talking about how they think there might still be something wrong with the van, but being a non-driver, I don’t have much to say on
the issue. To my delight, we stop in Manhattan... Manhattan, Kansas that is. Apparently people don’t eat a lot in Manhattan because we can only find
two restaurants, but it is a nice little town. Nice to pass through that is.

After another hour or so of travel, Mike suddenly reports that he is unable to accelerate. We slow down, Mike reports the steering is going as well,
and we stop. The car is unable to move. We get out to try to figure out where the fuck we might be. There is absolutely nothing in sight except
fields and one overpassing road. We set off to find a milemarker; the road is unlabeled; Mike calls AAA. As we walk around, we begin to appreciate
how truly hot it is. It’s really really hot (We later find out it’s about 101, with a heat index of 115). We start to think about how much water we
have and how long it might take for help to arrive. The water is extremely warm.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take long. A towtruck was already out our way picking up a small SUV which is on the bed of his truck. He hooks us up to the
back and we are on our way. He lets Scott and me ride in the SUV with our seats all the way down which is quite an experience, kind of like flying.
At the auto place, it becomes apparent that everyone is going home for the day and we’ll have to spend the night in Salina, Kansas, which we later
find out is exactly equidistant between New York City and Los Angeles.

After a long buffet dinner, we finally do some real dumpster diving. There are several promising retail establishments, but either the garbage just
got picked up, or they never do anything but take lunch breaks, because all they have is food. One appliance store has a large TV and several
refrigerators. We decide the best thing to be done is to smashy smashy, but for now we move on. Amazingly, the best finds in town are at the
goodwill thrift store, which has a large dumpster that looks like the entire contents of the store were thrown into it. The best item is a small
portable TV, but there are also a lot of funny Christian books, some caution tape-like stuff, a bizarre exercise device that could be good for
smashing with, and a “Paymaster” stamping machine that originally cost $134 and is way heavier than it should be. Overall, I’d have to rate it my
most successful mission yet, and certainly an educational one.

The car is reportedly fixed and we head out of Salina with the hope of reaching Denver. Scott wants to name the van Salina, which as we found out from the mechanic, is pronounced like "saliva." We make good time, going across a lot of the flattest land I've ever seen, and finally seeing the mountains.

On the way to a restaurant where they cut off your tie if you walk in with one on, Mike announces that either we have run out of gas, or something
else is causing the van to once again cease to move. We come to a stop at a rather dangerous spot on the highway. Mike for some reason decides she
might still have some life in her, starts her again, and goes another 25 feet or so, slowly. The van is now sitting on a triangular patch of pavement
between a busy highway and a busy onramp: 'certain fucking death' as I call it, so we get out and AAA receives yet another call. But after a few
minutes we flag down a passing tow truck, and he agrees to put us on his truck's bed and take us to a gas station. One thing we've been learning is
that mechanics are crazy but fun drivers. After putting us in the van on top of the truck and saying "hold on", this guy brazenly pulls onto the
highway, goes a few hundred feet, then turns around on a spot of dirt in the ditch between the halves of the highway, and gets going the other way.
This may not sound very crazy, but it is, and we're going to have some photos to prove it. A refueling gets us on our way again.

Dinner is a less adventurous affair, and by and by we find our way to the venue. It's a bar and by far the most professional venue of the tour so
far. We missed the first band, but they and their fans seem to have stuck around. While we play, they dance, and they dance as if there were country
or 50s pop music playing. It's very bizarre. At one point they even form a large conga line. I find it hard not to view this as some giant
sarcastic gesture, but it isn't one, which some prove by purchasing our CD.

We stay at the night at the Boulder, CO home of Renzo, boyfriend of Scott's sister. He's a sculptor/architect, and his home is littered with cool,
curvaceous sculptures, which we dreadfully fear knocking over as we make camp on the floor.

In the morning we take the van to a mechanic to take care of the problems it still seems to be having: veering to the left when the brakes are
depressed, air conditioning turning on and off sporadically, etc. Meanwhile, we have found out that our next show, in Salt Lake City, has been
cancelled. This, along with other factors, causes Ben the drummer to announce that he is strongly considering quitting the tour and going home. This
is discussed for a while, and we come up with a contingency plan: we previously dropped off our acoustic guitars in Pittsburgh so we could retrieve
them to play the last show in Washington DC acoustically. These will be shipped to Scott’s parents in Seatlle, and we will play the rest of the shows
on the tour acoustically.

That done for now, we take the bus into downtown Denver for the evening. We walk up and down the 16th street mall, a very nice strip with a lot of
panhandlers who don’t look particularly like panhandlers. Later we find the Denver mint, and after walking its perimeter have an interesting chat
with a US Mint Police officer. He tells us that the coins are transported to federal reserve banks in normal 18-wheel trucks, because no criminal
could get very far with a truckload of coins--an unusually rational stance. Much more valuable is the gold kept here, 25% of the government’s
holdings. Presumably because of that, ever since 9-11 one needs a request to a congressman and a background check before a tour of the premises is
allowed. When Mike asks if we are being watched he reveals that ‘several people mentioned you were walking around, that’s why I came out to talk to
you.’ But we seem pretty safe, he says, since we don’t have accents. This comment figures later tonight in a protracted debate about profiling in
airport security.

The van is reportedly repaired, and so we are to head in the general direction of Idaho Falls, ID, where our next show now lies. Unfortunately, Ben
has more or less decided now to go home, and becomes more certain when we find out the Seattle show has been cancelled, or to be more precise, we
have been eliminated from it. The question is whether or not he will play the Idaho show, because we will not have acoustic guitars and therefore
cannot play it without him; he eventually agrees. After some discussion we decide to head to Salt Lake City today, then see Yellowstone National Park
tomorrow, then go to our show. Today’s route will take us north into Wyoming, then west to Utah.

Except that an hour into the drive, our van stops, for the fourth time. This time we fear almost the worst: the transmission. As Mike calls AAA once
again, I walk into Wyoming. So close and yet so far. Right across the border there are some snacks to last us the couple of hours it takes the
mechanic to get to us. Mike and I ride all the way back into Boulder in the van on top of the truck bed, a bumpy ride indeed. I’m getting used to it
though.

We eat dinner on the Pearl street mall, which is vibrant and very much a college town, though I don’t know why the college kids are here right now.
Our new lodging is with another friend of Scott’s sister. We wait for a bus there across the street from a liquor store and meet some interesting
characters. Two burnt-out metalheads come talk to us. One talks and laughs exactly like Sean Penn in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” and keeps
growling about how “hell has arrived.” The other is younger, an army brat who seems pretty intelligent. Later a woman comes up and tells us about
how she is from Long Island, was severely abused by her husband, has 7 children, and went from a 5-bedroom house to a drainage ditch in the past year.
Earlier today she wanted to kill herself. “I want to go so bad...” but she won’t because of her kids.

After about an hour we realize the bus isn’t coming and we take a cab.

In the morning we get the bad news that our transmission is completely blown and the earliest it can be fixed is at a Chevy dealership by Monday or
Tuesday. Ben decides that there is no way he is going to get to Seattle for the flight on the 20th that he already booked, so he flies home from
Denver. The band is now a 3-piece.

A decision still must be made about the next two shows, Idaho and Portland. Mike is determined to somehow still play them. After much debate and
research, I cast the deciding vote in favor of renting a car, driving it to Idaho and then to Seattle and then to Portland, then renting another car
and driving it straight back to Boulder to retrieve our van, and driving the van on to our next show in San Diego. We will play the Idaho show with
electric guitars and bass, get our acoustic guitars in Seattle, and play the Portland show (and the rest of the tour) acoustically. Scott is opposed
and has a bad feeling about it, but accepts the decision.

After hopping the fence at the Chevy dealership to get our guitars out of the van, we set off once again north to Wyoming and across it west. This
time it’s late at night, and we are in a Mercury Sable, considerably faster and more fuel efficient than the van. We come to appreciate that Wyoming
is one dark place at night....really really dark. Often there is really nothing, no light source outside the road, despite miles of visibility.

At one point Mike realizes we are getting quite low on gas. Running out again would be quite bad, seeing as how we’re in the middle of nowhere in the
middle of the night. We see a sign for gas in 1 mile--phew. But when we try to go in, we end up back on the on-ramp, and we see that the gas station
is closed anyway. The next services are in 24 miles. 24 miles and we’re millimeters above the line for ‘E.’ We are all reminded of the Seinfeld
episode in which Kramer goes below the slash on a test-drive. But we don’t want this to turn out quite like that did. Nothing we can do but go for
it. We count down the mile markers. We are on the slash. The “need gas” icon has lit up. We all listen for the sound of the car giving out. But
somehow, it doesn’t happen. We roll into station with the gas gauge probably as low as it can go, at the bottom of the slash. It has never felt so
good to fill up the tank.

We stop for the night at “the INN” at Rock Springs, Wyoming. While Mike gets the room, a dog walks up to the car where Scott and I are waiting. Just
a dog in Wyoming at 4 in the morning. Tomorrow, we complete the drive and play in Idaho Falls, ID.

Dream Journal (last night):
I am sitting in a bar with some high school friends on the eve of my 22nd birthday. I’m drinking because I need to kill myself tonight. A while ago
I had a talk with Ho Ying during which we decided that the best of our lives was going to be over by the time we turn 22, so we might as well kill
ourselves. Ho Ying isn’t here tonight though, and I haven’t talked to him about it recently. I’m having a hard time drinking enough to be able to
kill myself, and as time goes on I think about how much Ho Ying really meant what he said, and what he’s doing right now. When my friends suggest
going over to a concert, I agree, thinking perhaps I should wait and see on the whole suicide thing.
The concert is Blink 182, never one of my favourite bands. But they seem quite different tonight, they’re kind of old men and their music is really
good, kind of like Built to Spill or Broken Social Scene. The concert is being held in a library or bookstore with very high shelves. The last thing
I remember is climbing up on one of the ladders and looking at some books high on a shelf.

We drive a spectacular mountainous route to Salt Lake City without much ado, get lunch and check out the Mormon scene, and then head to our show in
Idaho Falls, which is for some reason now in Pocatello, about 40 miles south. The venue seems pretty cool, it’s got plenty of room, a big stage, an
almost ridiculous array of lighting, and a sizable staff working on the sound and such.

A security guy tells us that the Kottonmouth Kings played here a few days ago, and it got pretty out of hand--there was underage drinking, sex, and a
fight. This sort of thing doesn’t fly in Mormon country, which we are apparently still in, so the town’s parents are not letting their kids come back
to this place.

One other band is here, they are from Seattle and just starting their own tour. A third band is MIA, and so is the guy who set up the show for us.
As it gets closer to door time and starting time, we come to that terrible realization, that no one is coming. But this isn’t no one like it’s been
at a couple of other shows--this is NO ONE. The other band are good sports and play a full set, actually quite a long set, to an audience of...us.
We decide this just isn’t worthwhile, and set off for Seattle at about 9:30pm.

On the drive Mike and I listen to the Coast to Coast AM radio show, which I can heartily recommend. The route is again quite mountainous, and has a
very spooky feeling so late at night. We’re actually pretty tired and start to get a bit loopy toward the end, but finally make it to Pendleton,
Oregon, where we settle for the night. Pendleton is an odd place, in that almost every hotel room in town is booked. Also, when we pull into a place
that has a room, several girls and boys scurry in front of our car drenched and in their underwear while we sit in the parking lot. Yes, it is a
strange place.

Out of Pendleton and across Oregon and Washington to Seattle. The drive is once again amazing, going by green mountains and deep blue lakes, with
glimpses of Mt. St. Helens. The rental car is serving us well, especially its stereo system, which is of amazing quality compared to the one in our
van--finally we can hear the music!

We arrive in Seattle where Scott’s parents are temporarily living in an apartment until their new house is ready. Seattle is actually just as hilly
in some parts as San Francisco. The apartment has a great view of Puget Sound and Mount Rainier. We walk around and drive to the seattle center,
home of the Space Needle and the Experience Music Project. The needle is unimpressively short, but the EMP is unbelievable. After more walking
around, we all agree that Seattle is a real cool place. We also agree that since our van likely won’t be ready for a long time, (now next Monday or
Tuesday) we should drive to San Francisco tomorrow after our Portland show, and hang out there for a while. We will probably have to cancel our show
in San Diego, but we will be able to check out LA and Las Vegas.

In the morning I go back to the EMP for more photography. I abstain from paying admission since it is $20, but I am able to get into the
store/restaurant/entry area. This only enhances my appreciation of the building, because I can see that it is not simply a square frame with a crazy
shell on it--the shell has the shape too. The interior design is not much less impressive than the exterior. There is also a little multimedia thing
about Gehry and his design and fabrication techniques.

In the afternoon we go down Washington and Oregon, past Mt. St. Helens again, and to Portland. The venue is a modest operation but a cool place,
although oddly it seems to also function as a christian community center, which no one seems to know anything about. Several unusual scriptural
pamphlets are available, such as “What Jesus said about the Revolution” and “What Jesus said about World Finance” (or something). We play
acoustically, with a bizarre mixture of scott’s acoustic guitar through an amp, mike’s electric bass through an amp, and my acoustic guitar miked
utterly inadequately. I can hear pretty much everything except my own playing, which sounds to me like a pick hitting muted strings. But the
audience is again very enthusiastic, so much so that I again assume sarcasm at first. After our set two audience members, without much prodding from
us, call our drummer and leave him hysterical voice mail saying he’s a bastard and that we’re better off without him. Two local bands play after us
and both are very entertaining. “I hate you man, I’ve never met you but I hate you, you’re horrible.” Oh yes, the venue is around the corner from
the Oregon Artificial Limb Company.

After the show we start our drive to San Francisco, but we are all very tired, so we only make it a couple of hours before stopping at a motel. On
the way we listen to Coast to Coast radio again, and tonight it is totally fascinating. The guest is a guy who claims a host of interesting things
about himself: he worked at Los Alamos during WWII and knew John Von Neumann there; he was kicked out right before the Roswell crash; he later worked
for the government in Montauk where crazy stuff was going on, and was sent forward in time to 1983; he had his memory wiped and his body age-regressed
back to infancy, and then re-aged as a different person, who he is now; he managed to regain his memory of who he used to be, and visited Montauk in
1983 where he had to be careful not to run into his younger self; at some point he traveled forward in time to the 28th century where he met the
‘Windmakers’; he was interrogated by aliens for days on end, and so on. It was a very complicated story that he told in a calm, fascinating, yet
insane way. I think it would make for a good movie.

Last night the TV remote fell on my head while I was sleeping and in the middle of a dream, an experience which I can liken to running into a brick
wall: reality stops so suddenly, and starts again differently, and then there’s pain.

Anyway, today we go down the rest of Oregon, which takes a good long while, and then down California to San Francisco. On the way we spot the exit
for Sleater-Kinney road. Somehow, in between northern California and San Francisco, the temperature drops about 40 degrees, and the altitude of
clouds drops about 25,000 feet. It’s really cold in San Francisco, and the clouds are...they’re right here, at our level.

We get dinner at the House of Nanking in Chinatown, which is very good, and then meet up with some friends of Mike’s. We spend a fun few hours with
them making a bonfire on the beach at midnight, and there is a symbolic victory about having come all the way to the Pacific Ocean. We also have a
small cake party. Mike’s friend smears cake on his face, and he is at a complete loss for a way to wash it off.

These two days are spent walking and driving around San Francisco a whole lot, and hanging out with Scott’s sister, with whom we are staying. We get
soup in a bread bowl on the Fisherman’s Wharf. We go with Scott’s sister to someone’s birthday party at Blowfish Sushi, a very trendy restaurant with
a soundtrack featuring Peaches, anime porn animation cels on the wall, and very good food. After that we hit the Beauty Bar, which is probably the
hippest and most popular bar I’ve ever been in. Funny how, in an incredibly crowded room, some people (like me) get jostled constantly and have
trouble moving anywhere, while others manage to dance.

The next day we drive down the crookedest street in the world 4 times with 4 different reasons (scott driving, mike driving, looking for me, and
actually trying to get somewhere). We visit Haight street and I pick up a couple of cheap CDs at Amoeba Music, an amazing place. We pay a visit to
the California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate park, the most impressive part of which is undoubtedly the aquarium. I never understood how huge a
giant sea bass was--it looks like a goldfish magnified by 30 times or so. The rest of the “academy” is a pale imitation of Natural History in NYC.

In the evening we walk around the Castro district, home to such establishments as “The Sausage Factory,” “The Pendulum,” and “Faerie Queene
Chocolates.” Scott’s sister and I watch Grosse Pointe Blank, and then it’s time to pick up our new rental car and start the drive to Los Angeles. We
will spend two days there and then head to Las Vegas.

In case it isn’t obvious and I omitted any previous explanation, we admit by now that this has become as much a pure vacation as a tour. We still
have more shows to play on the way back to the east coast, but right now we’re trying to make the best of a broken van and a departed drummer. Rather
than be stuck in Boulder for a week and a half, we reasoned that we might as well see the whole west coast, since we have good people to stay with in
Seattle and San Fran, and a free hotel room in Las Vegas thanks to the gambling habits of Mike’s parents. Once our van is fixed, hopefully for the
last time, we’ll go back to Boulder and then to Dallas for the next show.

We awake to the sight of watermelons being picked from the huge field that surrounds our motel, and then head to Los Angeles for the next two days.

After a walk on Hollywood Boulevard, the walk of fame and Grauman’s Chinese Theater (apparently it’s Grauman’s, not Mann’s, although some things
around there do say Mann’s... ), we get dinner at Roscoe’s House of Chicken ‘n Waffles, a fine establishment. We then meet up with Andy, Scott’s
friend with whom we are staying. He is of course a film student. He takes us up Mulholland Drive, where after a couple of coyotes cross the road, we
sit down on a steep hill with a nice view of the city. After a few minutes another car pulls over and its passengers join us. One of its passengers
throws his cigar at a rapidly passing Ferrari and within a minute they are being arrested, and that is our cue to leave. We find a parking ticket on
our car which we will not be paying.

Saturday our first stop is the Walt Disney Concert Hall, the next and probably last stop on my personal tour of Frank Gehry buildings. This one cuts
a striking shape in the skyline, and its entrance is palatial and brilliant, but the perimeter and rear are troublingly square. Walking around it the
beautiful shapes are hidden from view by a brick wall. I think when the building is open (some construction is still going on right now) this may not
be a problem, but it still seems unnecessary.

We then go to Venice Beach, stomping ground for lots of good-looking people. Someone spots Jessica Biel and yells her name, but I am only fast enough
to see her back as she rollerblades away into temporary anonymity. We hang out for a while at a huge drum circle whose members have some creative
differences, and then go back. Some shopping at Amoeba Music LA passes the next hour, and then we decide to see Pirates of the Caribbean at the El
Capitan Theater. The theater is owned by Disney so they have all sorts of props and costumes and special stuff, and it’s old-tymie with an organist
and about 20 layers of curtains. The movie is pretty awful, which in retrospect seems like it should have been obvious, but ah well, we can’t very
well leave Hollywood without seeing a movie.

Overall, LA is fun to visit, but it’s safe to say I’d never want to live here. There’s a lot of good-looking people, all of whom are trying to be
actors, and the cars are about 30% BMW’s, 20% Porches, 30% Mercedes, 10% nicer than that, and 10% not as nice. The town itself is not very nice at
all, though it has some interesting ethnic neighborhoods other places lack, such as Little Armenia and Koreatown. Tomorrow we go to Six Flags Magic
Mountain and ride some roller coasters, and then go to Las Vegas.

After the obligatory debate and donuts, we go to Six Flags, and spend a lot of time in various stages of entry: parking, ticket purchase, metal
detector, and park entry. Scott and I purchase FastLane passes, which allow you to get on rides almost instantly, 4 times. It would be nice if they
provided them with admission, but since we only have 4 hours, $15 seems worthwhile. We go on the 5 biggest roller coasters that are in operation, and
they are amazing. On “Goliath” Scott and I both feel ourselves almost black out from the G’s in the corkscrew. “Scream” is uh, a foot-dangling good
time. We go on “X” last, and it is undoubtedly the most amazing ride ever. The seats rotate during the ride, so that one twists in ways never before
possible, and one flips over without the need for a loop in the track. A particularly tasty feature is the first drop, straight down, which the rider
goes through lying face down. Yeah, the names of the coasters need some work though.

California really has the best place names of anywhere we’ve been so far. I won’t name the big cities, but there’s the Chocolate mountains, the Soda
mountains, Earlimart. We also pass Zzyzx Road.

At 10pm we reach Las Vegas, which Mike celebrates by saying “Vegas baby, Vegas!” over and over again. His parents have been kind enough to give us
two of the many complementary hotel rooms they receive for gambling a lot, so we are staying at Harrah’s. The lights on the strip and the sheer
number of huge casinos is pretty impressive on first sight. None of us are planning on trying our luck much, but it’s fun watching blackjack, poker
and craps. The slot machine scene is pretty sad. People have casino credit cards that they put into the machine, and the card is connected to them
by a squiggly cord, an image figuratively reminiscent of the Matrix.

Assorted thoughts on Las Vegas, that are probably obvious to everyone else:

-Trying to walk here is absurd, because the entire strip is constructed so as to make every walking route (other than straight to a slot machine) as
long as possible. A lot of the streets are so close to being highways that they don’t let pedestrians cross them; instead they construct big elevated
walkways. Often the walkways are connected to casinos, so you have to enter 1 or 2 casinos just to cross the street. Needless to say the casinos
also hide their exits well, so after a day of walking up and down the strip and going in and out of many casinos, the legs get extremely sore.

-It appears as though the casinos would be perfectly happy to have nothing but slot machines, as they make up about 80% of the space at most places.
This is understandable, since they require no paid personnel, except for maintenance, and they’re quite profitable. But it just wouldn’t be right
without blackjack and poker, and those are what high rollers play.

-The actual games at each casino are exactly the same, down to the slot machines. Not that they can change the rules of blackjack, but I think they
could benefit from some more distinction in this area.

-You might walk for miles inside one casino but you’ll never go up or down a level and still be in the gaming area. I just realized this is probably
because they need the level above for all the watchers and video equipment and such. I enjoyed wondering what the watchers might be saying about me, wandering around observing the various games and dealers, makng fidgety movements that could be signals for a player.

-I was surprised to find that War, possibly the silliest card game in existence, is played at a couple of places. I suppose it’s no sillier to bet on
than slots, but for some reason I would think that when someone plays a card game at a casino, they’re looking to employ some degree of strategy.

There are all sorts of interesting psychological and behavioral things to be observed in these casinos, some simple and obvious but others more
subtle. Admittedly what’s going on at slot machines is less interesting than at high limit card game tables, where I’m unfortunately not allowed to
loiter. But it all makes me realize that I have a long way to go toward being a great observer, and casinos are good training grounds.

So from now on (actually from LA on), we are heading generally east.

Today we pick up our third rental car of the trip and head back to Boulder to pick up the van, but not before I do a bit of obligatory gambling,
pissing away 50 cents or so on video poker. It’s easy to see it becoming addictive, but no moreso than the typical video game that doesn’t involve
money, so I don’t think I’d go back just for that sort of thing. If I became good at poker or blackjack, and had the money to lose on it, that could
be a lure.

So we go through a corner chip of Arizona and all the the way across southern Utah. The drive is possibly the most scenic yet, with surrounding
mountains going from pure rock of various colours, to dry weeds, to little trees for their coverings. Occasionally the view opens into ridiculous
canyons, not the Grand one, but grand nonetheless. Each time I see a mountain I get a little urge to leap out of the car and run straight up it,
thinking about how hard it would be and how I’d negotiate the steepest portions.

At night we reach the outskirts of Boulder.

Waking up early, we pick up our van, rebuilt from the inside out and looking good, i.e. moving. Then we pick up our bags from the friend’s house
where we left them many days ago. Finally I can change my clothes. The friend left his backdoor open, requiring us to go through the backyard where
his two dogs stand guard. Fortunately this is an extreme case of bark-worse-than-biteism. Although one of the dogs is extremely large, and sounds
furious, both dogs quiet down and meander around pointlessly as soon as we enter, as if to say “Oh, I didn’t have a plan to actually do anything about
this.”

After some backtracking to get the laptop that I left in the motel room, we are ready for another long day of driving. Today we go east through the
rest of Colorado and back to Salina, Kansas, the van’s namesake where we first got really stuck, and then south through Oklahoma toward Dallas.
Thankfully, the van runs without any problems, and we make it to Oklahoma City. We’ve now gone through 2 time zones in as many days, which produces
not quite jetlag, but a slightly odd feeling.

The remaining distance to Dallas isn’t very much, so we get there quite early and kill time with a meal and some ice cream. I get a chocolate malt
for what might be the first time ever. Every time I’ve meant to get one before, either they don’t have them or they’ve run out of the ingredients, or
I decide at the last minute to get a shake instead. It is very tasty.

The venue is a big bar with two stages, one indoor and one outdoor. We spend a lot of time waiting for other bands to show up, and wondering if any
people will come. Eventually we start to strongly consider not playing, and driving to Austin or Houston, where we play next. But finally one member
of one of the other bands shows up ready to play solo acoustic, and about 7 of his friends arrive as well. We learn that the headlining band couldn’t
play because their drummer is a jerk (a pattern perhaps), another band broke up, and this one guy’s band couldn’t find the venue and then decided not
to play. With this kind of thing happening over and over, we can’t help but wonder if any bands ever play shows that they are supposed to play, or if
we have been unlucky.

In any case the sound guy sets up the PA on the outdoor stage and convinces us to play. This time we go with electric guitars instead of acoustic,
although Scott switches between electric and acoustic between almost every song. The tiny crowd likes us a lot, and the solo acoustic guy plays after
us and is actually really good. His lyrics are original and honest, his songs simple but effective, and his voice quite strong. Very impressive for
a 16 year-old.