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3 hours before we boarded a plane to Hawaii, Dean told me we were going to Thailand. "What?! That’s impossible," I retorted "I don’t even have a passport!" But somehow Dean had managed to locate my legal documents after turning over the apartment and jokingly, recalling all the pictures of X-boyfriends he’d been subject to in the search. Thailand was fine with me, only I had packed for a month of leisure, not hiking and hoofing and so, in the hour I had left, I stuffed trek stuff into a back pack, unloading floral skirts and sandals to fit khakis and Nikes. By noon, 2 days latter, we’d be in Bangkok flagging down tutus and bartering for 2-dollar massages and buying trinkets from tinny women with pinched bronzed faces. But Dean didn’t want to waste time in Bangkok so within a couple days we’d be flying to Siam Reap, Cambodia. He’d prefaced the trip with the purchase of a book called "Girls, Guns and Ganja in Phnom Phen," (the country’s capital) which he insisted I read before our arrival. The book prepared me only slightly for what lay ahead at customs. The Cambodian customs burrow is in a warehouse where listless ceiling fans whirled and whisked away flies that landed everywhere else. I stood in line with Dean, behind the man with the camel skin coat and the leopard skin smile. "No have room in passport for visa. Have to go Phnom Phem, Capital. Go get new page for Cambodia visa." Said the 10 year old (exaggeration) to Dean from behind the counter, at which point I stepped up: "Is there anyway we can get around that?" From what I could tell, Phnom Phem was a hundred dollars and 12 hours out of our way and completely unnecessary if the book was right, that Cambodian politics are completely corrupt and subject to loose interpretation. "How much you pay?" asked the 10-year-old. "$20?" Dean asked "Under paper, say nothing, under paper, say nothing" directed the youngster, shoving a pile of disgruntled papers in our direction. Dean placed the bill under the piling and 10 minutes later we were out of there with a newly manifested page to Dean’s passport. 'Secret of the Elephant' was the guest house we decided to stay at after visiting 5-6 other accommodations around town, courtesy of our driver "Phits" who we subsequently hired for the remainder of our stay at $16 US per day. The only accommodations 'Secret of the Elephant' had were a one-bedroom non-air cond. above their sister's restaurant "Madam Butterfly." I loved it. It was tenderly harsh like the yak meat I’d tried in China, like Christmas bells in Harlem, like bittersweet chocolate melting in the midday sun of a Louisiana cupboard. The lanterns hung in crimson and coral. The walls were mosaic and mirrored. Purple flowers twirled like flamenco dancers where butterflies nested in bowties. The air sweated beneath us and the humming of monks and motor bikes lulled us to sleep. I woke up exhausted and exhilarated the way one does before the first day of kindergarten. Pits was waiting for us downstairs while we ate toast with orange marmalade, papaya and light sweet coffee. He took us to Angkor Wat, a collection of ancient temples built between sometime in B.C and 810 AD They were built by successive Hindu rulers. These temples cover some 100 miles and lay undiscovered for centuries until some French explorer happened upon them accidentally. They had been devoured by the jungle, which had gurgled their stones and gulped their history to near demolition. But now, years later, we were walking through them, climbing over them and bowing to them with incense and candles. Nearing sunset we decided to explore the grandest temple of them all "Angkor Wat." Surprisingly, there were only a trickle of people left over, otherwise we had the place to ourselves. It was still hot, although the sun was nearly gone and the cool blue dusk was fondling our skin and eyes and thoughts. Monks strode and dappled different tiers of blue temple rock in crimson and saffron robes. We hiked steep stone steps to the top of an empty place of ritual. Facing west, the last strips of sun fell warm on our cheeks. "Wan’a meditate a while?" asked Dean and we sat on opposite facing pillars. When I felt the warmth of the sun fading on my face I opened my eyes. The twilight had chased the bright from the sky and there, beneath me, on the pillar below me, was Dean, arm extended upward, nervous smile on his face, and ring in hand. He said….. "Will you be my Tomboy Bride?" And I said, "Yes." July 19th, 2002 - Headed East Saint Louis MO keeps getting closer and Boulder, farther and farther away. We picked up a new sound guy this morning, just a temp really, till Delucchi finishes up his tour with Femi Kuti. The new sound guy’s name is Brian Neubauer. None of us had ever met him before this morning but he seems really nice, sort of a blond Delucchi actually, and after introductions and the shaking of hands, he climbed into the back with Kenny and fell asleep. Delucchi calls almost hourly "Did Brian get in the van with you guys?" "Did you get the Fed Ex from Michelle?" "Don’t forget to pick up CDs." "Cash the checks in the merch box." "and.. Oh yeah, don’t forget your guitar Sal." It’s like he’s our mother and we’re his kids on our first sleepover date. It’s sweet and I appreciate it…mainly because, frankly, I would forget my guitar without him. With the cooler stocked and the van packed we head out. We pass signs, once again, advertising; "The largest prairie dog in the world", "The live 6 legged cow" and "The fiercest snake alive" but we don’t stop despite my whining. Someday, I swear. We do stop, however, at a Texaco to refuel. We stand outside the joint trying to figure if we’ve been to this one before. We go inside. They’ve got white rabbit skins for sale; that seems familiar. And books on religion like "Why the blood of Jesus is so magical"; well, that seems familiar too. But the Wizard of Oz mini mugs don’t ring a bell and the glitter poster of Dorothy, well that’s sort of foreign. We decide we’ve never been to this Texaco before, which triggers a conversation between Soucy and the new guy (Brian) about which US rest stops they like most to stop at. Dino plays "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" on his computer screen. "Can you see Sal?" he asks. "Yeah, but should I be watching?" I’m the one driving. "Nah, probably not." The van goes silent as the whistling intro begins and Dino freezes screens long enough for me to dart a look, just so I can decipher the ‘good’ from the ‘bad’ and the ‘ugly.’ Otherwise, my viewing consists of corn to my left and my right; some cattle and some scorched yellow earth. As the sun sets behind us, we drive into the shadows arriving at the hometel 12 or so hours after we’d left CO. The rooms are nice but they only have one bed and a fold out, leaving one of us floor bound; we drew Twizlers to designate the unfortunate candidate. Kenny slept on the floor. July 20th 2002 - St Louis MO, Off Broadway "Hi Sal? This is Soucy. I’m locked out. You’re asleep and probably have earplugs in and it sounds like you left the TV on in there pretty loud. But I’m knocking," knock knock knock "and I guess I’ll just knock some more." Knock knock knock. This is the message I got off my cell phone when I woke up today (the 21st) at 11. That message was proceeded by another message, not nearly so composed: "Sally, Help. They won’t let me in. The front desk has no records showing that I’m allowed in the room and it’s 2:30 and I’m so tired. I just went to get a sandwich in the other room and I took the wrong key and now I can’t get back in. Help me." But as I was getting this message, he walked in the door. "How’d you get in?" I asked with a little smirk on my face. For, indeed, he had been right. I had fallen asleep with the earplugs in and CNN blaring. Supposedly he’d had to tell the night guard exactly what was in the room and show him the cover of Apt #6s to prove that he was in the band. "Didn’t sleep so well." He said and turned on the tube. The night before had been a rockin night. 3 bands, including "Blue Dogs" from South Carolina who were GREAT and invited me up during their set to sing "Angel From Montgomery" and "Close your Eyes." We’d got there early; around 5pm and loaded in through some muggy heat and pure lethargy. We were the only band to have a proper sound check. The venue was cool; tall ceilings and brick walls and a theatrical/vaudeville vibe. Beatle Bob arrived soon after us. Beatle Bob is a music legend worthy of Muppethood. He’s rumored to go to 400+ shows a year, to dance at every one and to own only 2 jackets; the one he was wearing (maroonish red) and another (white with maybe a gold collar). "You know you’ve got something when Beetle Bob shows up at your gig," said the soundman. Baetle Bob is a radio Journalist and agreed to introduce us. I must admit I felt a little funny inside knowing that we hadn’t played an official gig in almost a year but the stage fit like an old shoe. And even though we were rusty as all hell people seemed to enjoy it and Beatle Bob danced to every song. July 22nd 2002 - Zanies Too, Indianapolis IN I wasn’t going to write about this gig because it was so odd and yet we wound up having fun despite ourselves. But then, maybe I should elaborate briefly… I woke up on the floor in a St Louis Marriott. The women who’d booked our hotels had apparently mistaken us for a party of 4 because everywhere we’ve been has been a bed short. I called ahead to the New York hotel to confirm our reservations and low and behold, we were only booked one room between the 5 of us. Needless to say, I was bummed. We arrived at Zanies Too around 6pm. It appeared to be in a strip mall next to a five and dime store which shone yellow from within. Soucy poked his head in the club and said, "this place is disgusting." That’s Soucy though. He says what’s on his mind whenever no matter what feelings he slices and dices. But we sort of had to agree with him. The bar was swarming with some dozen bar flies who stared at us through squinted eyes as though we’d come from Mars not to mention the in-house sound guy who was in-between yesterday's Jaegermeister hangover and today’s Jaegermeister buzz. The club was just a few blocks down from the red light district so there was quite the crowd in the parking lot too and I was warned not to go outside after dark due to some shootings of late. I felt odd to say the least and walked up to the front of house where some guy was sweeping last nights butts off the stage. Barbara (who turned out to be God-sent) fed us some pizza and Cokes and we began to feel better. But then Brian (the new guy) came back to tell us there’d been a mistake in the bookings and we’d been scheduled three, count ‘um, THREE 60 minute sets ending at 1am. I felt sick again and went to look for some Tums. It seemed like 20 years before we actually got on stage but once we were up there, we were in our own little world where nothing could touch us…. Until the last set when I was saying we were almost done and some guy threw his girlfriend’s CD at us, yelling "That’s all you got!?!?" which was proceeded by a bar brawl and a lot of screaming to "Take it outside!" That was pretty much our cue to get out of there. I’ve got to say, though, the women in that place were champs! They were gutsy beyond belief and still sweet. They were like the amazon women on Popeye’s island. The ones who brought him up and taught him how to be strong and good. They were like gems in the bog and I have huge respect for them. Thank you gals and goodnight. July 24, 2002 Sotheby’s Auction House - NYC I should have known it was field trip day to The Raptor Trust when Soucy woke me up with fresh continental breakfast buffet coffee and a bagel, ever so slightly smudged with cream cheese. He’s never this nice. I stumbled around in the sheets to imply my reluctance to get up. "Come on Sal, time to go to the Raptor Trust." The Raptor Trust is in New Jersey and is owned and operated by Christopher Daniel Soucy’s parents. It is also where Chris grew up. As we slide down the side streets of Soucy’s hometown, he points out places of interest, fifth grade friend’s homes, unrequited loves parent’s houses, favorite stoner hangouts and first French kisses. I try to get him to hurry up and tease him relentlessly about the zit that’s slowly been coming to the surface on the right side of his nose. He’s nicked named it "Mount Vesoucyous.." As it is, I’m late for some interviews and end up in the Soucy’s living room, on the phone for the first hour after our arrival. The Soucy’s feed us some antipastos and ham sandwiches before letting us hold the birds. Brian (the new guy) has never held a bird so Len Soucy gives him a timid bard owl that, later gets passed on to me. But we’re running behind schedule (thanks to the slow tour through Soucy’s childhood stomping grounds) so there isn’t much time for bird watching. Over the bridge down FDR and into the city. Sotheby’s, who would have thunk it?! But it was cool. We rode up in a freight elevator with a 5 million dollar Andy Warhol and our green room was filled with pictures and paintings worth billions. My whole family came: mom, stepfather, brother, brother’s girlfriend, aunts, uncles and cousins. The stage was in the main gallery and from the stage, I pretended to auction off some of the instruments, insisting the players came with them. The artwork on the walls was quite graphic and shocking. To stage left was an exhibit called "View from my Hairy Nuts" and featured the artist’s balls against different postcard back drops with paper mache dolls doing things like vacationing, diving and fishing on his hairy nuts. To stage right was a series of pictures of a scrawny afro-wearing white dude in a museum, pretending to shoot stuffed safari animals with a Magnum. It was kind of odd but great really and over too soon. Once again, we were rushing. This was going to be the tricky part. We had an 11:16 flight to Colorado out of Boston the next morning. I’d made reservations for us at a Spring Hill Suites in New London, Connecticut and figured we could get there by 12ish. But there was construction traffic and cars dripped by like water from a leaky faucet. Dean-O took the first shift and I, in shotgun, fell asleep to the lull of classical music over FM airwaves. I woke up at 1:55 alarmed. Dean-O was doing 90 with his chest pressed up against the steering wheel, elbows jutting left and right. There was loud static coming from the radio which was, intermittently playing Mozart and Brian shouted up from the back "How you doing there Dino." Dinos eyes were wide "I donno man. I’m getting tired. I might need some relief." But no sooner had Brian took the wheel did we realize, New London was the next exit. We slept from 2 until 5 and then I took us into Boston, the sun rising to the right and Kenny shouting out directions from the back. At the airport we ate biscuits with overly yellow eggs and underly-done meaty bacon. Our eyes were merely cracks below our brows as we talked about what we’d forgotten in the van and how we'd shivered from the air conditioner on overdrive. We fell asleep in the sun at our gate #29. Dino and I slept atop the secondary screening table and Chris, Brian and Kenny slept under that bare brown table, our luggage strewn about, shoes flipped off, until we were all kicked out of the area by a robust, frizzy haired secondary screening woman with an intimidating frisking wand in hand. Once on the airplane, we were all snores and grumbles. Colorado, here we come. August 2, 2002 - On our way Northeast There are blue cotton panties on my front lawn. I don’t know how they got there or how long they’ve been there just that I don’t want to touch them to throw them away and apparently neither does Dean or any one else for that matter because day after day, they’re there. This morning when I’ve showered and packed, I look out the window to see the band is there; Soucy, Castro and Dino all huddled around the panties in my yard and they’re all crinkle faced and wondering aloud who’s panties are they? Where did they come from? Where are they going? And why? It’s disturbing to them when I tell them I don’t know and so we all just hover over them with our suitcases by our sides like Peppermint Patties until Amanda, my assistant, comes to pick us up. But now the blue panties on the yellow lawn are bugging me too and it sort of sets the tone for the day. At the airport the women behind the counter insists she doesn’t have us on any flight to Boston via St Louis despite my confirmation letter from hotwire.com saying we’re all set to go. However, she does find us on a plane to Chicago that’s going onto Boston and we take what we can get. In Chicago I get a strawberry banana smoothie and shop around in a bookstore deciding on "Choke," a book by Chuck Palahniuk the author of "Fight Club." It’s dark and cynical and apocalyptic and I like it very much maybe ‘cause I’m really none of those things. I especially like the writing. I love mulling around bookstores, Surgically opening books into their marrow. It’s like ripping open a shower curtain on a stranger, onto a different world exposing who knows what? Love, pain, sex, a different time, a different place, a different you, a different set of problems from which you can escape your own. The plan is to get to Boston, drop our stuff off at my Dad’s and catch my brother’s show at TT the Bears but when we get in late we decide to bypass my pops and head directly to Ben’s gig. Not that we know where that is exactly but Soucy’s been there, albeit in 1983, and thinks he remembers it being in Cambridge. So with luggage in hand we turn ourselves over to the T. The Blue Line connects to the Orange Line which links us up with the Red Line heading outbound by which time Soucy admits to not remembering if it really is out this way at all and we all sigh and I call Kipp on Soucy’s phone. I haven’t spoken to Kipp since I got engaged and expect it may be awkward, but he’s genuinely excited to see me and tells me to get off the Red Line at Central. Kipp is now my brother’s manager. We stop outside a used record store playing loud Hoagie Carmichael through a scratchy olive megaphone and Soucy goes down into the store to ask directions. The rest of us wait out on the street with our luggage and computers and my blue guitar, in the red, wet, flourescent-lit night. A drunk man waddles by mumbling nothings, girls talk loudly of shoes, cigarettes smoke and everyone sweats and suffers. When we get to the club we ditch our stuff in Ben’s rent-a-van. On the street, Ben picks me up to give me a hug. He’s all tall and handsome and thin under his baggie clothes and hat. He’s got a great turnout and plays his heart out for all the pretty girls who’ve already dedicated themselves to him. He’s great. He’s confident and his band is so tight and full of talent. After his set I help him sell his new CD’s. It’s the first night they’re available and they’re going like hotcakes. I get one too. Its called Famous Amongst the Barns. We stick around the club for a while listening to the next band but we’re not really all that jazzed about them and when Delucchi* shows up, fresh in from LA off the Femmi Kuti tour, we get our bags and bolt promising to get together for an early breakfast that never happens. Back on the trail of Ts that lead us back to Dad’s pad. I’m so excited to hear Ben’s album and the tracks I sang backups on that I rush up the 4 flights to listen, leaving the rest of the guys to pack Moby. They’d be staying at a hotel in Woburn while I’d take my Dad’s apt for the night. But to my own heartache, all of my work had been scrapped and I’m not even mentioned next to my Mom and Pops names on the ‘additional artist’ fold out. I’m feeling really blue when Delucchi yells up from ground floor to tell me Moby’s dead. Some light had been left on and we needed a jump. So I’m on hold with AAA when I get a message from Dean that he’s super pissed off at me for not calling when I got into Boston, as I’d promised I’d do, and didn’t want to come out and visit me this weekend any more. Now I’m feeling like dirt. Worse than dirt really. It’s 2:30 before AAA shows up. I make lentil soup with stone wheat thins and eat it from the pan. There’s no AC and I fall asleep, above the covers, reading "Choke" and feeling the way those blue cotton panties must feel on my lawn. [*Even though he doesn’t know it yet, Chris Delucchi’s new nick name is "Puffy, The Dark Muppet" so if you see him at our show call him by his new name.] August 3, 2002 The Metronome - Burlington VT The lights are halogen turquoise in room 212. Soucy and I brush our teeth. In the mirror, we look green. Our eyes look shallow and are outlined by dark sickliness. "Funny, I don’t feel as bad as I look." I say at Soucy, my mouth frothing with paste and he laughs and comments on the Kermit likeness of his skin. No matter how hard we brush our teeth, they remain blue in this mirror. "You got any more of that zit cream Sal?" "Sure do Soucy," I say handing him a tube of Clearasil. Mount Vasoucyous is gone but humidity and travel have covered us in all sorts of oils and red marks. We take turns dabbing little coin sized dots on our faces with the skin tinted medicine. Soucy then disappears down the hall for a moment of male bonding in #314 before he’s subject to my little feminine world for the night. When he comes back, I’m changing and shouting, "Wait a minute" and he’s ducking his eyes behind a free hand apologizing. This happens a lot as you might expect. Never has there been so much accidental viewing of nudity between two people who want to see each other naked less. By this point, Soucy may as well be my brother. We watch CNN a bit and argue about the volume. I’m about as deaf as they come plus I like to watch TV at night with ear plugs in so if I fall asleep, I won't be bothered in the middle of the night by noisy couples, late arrivals or the maids in the morning. But Soucy is sensitive to loud noises (excluding amplifiers of course) and likes TV at minimal volume which to me feels like watching TV at the next door neighbor's house. I compromise, and take out the earplugs. The Metronome was a fun show. Much better than the last time when 11 people attended (including us). It was a free show this time which might explain the heightened attendance and the casualness with which people circulated both in and out of the venue. I was asleep by 3pm. August 5th 2002 - The Iron Horse, Northampton MA "Honey, how’d you get to this end of the bed?" Dean whispered and in my half conscious state I answered: "Walking with Prehistoric Beasts." But indeed this was a good question and obviously not a reasonable answer. For the Prehistoric Beasts on the Discovery channel had not the power to provoke me to do a 180 in the sheets. In the light off the bathroom, in the fog of the 2am, in the Springfield Marriott, room #1430, I found myself at the foot end of the single bed lying beside my beloved Dean (who, coincidentally, came out after all). I suppose my positioning was less of a surprise to me than to Dean, who for the last 10 minutes, had been snuggling with my ankles and calves. Dean was leaving. He’d been with us from Saturday night until now, 2am on a Monday morning. He’d be taking a cab to a plane in Boston and I missed him already as I watched him dress, pack, turn out the bathroom light and close the door behind him. Soucy didn’t budge in the bed adjacent, and I didn’t resurrect my rightside up position but I didn’t sleep either. Just lay there looking at the ceiling grow bright from head lights on passing cars below, thinking about the night before. The Iron Horse had been one big drag. Even though we’d advanced the show as our own gig, when we got there, it belonged to another. Dan Hicks and the Hot Licks were now the headline act and because they had no drum kit they were opposed to us setting up our own. So now, instead of our band headlining a 75-minute show, Soucy and I would be opening up for 30 minutes before The Hot Licks took center stage. It would have been fine, had we known, but to show up to the disappointment was devastating. We’d spent the previous night at my Dad’s house and he’d driven us to the gig the next day. To the ‘screwing’ my dad’s response was "This’ll happen at every level along the way." He’d come to the show the night before at "Club Helsinki" and taken Dean and I back to his crib for a slumber party. We’d stayed up ‘til 1:00 eating potato chips, cookies and drinking hot kava tea. We discussed wedding plans and tried to keep the laughter down so as not to wake the babies. Now, at the gig, we sat on the corner of the stage, Delucchi (The Dark Muppet), Dino, Dean and I while Dan and his band sound checked. "You’ve got really nice toes Dino" I said which Dino responded to by taking off his sandals and wriggling his feet about boisterously. Which prompted more untying and admiration of others toes and feet until the smell commenced and we all slipped back on our shoes and went outside for a walk. The heat was bruising and clouds of sweat swept by us as we crossed paths with other pedestrians. We stopped on the corner along with some other punks, drunks and loonies. The atmosphere alone would've made me do it but together with the agro heat and the royal ‘screwing’, I started doing Greek songs along with wild kicks and gyrating spins that would have made even Vinnie Barbarino proud. I was jumping out at people from behind mailboxes and making the band breakdance with me until there was an accident across the street between a truck and a Mercedes. Someone who was blond and neither man nor woman stepped out of the truck and started arguing with the guy in the Benz and then there was pointing in our general direction, so we quickly scuttled away back into the club. The show was a bummer and we split before even trying to sell CD’s. I miss you Dean. Come back. August 7th 2002 - New York, BB Kings When you hear the boys (my boys) all clapping in unison it means they want to "spank your cute bottom." It’s Dino’s fault really. He made it up and they all do it despite my pestering about the wrongness of the whole ritual and "going to hell" and what not. So the best I can do is warn you ladies out there. They may seem innocent but they’re not.  We wind up at Siberia after our show at BB Kings and true to its name,
the joint is freezing cold. There’s a mega fan blowing beneath a subzero air
conditioner which "has to be on at all times" insists the bartender.
Something about smoking and ventilation. You’d never suspect there was a bar
here from the street save for a dullish pink light aglow above the black and
grafitied door. I guess that’s what makes a bar appealing in the new
Millennium. Autonomy. In the 90’s it was long lines and hot chicks wasn’t
it? There’s a silent movie projected against a wall in the corner and a band
that shares my publicist "Freeloader" is buying drinks."What can I do you for?" asks the bartender with buckled skin and rotted teeth. "I’ll take a Chardonnay." "Whisky, gin, vodka or your out of luck girlie." I think he must enjoy saying this to me. Seeing as I’m wearing peppermint pink striped pants, my hair in pigtails and probably have on too much make-up, after just getting off stage. I manage to sip into a vodka tonic made with gasoline and play a rockin Austin Powers game of pinball with my band. I’ve become a bit of the addict video game player I’d always pitied in others. It all happened when Dino brought a hand held "Yahtzee" game on the road and I simply can’t stop playing it. We pass it around the van the way ganja smokers pass a split and get jealous of each other’s scores. I wind up crashed out on my publicist’s parents rollaway at 2. New York takes it out of me. August 8th 2002 - New York City - Day OFF My friend Luke was suppose to meet me but bailed at the last minute and left me to fend for myself in the urban jungle that is Barney’s Department Store. The cosmetics are down stairs where there is also a techno dance party going on and skinny white women applying nude tones to each other’s brow while sipping on Chambourg. Buying nail polish is as hard as buying a beer in a crowded midtown bar. I’m waving a wad o cash across a crowded beauty counter trying to make eye contact with the beauty "bar" maid when a call comes through and I’m grabbing for my purse and accidentally pushing a brunet who’s been trying to get a gray eyeliner for about 20 minutes and in the brattiest waspy NYC accent she says "Watch the hands Blondie." It’s a reporter with the Trentonian Times in NJ and I drop the polish for better reception on the first floor. I tell him I’m shopping for a wedding gown which isn’t exactly true at the moment. I mean I haven’t been to the 8th floor yet but my bridal appointment is at 4 and It’s now 3:30. I walk around the jewelry section with my head piece in, pretending to admire the grossly expensive gems and hand bags but really I just look like I’m talking to myself. We go over the major points: "Yes, I’m getting married…Oh how did we meet? 10 years ago on a nude beach. He was the lifeguard, I was, well, the naked…. No he wasn’t naked too… Plans for the future? Same as usual ‘I’m quitting right after this gig’… My parents? They’re fine… Growing up? Fine too." But then the battery on my cell is starting to beep that low dead battery sound and he lets me go. I wandered around the floors for a while shocked by both the price tags and the sizes of these women shopping. My friends calls them X-rays: those, so small you can see through. I feel as though I should give them all sandwiches and milkshakes. They float like mannequins through the escalators with their black Barney’s bags slung over hook like elbows gossiping on cell phones dressed impeccably. It’s not as if some of them are dressed poorly either. They’re all just off the runway with hats and fake-up and heals and sucked in cheeks. But I think I get it. I think these ladies do this for a living. Shop I mean. Buy I mean. I mean why else would they shrink their bodies and blow up their bosoms but to buy more to accentuate their bones. It felt unnatural to me in there. It felt sad and hollow. I didn’t find a wedding dress. I met up with my publicist, Ariel, on 40th. She was on her way to a blind date but walked me as far as Playboy where my friend JayJay works. She gave us a full frontal tour of naked woman filled walls and hooked me with some pink playmate panties and a pair of pimp-daddy playboy shades. We went to dinner down town at Moon Sun’s amazing Korean restaurant "DoWha" on 55th and Charmine. If you live in NYC or are there on vay-kay you’ve got to check this spot out. Plus Moon Sun is an amazing woman. After a 3-hour meal, toys store stop and a set of "Freeloader" down at Arlene’s Grocery it was time to call it a night. I snuck back into Ariel’s parents’ West Side crib and climbed into rollaway land. My friend Neil had slipped me a copy of my dad’s new album "October Road" and I played it as I drifted off. It’s my favorite record now. I love being on it too. I can’t lie. It makes me feel special and loved and honored and well… accomplished ……. And did I mention Loved? August 11 2002 - Captain Nick’s, Block Island It’s 1:30 am and I’m with four 21-year-old guys with shaven heads trying to break into my third floor room with knives and expired credit cards. One of them is kneeling on the floor with a dinner knife wedged into the door jam. Another is pushing with all his might while the third and the fourth are standing on an adjacent windowsill banging on the small rectangular, over-the-door window. It’s the first time this evening that I realize ‘I might be in danger.’ Not that I am, these kids work at the hotel, are harmless and actually are arguing over who gets to break into James Taylor’s daughter’s room. But, for once, I'm glad Dean made me take that pepper spray on the road. How did I get here? I woke up on Martha's Vineyard in my childhood room, dolls and all. Old family pictures on the white shelves and an outdated magenta carpet below my feet. The guys dropped me off the day prior at the ferry in New Bedford. They went on to Quincy for the night. I was scheduled to record a version of "Anticipation" for the new Hines Catsup commercial with my mom, brother and cousin that afternoon but hadn’t quite figured out how I’d make it over to Block Island for my show that evening. I ended up catching a ride with my trusty uncle Liv in his two passenger one prop. He took the long way, showing me the shores of both islands lit up in the fading pinks and golds of sunset. I tell you there’s nothing like having a license to the skies. But the next best thing is having an uncle who does. The guy’s (my guys) greeted us on the other side. "Wanta watch me take off?" Liv asked the boys (my boys). "Sure uncle Liv!" They screamed excitedly. He scrunched himself back into that blue and white plane and, leaning out the window of his ride, shouted some music business advice. It was hard to hear him over the puttering engine but I smiled and thanked him and told him to call me when he had some more time to chat about The Big Show. He took off West, into the sunset, as all good heroes do, and we waved until he was a speck in the sky. I love that uncle of mine. I met my friend Heidi B. for dinner before even dropping off my bags off. We’d gone to high school together and hadn’t seen each other for a while. Turns out she’s engaged too and we sat out on the restaurant deck overlooking the harbor, reminiscing with her friends until about half hour before showtime. This Island is so small, you can actually walk to the gig and when I arrived, sand in my shoes, I stepped right on stage and did my little ol’ thang. It wasn’t ‘til 1:00 that I realized I’d asked Heidi to hold my cell phone and room key and that she’d already left the joint. I didn’t even know what hotel she was registered in but figured it was such a small island that I’d be able to find her. Whether I’d be able to get her up was a different problem all together. With the amount of wine she’d consumed I doubted whether she’d be conscious at all. But I was determined to try. I walked back along the street light path that led to the shore and there I found 3 potential hotels. But when I walked into the first there was no one at the front counter to help me with my predicament so I walked up to the second floor and stood in the hall way calling "Heidi, Heidi" softly at first but with increasing urgency until a young man with a slight stubble on both his head and his upper lip came to see who the crazed lunatic on the 4th floor might be. "I’m sorry," I said as he approached "But my friend has my key and –" "Yeah, I just saw you in concert. You were great." (Ah, the benefits of being known on a small island) "Oh thanks. My friend’s asleep and slightly intoxicated and she has my key ..." "And she’s in which room?" "Well, I don’t exactly know. Actually she might not even be in this hotel." I was realizing how ridiculous I sounded. "Do you smoke?" He asked "Uh.. I do now." I said and he brought me into the hotel barracks where an employee party of sorts was being attended by a few cool kids and a supervisor of sorts. A bright halogen light turned our faces lime green and a white sheet hung against a west facing wall with slogans, signatures and salutations in red and black sharpie. We sat around and drank some skunky Buds. The employees were so sweet that they offered to try to break down my door in the hallway across the street. What did I have to lose? That’s how I ended up at 1:30 locked out of my room, with four young guys breaking down my door. "If I only had a rope. I could swing around the outside window." Murmured the guy holding the knife to the door." "Yeah, Where’s Spiderman when you need him?" I laughed "No, I’m Spiderman, I just need a rope." Said the guy with complete sincerity. "Wait, I have a friend who has a ladder and we can put it on the awning on the second floor." Said a guy breaking into the rectangular window over the door. Somehow, at that moment, the ladder on the slender awning seemed reasonable and we all trotted down the stairs out onto the store-lined street. At that moment Dino, Delucchi and Soucy all happened to be walking back from Captain Nicks. They appeared, like the three musketeers… Wait, scratch that… The Three Amigo’s in the mist, coming to my rescue and before I knew it (or at least, before the kids got their buddies' ladder) Delucchi was running down the stairs with a cry of: "WHO"S THE MAN?!?!" There’s no question of who the man might be. It is "DELUCCHI, THE DARK MUPPET." And at 2:00 I am asleep. PS. I want to thank you Block Island boys for coming to my rescue. Hope this little journal entrée doesn’t get you in trouble. Peace. August 15th 2002 - The Suttler, Nashville TN The rain pounds relentlessly at the windshield. Outside, when there is light, it’s blue speckled with highway and headlights flying like little ferries over the horizon. We’re listening to Ian Crockett, * our opener, and the only good thing to happen to us last night. It rained yesterday too. Dino, the sport he is, came wedding gown shopping with me. I’d disappear behind a velvety curtain only to appear 1 minute latter wearing some display of white and fluffy brilliance. Dino would look up from the Wall Street Journal to give show his approval or disapproval of the ensemble. Both of our favorites turned out to be a beaded fitted Reem Acra gown who’s price tag I’m sure will make my father gasp and insist I’d look just as good in a white sheet. There’s also a Angel Sanchez dress that’s probably more fitting anyhow for both the occasion and my father’s wallet. The thing I’m always bitching about on the road is the gargantious lengths of time between sound check and gig time and how much more I could get accomplished in a day if it weren’t for all that bloody wasted time in the club. But yesterday, due to an early show at the Suttler, we had no sound check and you know what I did? Nothing!! Watched J. Lo specials on MTV. So much for productivity. When we got to the gig at 9:00pm, the early show was still on. Dino, Soucy and I ventured down into a near by pool hall where 1000 years of smoking had stained the walls sepia and etched a scent so strong into the carpet, no other smell could possibly compete. We played "Cut Throat." Soucy won. When we returned to the club Delucchi was manning the door. He was livid. Over the din of the music he yelled: "Did Ted (our booking agent) talk to you about this?" "No." I yelled back "What’s up?" "This is F____ed up. The deal is we’ve got to collect the money at the door. Then, we owe the club $50 bucks for the use of their sound system! And on top of that, we have to give the opening act 30% of the door and their manager refuses to help collect. I looked around at the 20 or some odd patrons in the roadhouse of a strip mall bar all spread out amongst 40 or some odd tables. I sat down beside Delucchi to help take money. Vagrants stumbled in like the tide only to retreat at the cash request. Some people even tried to bargain down the ticket price ($10). "Not negotiable." Said Delucchi who looked like he was trying to meditate the anger away. He still looked red, to me, beneath his Zen like expression. The ball game was on over the bar; Astro’s vs. the Cubs and just as many people watched that as the band. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay, which came out in a mug and tasted like fermented white grape juice. Ian Crockett was our opener and he and his five-piece band ROCKED A LOT. All their tunes were catchy and hooky and the tightness and musicality of the band just blew us all away. Not to mention how bloody nice and fun all of them were. So how do I go on? Follow an act like this? Get my energy level up enough to play for peanuts and a pocket full of people? Even try to put together another tour after this? Play ever again? The answer is… I don’t know… But some how… For some reason… We go on…. And on… And on..... Oct 10 2002, First day in Luang Phabang, Laos Insects flit by our tall green shutters. Bits of lint and fuzz glint by too, in gold, due the still light which hangs on lifeless air and shines off temple walls. Luang Phabang is definitely the sexiest city I've ever seen. The roads are rough and girls ride their bikes beneath red umbrellas keeping their skin a poreless, hairless beige. A Lao woman walks ahead of our tut tut (bicyle carriage). Her hair pouring down, like black milk, from a clip at her crown. Her blue and rust colored umbrella casting an ancient stain over her crisp white shirt. I can't imagine what it's like to be her. A flight comes in once a week, on Thursdays, from Thailand and another returns on Sunday. Other than that, the Luang Phabang airstrip is a ghost landing which sits amongst the rest of the quiet; humming, praying, listening. A hammer bangs slowly against a nail in the distance and the voice of Whitney Houston crys in an out of place soulfulness that only contradicts the spirituality of the landscapes, the crators from past wars, the children's faces, and the putter of an old moped. The rooms are old and colonial, faceted with aquard Loa local paintings which hang crookedly and lost with out frames. The bed looks like a bride, veiled by a mosquito net, and is harder than the floor which is soft black teak, and the 7 foot windows swing out into a windless day that hints at siestas and Mexican espadrilles one half a world away..... we've only just arrived. Oct. 12th 2002, Laos We're outside this Lao cafe drinking coffee with sweetened condensed milk. Dean's smoking, a habit he's taken up since our arrival in Asia, and I'm trying not to be judgemental, but I'm waving the spirals of self-rolled Dunhill from my face as I feed myself an egg I watched laid only minutes ago. Another American couple sits near our table and wants to know the news from the "outside" which is unobtainable from this communist country. But we don't know either. They're from LA and we invite them accross the Mekong to explore "the caves" with us. During the US/Vietnam war a bunch of missiles were getting dropped on an innocent Laos because it was on the way back to US bases, which insisted their planes come back emptied of ammunition. Laos, therefore, took some abuse. They feared for the safety of their Buddahs and thus dug caves stretching miles into the earth and stored Buddahs down there, safe from harms way. Dean went into the caves on his first visit to Laos in 1998 and tells of the mind blowing journey into the earth with torches and a couple of Lao kids, to see the sacred Buddahs; the LA-ites are in for the adventure. We hire a fishing boat for 10,000 kip a piece (1$ US) and sail through the chocolate-colored waters of the whirling Mekong. However, when we get to the other side, we're informed by the local kids that those caves have long since been been lit and it'll cost us 5,000 kip each to go down.
Turns out the last time Dean had been there, it had not been the rainy season which now makes the rocky stairlike path slick as soap in the shower. We're falling every 10 feet, covering ourselves in red clay like mud and laughing even though it hurts like hell. We descend about a mile deep and are in the slipperiest and most dangerous part of the cave, when Dean starts thanking God his Lao friend at the top must have split with his cash. That's when the lights go out. It's darker than anything you could imagine! Darker than the center of coal. Darker than misery. Darker than nighmares in which you have no voice to scream in. I can only imagine what the other, further down, tourists must think. "Everyone OK?" Dean says, explaining his deal with the kid upstairs. There is nervous laughter but nobody moves. Gravity's the only guess we have at up or down and nobody wants to test it. Five minutes lasts ten, during which Lao kids make echo sounds against hollow walls. And us? Well, we laugh and glue ourselves to the slick rocks on which we crouch and a couple of us mimick lines from Blair Witch Project; I don't find them amusing. But there's something about being that far down in the earth, something spiritual that isn't about the Buddahs or the darkness or the wetness. It's a sense of non-being. And when the lights come back on and we all celebrate by going back up as fast as we can, I carry something more than I'd gone down with. I carry up some greater knowledge of my soul. I carry up peace. Feb 15th 2003, Home in Boulder. When I wake up at 6:00, the sky is tinted salmon at its eastern facing borders and the mountains are black. Black and crooked so the sky looks like it’s been ripped off the earth in jagged, misguided tears. It’s not my idea to be up at 6:00 and I look though squinted eyes at my beloved, soon to be husband, who has hit 'snooze' in hopes of finishing something important he’d started in a dream somewhere. I slip into Carhart overalls and out the bedroom door silently into the dark freezing hallway. Dean and I have been renovating our house for the past couple months and we’ve been doing most of the work ourselves. So far we’ve demo-ed our ceiling, put in some windows, and hardwood floors. Not that we’re near done! Dean and I have a 24" X 30" page of poster board with an ever increasing list of things we need to do before: Christmas, or Sally’s birthday, or before the war begins. I can see the list from where I’m standing. It’s shoved under a leg of the scaffolding covered in sawdust and insulation but I only have to glance at the blue indelible ink on the page to know that it’s "SAND & STAIN" day. Dean walks out behind me in the blue of the hallway. "Chop Chop lets get workin’" He says. We’re going skiing tomorrow at Keystone. That is, if we can finish prepping the 108 1x10x16 inch planks we’ve selected to line our cathedral ceiling. I stretch a facemask over my nose and mouth. I’m in charge of the 220 sandpaper and the Black & Decker power sander while Dean takes the more cumbersome Porter Cable. The sun rises behind us warming the thick canvas of our over-jackets but never really getting to the core of the winter inside the bone. Dean’s faster than I am with the 220 so he starts on the fine metal mesh sand paper that makes the planks as smooth as a babies bottom. After that we wet the planks, dry the planks, prime the planks, stain the planks and polyurethane the planks (twice). Of course we won't get that all done today. Dean has taught me so much about renovation. He really knows how to see a house’s potential and then to make it happen. He’s not afraid to take on a project. I turn out not to be at all shabby at this whole house building thing either. In fact, despite the 6:00 wake up call, I like working outdoors, with my hands, with power tools. It’s meditative, mindful, creative, and a great workout. I definitely recommend it. My blue guitar case is in the corner and like our "To do list," it’s also covered in dust. I walk by it every time I leave the house. It makes me sad. I imagine I can hear my beautiful guitar singing to itself inside its case, just trying to keep itself company in the dark. I don’t dare take it out now for fear it might get demolished along with the rest of the house. It’s OK. I know it’s writing melodies in there, for me to sing to so I’m not worried. It’s weird to be consumed in something so completely different from music. But it feels good too. Like a vacation. Like a moment of silence. |
