I only caught a few hours of sleep last night, because Mike was using the internet at the house where we stayed until quite late, and then I went on
and finally finished the first pass of my obscure word dictionary, which took until 7am. So I sleep most of the way to Houston, and wake up with a
sore neck.

Again we arrive quite early, and the venue, a small bar, is not yet open. We kill some time driving around to interesting spots from Scott’s youth
(he grew up here), and then go back to waiting around. Two staffers arrive after not too long and open up the place. They are definitely indie
types--if I couldn’t tell from their clothes (which I could), I could from the Elliott Smith, Spoon, and Hot Hot Heat being played on the stereo, and
the discussions of the merits of each. It’s alright with me, in fact I kind of miss that environment.

Tonight, amazingly, all three other bands show up, although the one playing first arrives quite late. Again it looks like there will be very few
audience members, but as it gets later, about 15 to 20 people show up. Very few of them look like the typical clientele for a show like this, and
some are cowboy or trucker types, but everyone apears to enjoy themselves. Although we are certainly the least rocking band of the night, with our
lack of drummer, the audience responds very well to us, maybe even better than any of the other bands. Scott’s finger starts bleeding the way mine
usually does and he immediately announces it to the audience--not exactly my style, but eh.

We stay the night with Alan, singer of Backhand and a Louisianian. He resides in Sulphur, LA and has also booked our next show, tomorrow in Baton
Rouge. The word is that no one knows where the venue is. I like the sound of that.

At about 3am last night Alan’s roommate came in and asked aloud “Who the fuck are these people?” Not having an eloquent answer in mind, I pretended
to sleep. Repeating “who the fuck are y’all?” he woke up Mike and Scott, who responded “what’s up dude.” Eventually he seemed to realize who we were
and went off to bed.

In the morning (well technically the afternoon) we hang out with Alan and his pregnant girlfriend. He’s 19 soon to be 20, the same age I was when I
met my first girlfriend. They seem like a good couple, and he seems quite responsible. At one point, discussing trading in a car over lunch, I’m
pretty sure his girlfriend says “They always jew you pretty bad on that.” Yep, Louisiana! They’re not religious though, so that kinda cancels it
out, stereotype-wise.

We head to Baton Rouge for the show, driving Alan there while his bandmates come from New Orleans. The information we have is that it’s at a place
called the Drive In, in the Kenilworth Mall. Sounds interesting. We get to the Kenilworth Mall and there’s no place called the Drive In. Then we
get word it’s actually at Matherne’s—-well, that’s the supermarket in this mall. Hmm... when the other members of Backhand arrive it becomes clear
that either this show, or the venue itself, was moved, but none of us were told about it, and then the show got cancelled. Oh well.

That means last night was the last show of the tour, because none of our Florida or east coast shows ever made it to fruition. Scott and Mike make an
interesting remark of reflection--that in the end, this tour was a disaster, and not worth our time or our money--but that we wouldn’t give it back
for anything. So I guess it was worth...never mind.

We end up deciding to drive down to New Orleans, check out the goings-on there, and then start the lengthy drive to Hilton Head SC, our final
destination before heading home up the east coast. Mike’s parents have offered us a place to stay there, and we can hang out on the beach.

In New Orleans we walk up and down Bourbon St., which appears to have (d)evolved into a perpetual Mardi Gras, albeit a scaled down one. Lots of
people wield beads from the balconies above, but their standards for throwing them seem to be pretty low. Only in one spot are girls actually
disrobing. It is on a large pedestal with a large crowd of guys around it. There is a steadily repeated ceremony going on: girl steps up, lifts
shirt for several seconds, and one of the guys solemnly anoints her with a huge collection of beads. But the crowd in general doesn’t seem that
excited when it happens, and it’s understandable why--it’s really not that exciting, even the first few times. I guess half of them are probably
there to take pictures and put them on the net anyway.

Overall I’d have to say Bourbon is still the craziest red light district I have seen anywhere, crazier than Vegas or Paris or old Times Square.
Everyone is drinking “hand grenades” and “jesters” in huge containers on the street, there are strip clubs with action visible from outside, and of
course there’s the public nudity, with no apparent attempts at regulation.

After a cajun meal with Scott eating a vegetarian Po’ Boy, we have had enough, and depart for Hilton Head around midnight. Our root will take us
across the southern chips of Mississippi and Alabama, and across the entire Florida panhandle, before going north through Georgia to Hilton Head,
right on the southern corner of South Carolina. Somewhere around 2am Mike declares that he has tons of energy and thinks we should keep going all
night. That is where I leave this entry.

The next few hours are pretty blurry, as I attempt to sleep by leaning over into the area between the two back seats. Somewhere in the 6th morning
hour, as I sway semi-conscious, there is a loud thump at the windshield and Scott and Mike begin shouting. Something big has become lodged under our
windshield wiper and Mike wants to know what it is before we try to get rid of it. A bird? A frog? Maybe not a living thing at all, just a piece of
debris. Then something shifts and it suddenly becomes clear: it’s a bat. A fucking bat has landed on our windshield. By this time, almost a minute
later, we are all more than ready to turn on the wipers and get it off. I do not know its fate, and I doubt it was a happy one, but it’s skin was not
broken by the impact.

We arrive at Hilton Head around noon, with some driving assistance from Scott. This is one of the few times on the tour I have felt truly worn out,
but I’m glad we did it. This is a real posh place, where the three of us don’t fit in at all, but oh well. We rendezvous with Mike’s parents and
brother and hang out on the beach, reflecting proudly on how recently we were staring out at the Pacific Ocean. I spot a flying fish leaping several
feet out of the waves in front of us.

Mike is leaving the tour here to hang out with his family for a week, and after some discussion and a case of badly planned identity theft at a Super
8 Motel, Scott and I decide it’s in our best interest to take off for home now (about 3pm), so we can make the rest of our drive at our leisure
tomorrow.

On the way Scott and I start seeing billboards for a place that appears to be called “Pedro’s South of the Border.” The first one advertises that
it’s about 63 miles away. From that point on, we see a billboard at least every mile, counting them down, and all feature a different joke, and
appear to advertise a different business. A fireworks store, an amusement park, a mini-golf course, what the hell is this place? After about 80
billboards (sometimes there’s one on each side of the road), we have to find out.

It turns out it’s a combination of all the things advertised, as well as an ice cream store, and actually 2 fireworks stores, and a ‘beach’ store
featuring something advertised as a “great white shark!” It’s a hilarious place, but actually, kind of run down and depressing. I am saddened by the
selection of fireworks; it turns out the powerful stuff like M-80s has been banned for a long time, and now everything’s pretty much the same, and
quite weak. Also, the bathrooms are easily the most disgusting I’ve ever seen. About half of the stalls have notes on the door saying “PLEASE NEVER
OPEN THIS DOOR.” Judging by the stench, I think I’ll take that advice. So yes, Pedro’s South of the Border! Quite a place.

I torture Scott a bit on the drive because I’m suddenly intent on making contact with Jonah, former member of the zero effect who is now an intern at
the Pentagon. I have no phone number or address for him, only a name and a dim recollection of a satellite photo of his home, across the street from
the Library of Congress and the Supreme Court. So we make several stops unsuccessfully trying to find internet access on a Sunday night in
medium-sized towns of South and North Carolina. “I’m looking for a Kinko’s, is there one around here?” “Umm, is that a clothing store?” At one of
the stops I eat at a Checkers, which not only has good food but extremely friendly employees. We stop for the night outside Richmond, VA, still
planning to attempt to meet Jonah for lunch or something. Tomorrow, we go home.

So anyway, today we start home, stopping in downtown Richmond first to try to contact Jonah. The state library is closed due to budget cuts (scary),
but the city library has available computers with net connections. Peoplesearch reveals a few phone numbers, including one for his parents in
Michigan, and a Pennsylvania one. I call his mother, and have an extremely awkward and stilted conversation thanks to the poor performance of the
cell phone that ends prematurely. A follow-up ends again just as she gives me Jonah’s cell phone number, but I get enough digits to realize it’s the
Pennsylvania one I had before. I decide there’s really no point in calling again.

Unfortunately our efforts are for nought, as Jonah says it would be too hard for him to leave the building early and too hard for us to find our way
out of that sick, twisted place called DC. But at least we were able to try, and he promises to come visit in NYC instead. Scott seems relieved, he
is anxious to get home and I can hardly blame him.

The rest of the drive home is fairly uneventful, which is fine by us. We stop at Scott’s house for an hour and a half or so to avoid rush hour
traffic into the city, a strange purgatory for me. But soon enough I am home.

Now that I'm done talking about the tour there is much else to talk about that I missed in the intervening period. Walking tours with Speed, Nihongo,
observing in the OR, and maybe a show called FLCL that I am decreasingly able to get out of my head with each passing day. But this I am calling a
night.

The folks at AMC are really good at making ads for the movies they show. They're like modern trailers, very fast-paced with disconnected dialog, and
they make movies that are certainly tame by today's action standards look really exciting. Usually the movies are good anyway, so it's not deception,
just giving them the treatment they deserve.

Tonight while watching a documentary on papparazzi on said channel, someone from the adjacent building shone a laser pointer at me through the
window. I took evasive maneuvers, killing the lights and shutting the shades without stepping in front of the windows again. Before closing the last
one I tried to get a look at the perpetrator through the leaves of a plant, but no such luck. Funny timing though. Also funny that I reciprocated
this act several years ago during a birthday party, so I suppose it could be seen as karmic.

My study of Japanese has become increasingly intense, especially since I received (from Japan out of necessity) my chosen textbook, Genki. I think
it's very good. But that book is only the center of a solar system of resources I am making use of, from a linguistics book about Japanese phonology,
to Kanji web sites, to Japanese comic books, a book of loanwords from English to Japanese, and a book of Japanese street slang. I think this is a
good method, since no one source will ever give you the whole picture, and it helps memory to see the same information portrayed in two different
ways, especially when translations slightly disagree. I don't know why this is suddenly all I'm interested in, but it is, other than AI stuff for
work. So I'm merely trying to take advantage of the momentum in case I lose it. Meanwhile, parents are becoming worried at my increased
reclusiveness, but eh, sometimes things just get serious.

Today I am finally the owner of a Columbia University ID card. Flashback to May, when I started working for RST. Every day, I went into the hospital
and, because I had no ID, got a visitor's pass from the security guard. These passes are useless, except that they remind you where you're
going, in case you've never been there before. But no one will ever ask for you to show it once you're in. This got to be a bit annoying, because
often the security guard would be having some long chat with a visitor about where they should go. I couldn't interrupt, but once I had stopped in
front of the desk, there was no way I could nonchalantly walk by. When I say 'he' I really mean one of the 25 or so different people that work at
this desk, although the building isn't very large and this is the only security desk of its kind. This made it unlikely that any of them would see
the pattern in my entry and start letting me through without another piece of paper to add to my growing pile.

I occasionally made mention of this to the good Dr., but he said there was some kind of ID transition going on and there was too much paperwork, etc.
There was such thing as a temporary ID, but that apparently was also no good, for some reason. Since it wasn't a huge bother I didn't press it. But
then, when I came back from the tour, something odd started to happen: the one guard who had previously started to recognize me and let me through,
became angry at me for not having an ID. She said (erroneously) "it's been a year now, when are you going to get one?" I told her I would try to get
one soon, and she said "soon isn't good enough!" I didn't really know what to say to that.

When I relayed this to my boss, he was willing to try to get the process in motion so that I didn't have to fear coming in. Eventually I was sent
down to the main hospital and got two letters, one for each type of ID card (hospital and university), saying that I should get one. The hospital
ID place was closed. At the other one, they pointed out to me that one of my letters was actually for a different person, and that as a casual
employee I'm only supposed to get a university ID anyway. Ah. Also, the computer that controls the ID making is down with a virus. Right.

On Monday I went back and walked into the university ID office. The woman at the card-making computer was talking to two other women and "ok, and
we'll...uh oh." The card printer malfunctioned. After waiting around another 10 minutes or so, it was announced that it would be down indefinitely.
Sometimes in these situations I think of jumping in like a doctor would for a sick person and saying "I know computers, I'll handle this!" But then
I think, eh, best not to get involved.

So yes, today I finally got the ID, without a hitch. The angry security guard was genuinely pleased. Did this story have a point? you decide.

Sigh, today was spent primarily watching Japanese TV on the international channel, and studying Japanese. Why am I doing this so obsessively? I
don't know, but it's good. Anyway, first I caught the news, which I got very little out of, other than the name Koizumi (duh), some numbers, and
a vague feel for sentence structures, with mostly past tense verbs. It also was depressing because the backdrop of the show was an aerial image
of a metropolitan area with a bunch of skyscrapers at night, and it gave me an image of Japan as nothing but a sea of skyscraper glaciers with no
signs of life, all black building automatons and no daylight. So, next was a political discussion show, which was also fairly impenetrable, but which
featured a turtle in a plastic pen which would be shown when things got dull. Meet the Press should definitely get an animal. The animal can be
called upon to decide whether or not the guest has contradicted himself. Next up was Dr. Coto's clinic, a soap opera that I didn't watch much of.

But after that...after that! After that was "Hey!Hey!Hey! Music Champ", a fantastic show where they interview pop musicians and then they perform.
When they're doing the interviews, things that they are saying are constantly popping up on the screen in stylish Japanese text, which is helpful.
During the performances they also have Japanese subtitles of the lyrics, which I guess is good for fans who want to sing along, and also good for me.
The songs had some English lyrics in the choruses, mostly things like "baby yeah, you and me, our love is forever" only less coherent. The amusing
part of that was that they didn't sing them with the right stress patterns at all, so it sounded rather strange. One performer was a pretty cool
girl who looked like a schoolgirl from Whites Stripes Elementary, with glasses, a red tie and white shirt, and requisite skirt. Her song was called
"Greatful Days."