February 24th 2006 - Club 770 - Madison, WI

A Strap of anonymous hair, rudely torn from the root, flaps in the air of a heat vent upon a screw in a brass light socket. It's blurry because I'm blurry and on a mission to the bathroom in the sub light of a grey morning. The bus meanders toward Wisconsin. Dom's foot sticks out of his bunk, toes down. An empty beer bottle rolls restlessly in a tinny, shallow sink. Someone's snoring behind their curtain and Gwen's orange boot, fallen like an abandoned lap dog catches my heal and trips me up. It's way too early for me. I hear Buddy's book on tape "Their Wildest Dreams" prodding our peripatetic journey onward; it's low basal monotone delivers me back to my dreams.

When I wake up for real at 4:30 pm the crew is watching Red Hot American Summer, an 80's farcical parody on summer camp which makes walking into our collegiate venue all the more de ja vous-y. We're playing a free show in what appears to be a University Of Wisconsin commons room. Chris, our student promoter is way too cute and nice to harangue for our venues unofficial appearance. Still, in all of its informality, the room is adorned with the mandatory disco ball and maybe that's all we really need.

Now, after all my fastidious derision of the venue, I, once again, turn out to be completely wrong. The sound is the best yet, the lighting is fantastic, the stage is aesthetically pleasant, the openers (Blake Thomas & the Downtown Brown) are so good that I'm forced to purchase (with my own money) their record and the student filled crowd is enthusiastic, attentive, respectful and well educated at that.

The last time I played in W.I. my fly was down the entire show and no one bothered to tell me. Now, in the middle of the show I have the feeling that once again that I've got egg on my face. No matter how many times I finger check my fly, I can't bring myself to believe that I'm zipped up. I'm not gonna blatantly look down so I wander over to The Saw for confirmation.

"Saw, is my fly down?" and to my horror he replies:
"Yes" With a mischievous grin. So, trying to be subtle I glance down at my crotch. My fly is not down and in my attempt at subtlety I look out into the crowd and make eye contact with a young blond in the front row. "I have that same shirt." I say over the mic. It's a M*A*S*H shirt and she pulls at its hems to display it proudly.
"It's my favorite shirt." She admits
"Target? $6.99?" I respond and now I've humiliated not only myself but this young scholar as well. Looking up, I watch a couple of incredulous students subjecting their throats to the gagging finger at our tawdry dross. Sorry blondie. I really didn't mean to offend. I too love my Target, M*A*S*H, $6.99 shirt.

At 3:00 am I find myself in a pair of unyielding, overly disinfected bowling shoes in a dark, neon, crowded student bowling alley directly beneath our venue. I'm rocking a florescent yellow bowling ball down lane 2 with eight other students, my brother, Derin and Dom. I'm good to, and no, this is not just a dream during another one of my marathon sleep offs. Thank you Lyndz, Stacy, KY, Wyndham and Chris (our team mates). Stay cool (and warm) up there at UWI.

February 23 2006 - The Bluebird - Bloomington, IN

Buddy leans on his horn, which makes Gwen jump clear out of her skin. Giggle giggle, snicker snicker. We watch her hold her heart and teeter off on 4 inch heels to the vegetarian restaurant "Roots" where they have seitan nuggets with honey mustard dipping sauce that are divine.

Jen comes to repossess her little doggie Blanch who's been hanging precariously from window ledges the last couple days - no doubt wondering where mommy has gone and whether this strange band of hoodlums has in fact dog-napped her for good.

"How is it outside?" I ask from pajamas. "Beige," Jen says "the Midwest is always beige." I can see her point and start to attach crayola colors to geographical locations in my mind. What would Colorado be? I miss home. I miss my husband. I miss our cats Tulula Magenta Del Rio and Boris Erasmus El Guapo.

The Bluebird is undersold and we're pushing our show back in hopes that more walk-ups will show. Gwen's "#3" (vomiting otherwise known as backwards eating) has inspired further conversation and investigation in to what might "going #4, #5 or #6" mean. In the blue greenroom we decide there are 2 parameters that must be adhered to when developing definitions for such goings. They are that 1. Said # must be an action and 2. That it's consequences must inconvenience others. We decide "going #4" is hocking a lugie. #6 is burping (or froggie-ing for me) and #9 is farting. We still don't know what going #5, #7, or #8 are but we're open to suggestions.

Despite our small crowd we make our rock entrance to "F**k her gently" which leaves the faces of our audience frightened and bewildered and probably fearing they've bought tickets not for Ben Taylor but Spinal Tap. They're not all wrong either. The night is filled with funny occurrences: mis-capoed songs, forgotten lyrics, and guitar smashings on low-lying beams. It's all in good fun though. Still, it's a relief to get back to some Olympics in the bus.

Gwen and I are dizzying ourselves watching the Japanese figure skaters whirl their way into history when Ben arrives with a not so sober woman in tow. The first stop she makes is the no tissue, no toilet paper, no number #2 and certainly no #3 on bus bathroom. As Gwen and I stare out the corners of our Olympian filled eyes Ben mouths "She asked if she could use our toilet (shoulder shrug)." He's got his ear up to the door and his knuckles in his mouth. Ben gets charged any time someone devalues the bus with a spill, for example, or #3 in the toilet.

"Who is she?" I mouth at Ben who responds:
"She came to our show in Louisville." At which point the insipid female appears from behind the door.
"You O.K?" Gwen inquires.
"No, not really," She burbles. Ben's knuckles whiten and insert further into his throat "I got kind of sick,"
"Oh, God" Ben lets fly, despite restraint and knuckle gagging.
"I'm feeling better though." She guarantees.
"Maybe you should sit down," I offer, "Want some water? Ben get her some water."

She's feeling her way back through the bunks as Ben fills a glass when she stops and sits in Gwen's bed where Balance is sleeping and goes #3 all over Gwen's sheets. Gwen starts screeching. Ben starts screaming. #3 is now going on the carpet. Ben's tearing blankets off the bed while Gwen is dancing around him yelling, "Did she puke on my hat? I hope she didn't puke in my hat." Blanch is now licking the puke off the carpet and Ben's in a mantra of "Oh God, oh no, shit!, oh God, oh no, shit.." I'm feeling bad for the girl. She's feeling even worse.

"I can't believe I'm doing this. I never get drunk. I hate myself. I'm gonna kill myself," she's saying in her petite Southern accent. Then she #3's on Ben's flannel shirt. Finally we get her into the back with the white plastic garbage pail under her slumped head.

And the Japanese win the gold.

February 22, 2006 - The Basement -Columbus, Ohio

It's 1:30 am. Daren, Ben and I are on our way up to Holiday Inn room #1222 for some late night inebriated aerobics. Actually Ben's the only one who's been drinking. The room is trashed already from earlier showers and naps. Dampened towels are slung around like terry cloth ghosts and bed sheets are lazily knotted up in yesterday's dreams. Gathering all furniture we load up the bed to create more space for imminent arm flailing and side kicking. In the bathroom, changing into yesterday's already stinky work out clothes, I drop my sports bra in the toilet. Bummer. It's 2:30 when we finish jumping around and we all feel like we're gonna go number 3 (Gwen's code for puking). The Basement's deli tray haunts us as we stretch.

The show went well, I thought. But Ben, being his most insensitive critic, thought it was a poor effort. The Basement is (surprise, surprise) in a basement. It has a concrete floor, which is a soundman's nightmare. It's virtually impossible to dial out all of the high pitched screaming the monitors toss out until we get some padding in the room (aka people). We prayed for good padding. We got it. Returning from The Mongolian BBQ we saw a line around the block. The concrete floor was cushioned with shockingly attractive betties whose bodies absorbed our sound and whose smiles absorbed our hearts.

Good-night Columbus.

February 19, 2006 - The Paradise - Boston, MA

In the middle of the night Larry gets a call that his wife has gone into labor and he's left for the airport before anyone knows he's gone.

Meanwhile I'm enveloped in crisp, crepe papery sheets waking up to the sweet soundtrack of luxury. From the bus to Four Seasons is a gift from God paid for by Mom. She called yesterday to tell Ben and I that she was putting us up for the next couple days. No generator noise drilling into my dreams, no sharp turns to throw me dangerously close to the edge, and no late night dance parties to rock-a-bye me to bed. Sweet delicious solitude. The cherry on my proverbial sundae is Mom's knock at my door. I open up room #810 to a tsunami of her love. We do a little jig in the hallway, which sets chandelier gems a bop. She holds such regal beauty in her broad smile, her cobalt eyes, and her musical grace. Guitar in hand, lips perfectly painted persimmon and a velvety pear cap adjusted to hover just slightly above her soft, golden locks. She is a vision.

After retrieving Ben and The Saw from room #802 we take a multi mirrored elevator down to the lobby. Ben and Mom are checking themselves out in their reflections behind each other heads during our descent. This is hysterical because both of them have such distinct mirror mugs and they're trying to maintain them while conversing. Mom's face involves a bursting smile, exaggerated eye widening, a slight head tilt and a splash of sass while Ben's is a backward head tilt, eye narrowing, grin with extra suck on the right cheek (this may have it's origins in Sean Connery's Bond era). These sound like Olympic depictions, I realize, and maybe mirror mugging should be considered a sport. After all it takes a lifetime to perfect and this is where mom's well-honed skills beat out Ben's fledgling dexterities. She's capable of keeping her face the entire 8 floors down while Ben (either out of self consciousness or lack of training) has to take breaks to emphasize certain expressions and phrases.

We lost Larry to fatherhood but being the responsible musician he is, he sent in a replacement. We meet Daren Hahn on arrival at the Paradise. We've been assured that he's a great drummer and we sure do hope so cause he's a really great guy and we'd hate to have to tell him to 'beat it!' (No pun intended). From Colorado, he's played with Ani DeFranco and The Eels and proves to have a pretty deep pocket. He's never played any of Ben's songs before but gets them all down pat by the end of sound check. WOW! Larry calls at 8:00pm to tell us he's still in Logan Airport, screwed by Jet Blue, but that he's the proud father of a 6 lb. boy who remains nameless but who his other son, Jacob, would like to name Batman. We think so too Jacob.

There's a story about our uncle Liv who's driving 90 when he gets pulled over by the cops.
"Do you know how fast you were going?" says an angry officer to our nighttime wearing sun-glassed uncle.
"Officer," he answers "I'd like to commend you on a job well done. But you can go about your business now. You see, I'm Batman."

Uncle Liv is at the show along with our other sided uncle Peter and my best friend Nisa, her friend Susanah, our cousins Liz and Ken, Gwen's mom Jan and even though it's their night off Tristan Prettyman and Jen Lowe are also in attendance back stage at the Paradise. Wait, Mom wants to add a comment to the road journal:

We're at the Paradise on Commonwealth where 31 years ago, I played in this very same venue. It looks the same. The band that I had then included Rick Marotta, David Spinoza, Hugh McCracken, and Mike Mainieri. I brought Sally with me and we had her crib in this very same green room. I couldn't bear to leave her, but her very careful Dad watched over her while I performed.

She says she feels the building swaying like a boat. "From side to side" she says and we all think she's crazy until, shutting our eyes; we all start to feel a little sea sick and find we're able to point in which direction we're rocking.

Ben ushers every one but the band (and Mom) out of the green room for our group huddle/prayer.
"Thank you God for bringing us to Boston and giving us such a packed house! On three 'That's fuckin team work.' 1. 2. 3."
"That's Fuckin' Teamwork!" at which point over the loud speakers plays our Jack Black anthem and mom breaks right and we break left. I hear her squeal as she is escorted to her booth: "I love being part of that 'fuckin' team work thing." She's so friggin' cute.

It's a hot show with an en fuego encore of Mom, Ben and I singing Dad's "Close Your Eyes."

February 17th 2006 - Higher Ground - Burlington VT

Lez Zeppelin

"….Cold wave in Vermont." I hear it but I'm still unprepared for the icy slap in the face I receive on impact with the Vermontinian air. Thankfully, the Higher Ground entrance is near by and I vow not to go back outside till the show is over.

This is a radical venue. There's a small room (where we're playing tonight) and a large room where Lez Zeppelin is playing. From the balcony in our (chartreuse) green room you can see our stage and audience as they file in. Higher Ground caters their bands so it's home cookin' for the first time since we left home; Asparagus, meat loaf, chicken cordon blu, marinated veggies, mashed potatoes, and my favorite: Cheesecake!!! Ben tastes the meat loaf and screws up his face. His exact words are: "That's way too meaty for me." So when the caterer comes into tell us the meat loaf is vegetarian we're all very entertained.

During sound check The Saw grabs his whammy bar and some how pulls it right off the guitar. Screws and washers go flying and then, while we're fixing it we find that one of his strings is touching a fret dulling the sound entirely. Ben's guitars start buzzing too and before you know it we've got a natural disaster on our hands and 5 musicians huddling around guitars in a green room, trying to fix something they know nothing about.

Our show is packed. I watch hemp sweaters and camo pants file in under the balcony and I know I'm goanna fit in just fine cause that's exactly the outfit I've got on. The same one I've had on for five days and five nights and now I know not to bother changing (which-burr-would require another trip to the bus).

Our show ended early enough for us to see Lez Zeppelin, an all girl Zeppelin cover band who turns out to be rippin' and whose Aussie lead singer is Robert Plant. Wicked!

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