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September 1 - The Muse, Nantucket, MA Just like old times. 1996 was the first time I played the Muse. It was with my old band "The Boogies." I was 21. Not a whole lot has changed since then. The wolf still dances with the blond who has no face, on the outside door around the back. Sand still sticks to corners and embeds itself into cement like patches in the floor near the stage. Bubbles still drift down like a waterfall into the dance floor and to their delicate demise. People still play, and shoot pool, and smoke cigarettes and wear their bare feet around and around and around. The same old salty dog still heckles the band. The band house still looks the same, only neater, with a new rug and a new lamp (this one with a shade), new stickers on the fridge, and a new coat of paint. But the bunks are still there, 8 beds to a room and it still says "SAL'S BED" down the side of one of the wooden bed frames where I once marked my claim after inviting 30 people from the Vineyard to come see and stay with us. It was great to see some old friends: Dougie Fresh, and Jesse Dutra, who took us out to dinner in Kathy Lee Gifford's club wagon. To my great surprise and joy, a group of my friends from Martha's Vineyard came over to see us play: Adam and Fred from The Boogies, Laura, Jay, and Yuck. They're so cool! And even though the Muse was scantily clad in vacationers this Wednesday, we had a great time. Bubbles were flowing and the people that were there, stayed and clapped and danced and the lights were loud and the room sounded wide eyed and gentle. A young blond dancer asked if she could wear my red feathered boa and I delightfully obliged though she disappeared with it soon after. And a rusty bearded man asked me for my autograph, then traded it to the bartender for a beer. Walking back to the band house through "the enchanted forest" in my green buddha tank top and jeans, I felt cold in that relieved, soothing way as the wind winded from left to right and right to left. I could hear the leaves ruffling and through the trees, the sound of a loud thumping relentless reggae bass guitar. The Muse's kitchen staff was having a huge party upstairs from us. "The Big Payback," I figured, from all the parties we'd probably made them sleep through in years past. Heidi went to check it out and when she came back down, she told us that all of the lights were out up there except a red gel light hanging over a DJ who'd set his gig up on the kitchen counter and everyone was dancing and grinding in the pitchness. "I'm going back up!" She exclaimed excitedly and tried to get us to go with her. But I was tired and climbed up into the top bunk. Put on my stupid sky blue retainer with the glitter tiger on it, which I'll have to wear for the rest of my life (thanks Dr. Lempshin) and fell blissfully into sleep to the blistering bass beat dance of the upstairs going on. September 2 - Husky Blues, Storrs, CT The front entrance to Husky Blues is in a strip mall, which made us nervous. "We've never played a strip mall before." Chris said sarcastically. I was knitting (I'm making hats for the guys for Christmas...so don't tell then), but I only glanced up at the Husky Blues sign, squeezed between the pharmacy and Domino's before I started to feel queasy. We were relieved to find that the main entrance was in the back and was cool. Like other venues, framed, signed black and white 8 X 10's were displayed like trophies on the wall, input cords hung uneasily from the sides of the stage, people smoked and talked about the carelessness of others, lights dangled like pet stars, and we were told that "the sound man isn't here yet." We loaded in and ate dinner. Brian had a shrimp salad, Kenny (his favorite) Chicken Fried Steak, Chris T-bone, Soucy had a pasta thing and I just had onion rings. I felt a little sick. My voice felt like tapioca and I prayed I'd make it through the next three nights before we got a break. It was another slow night for us. UCONN students were not yet back from summer. I changed clothes in the back cage of the van which is slowly becoming the official band changing room. Soucy was back there too and there was a lot of bumping and a lot of "Turn around" "Don't look" and "Close your eyes" as though even a thread of modesty still hung between the 5 of us pent up in this van for the past 8 months. Kaddidids rubbed their legs together and made a noise resembling the roar of a small tiger. I did vocal exercises and knit as people arrived, parked and looked at me sideways wondering what the hell I was doing. I sat in the green room with Brian teaching him (with Kenny's help) the IN's and OUT's of the female psyche. Despite the fact that there were only 30 people there, there was a line waiting to get in. The people who came to see us really wanted to see us and so we had a good show, and somehow managed to sell 40 CD's. Now I'm on vocal rest, and tired, but I'm happy and ready for what ever may come tomorrow. IT HAS TO BE ABOUT THE RIDE....NOT THE DESTINATION. September 3 - The Iron Horse, Northampton, MA It was hot in Northampton. I felt like I was baking in my overalls and tank. Vocal rest can be such a drag, and I must admit I felt somewhat uncommitted to my silence. I'd left my favorite Purple T-shirt with the rainbow trout on it, that I've had since I was 8, back in the band house on Nantucket. So I was desperately calling the club and talking to people who could have cared less about my shirt and were probably using it as a bar rag as they claimed they hadn't seen it "It's probably gone by now." They said. Outside the Iron Horse there was no sign up that we would be playing and I wondered why no one had even bothered to advertise our show or put up any posters. I decided to do it myself. After we loaded in, I went to work postering the town with some duck tape and a sharpie. I came back to the club exhausted and HOT. "Sally?" I heard and turned around to see someone I'd never met before. "Hey, I'm Tom, I've been reading your road journal. That's how I found out about the show tonight." He said excitedly. Upon seeing the rest of the guys he yelled out each of their names having recognized them from their pictures. The boys seemed frightened but I was delighted as he recalled to them, different scenarios we'd been through in the past couple of weeks. He offered to buy the guys a drink. "I think I'd better," said Delucchi still stunned that the guy knew what color his coffee press was. Celia was the opener. She lives around Northampton, so she brought in a good sized audience and she sounded good too. She sang some cool jazzy stuff accompanied by sax and piano. Neil, the manager, told us to abbreviate our set but he was too polite to tell us that merely cutting two songs wasn't enough. So I was greatly disturbed and confused when, despite the positive reception and reaction we were getting from the audience, people were getting up and leaving after about an hour of the show. I felt rushed and somehow invisible up there in the red and orange glowing spot lights. Afterwards, when Chris was settling, Neil told Delucchi that people who come to see music here are used to a 45 to 60 minute set and that our 95 minute set was just too long for them. I wish they'd told us that before. We would have had no problem shortening our long set. Besides my voice was tired and raw now and I couldn't imagine how I'd make it through the 5th consecutive show in RI. Neil invited us over to the "Black Elvis Show" that was going on down the street. We agreed to go for a while. Inside it was dark and loud and everyone was twelve with too many holes in their faces, they wore ink stains on their shoulders and arms, and braids that had turned into lifeless arms which flapped and clapped as they hopped and danced in their thrift. We felt old. Well, not old "just a little too ol' to be in the club"-Chris Rock. On the way back to the van, Soucy had to stop into an old romp of a gig he use to play in Northampton. Chris went to school at Smith, so he knew all the in's and out's of the area. I fell asleep in Moby while the other's went for late night snacks down the hill. September 8 - The Metronome, Burlington, Vermont. "Where should I put this roll away bed frame?" I turned around to see Soucy, in his plaid boxer shorts standing next to a folded, rusty, coiled spring, roll away bed frame. He'd slid the thin, crispy mattress onto the floor, which, despite being freed from it's cage like frame, still refused to lay flat on the ground. Instead it sat upright like a pathetic, limp, pseudo craftmatic. I looked around the tiny hospital-like room. My laundry lay flopped over the back of a chair, the light from the mirror over the sink bleached the walls to Clorox, a computer here, a suitcase there, a glued down wood colored table in the corner with note pads on it, full of song ideas and my chicken scratch from days of silence. It was late, 3:00. There wasn't any place to put the bed frame and Soucy wanted to put it in the bathtub. The only apparent empty space was in Chris Delucchi's bed which lay adjacent to the bed I slept in. "Put it in Chris's bed." I said sarcastically. Suddenly a very devilish grin arrived on Soucy's face and no sooner had he said "should I?!?!" and let out a cackle from out his soul patched chin, the frame was up and tucked into Delucchi's bed. The rest of the boys were in 207 partying after the VERY UNEVENTFUL Burlington show!!!! I stayed up and watched the middle part of "The Wall" and turned out the lights just in time to hear the Chris's coming back in the room. "I put something in your bed for you to sleep with." Said Soucy through a smile I couldn't see. I could tell that Delucchi was trying to make out of the dark, what Chris had put in his bed. "What did you put in there?" he squinted "A blow up doll?" That's right folks, 1/2 way into a tour even a rusty bed frame can appear sexual. I call this phenomenon "The Roast Chicken Phenomenon." Remember the cartoon "Chilly Willie?" In it, whenever a character is starving, the other characters appear as roasted chickens to him. Sexual starvation, I believe, has a similar effect. In the throws of starvation, EVERYTHING STARTS TO LOOK LIKE A CHICKEN. The day rained a lot but between drenchings Brian and I got a roller blade in down by the lake and I did a little shopping too. I like Burlington. It reminds me of a love affair I once had with a boy who went up to college around here. The fall, the way it is now, reminds me of the good times we had, picking up orange and yellowing leaves and wearing flannel and making fires and feeling the crisp air against our cheeks at football games, and drinking hot apple cider through cinnamon sticks. The relationship ended horribly that winter. The guy ended kicking me out of his truck on the side of the highway in Boston, penniless, right before the Downtown/Chinatown exit off I-95. But it's funny how the good times remain intact, untouched by the bad times. And even though I've never talked to that boy again, I still carry him around in my memories, and in those precious creases and folds in the fall of my heart. September 9 - The House Of Blues, Boston, MA I've become addicted to flossing. I think it's because I've made an appointment with the dentist in Boulder to get my teeth cleaned when I get home. The receptionist asked me how long it had been since I'd seen a dentist. "5 years.?.? I think." I said wincing at what her inevitable response would be. "WOW that's a long time," She said, as I had predicted. "do you floss regularly?" she asked. "Yeah," I lied. "'Cus if you don't," she warned, "THE DENTIST WILL KNOW." She was obviously used to patient's, such as myself, telling flossing fibs. Since that conversation I carry a roll of floss with me everywhere I go and floss at least 5 times a day just so that the dentist wont bust me. So I was flossing when we pulled up to the H.O.B loading door. The thread still hanging haphazardly from the left side of my cheek as I stepped out of the van into the bright windy afternoon and examined the sign that had my name painted on it. It was beautiful and it waved at me from the air above the dinner sign which offered tonight's special: "Chicken in a cone." I like to video a taste of our venues, so I filmed our load in. Upstairs it was New Orleans. Flavors and colors and glitter were dancing like gypsy children in Venice and I was entranced through the lens until some guy came up to me and told me that "There is ABSOLUTELY NO VIDEOING ALLOWED IN THE HOB" so I stopped. It was 9/9/99 and wasn't the world supposed to end or something like that. Load in was a bitch. Hefting "Fat Amy," Brian's drum case, up the narrow blue, chipped, crooked and cranked back stairs was backbreaking and then we were reminded that we needed to take it out again at the end of the night. The dressing room was decorated in pea green velvet couches and colorful drip candles and blue dogs and voodoo and belly dancer lamps and pieces of furniture that folded out into tables, or turned into chairs. We were treated with more respect and with more hospitality than I have ever experienced in any club (or in my life for that matter). A pretty waitress, Jamillie, came up to take our dinner orders. The boys had a crush on the merch girl, Daniella, and fought over who got to go down and exchange the too large shirt Kenny had bought for his wife. I did vocals. Every few minutes, I got surprised by another friend popping up to say "hi" who I hadn't seen for, well, ever and started getting excited to play because we had a sold out show. (Thank you God! And The Boston Globe who called pinned us as "the hot ticket to have in Boston.") It was a great night! Full of familiar faces, so many that I can't even begin to name them. After the show I knelt off to stage left and sold and signed CD's with the help of Susannah Sharp (my old high school buddy) to the bouquets of faces that presented me with kind words, delicate eyes, shaking hands and generous hugs. I felt very loved. Thank you all for coming. What a grand and handsome night. When we drove to my mom's pad, which she'd allowed us to stay in under the strict condition that we leave it in the same condition we found it in. As we neared the building, I realized that I couldn't find my music journal, which besides having all the songs I've written this year, also contained directions on how to turn the alarm system in the house off. We all frantically searched Moby for the zebra striped book. I tore all of my clothes out of my over stuffed bag onto the urine stinted streets of Beacon Hill, but could find it nowhere. I ended up having to call my poor mom at 3:00 am for the alarm code, which I hated doing because I know that she has insomnia and sometimes can't get back to sleep when woken up in the middle of the night. But of course she was a heavenly angel on the phone even when she had to get up and go to her computer for the information I needed. Chris D. ended up finding my journal later, buried in my knitting bag. Dummy Sally...Dummy. It's raining now. September 10 - The Mercury Lounge, NYC Driving in New York City is really very dangerous. I'm convinced that NYC cab drivers think those little parallel, white, painted stripes on the streets, are murals. It took us 5 hours to get into town from Boston. Rosh Hashanah!!! An audience was there, though we could barely see them, in the Mercury darkness, posing in the urgent capes of blindness, in shadows. I was surprised, when the lights came on, to see so many of my old friends. Rachel Zabar (my best friend from kindergarten) embraced me with golden glittering eyes and her huge smile which always seems to me, to escape the perimeters of her face. My stepfather, Jim Hart's, being there surprised me, said he'd heard about the show from a friend at work. A bunch of people from Boulder were there, a bunch of people from Brown were present, a handful of friends from high school, a trickle of people who insisted we'd met before and 'did I remember their names?' were there. A friend from Costa Rica showed up without an I.D., couldn't get in and had to leave. Friends of friends, friends of friends of friends and some of their friends were there too. My publicist, Ariel, offered to put us up at her parent's house for the night and while I was talking to her about logistics a man floated by in a huge current of people on their way out the door, and dropped a slice of paper on the table in front of me. I opened it immediately. Ariel and I squinted at the serrated square. It said: "I ENJOYED THE SHOW. YOU ARE ALL GROWN UP!" and it was signed 'Oren (3rd grade).' "WHICH WAY DID HE GO?" I shouted to Ariel. The room was silent but the dark seemed to be making things too loud to hear. "THAT WAY," she yelled back and pointed toward the front exit "HE HAD A WHITE T-SHIRT ON!" I didn't have time to explain to her that he had been my first crush. He'd bought me a porcelain faced doll for my 7th birthday and I fell head over heels for him. I had that doll through out my adolescence. It was displayed up on my shelf. It's since sort of disappeared since we've left our apartment in New York, but I'm sure it's around somewhere, packed in moth balls and memories, somewhere between the center of the earth and the tips of my fingers. Outside, the streets had been emptied into a horizon of heat blurred red and yellow lights to both my left and my right. I rushed myself right up to the first white T-shirt I saw and said "Hi" just hoping it was Oren, but it ended up being one of those people who insisted we'd met before but who's name I did not know. I never found him. Inside, selling CDs, a very pretty Ann Taylor (no relation) introduced herself. She'd come across our web page in the most unique and cool way: "I was looking on a search engine for Sally Taylor Orchids," she said "did you know there was a flower called Sally Taylor?" I said I hadn't known but was delighted all the same. "Well," she said tossing a blond lock behind a gold earringed ear "they're called Brother Sally Taylor Orchids. So I was searching for this flower when the engine came up with your web page and I clicked on it. Since then I've been following your Road Tails and now I'm getting your CD for my niece." "That's so cool," I replied, "what's her name?" "It's Ally Taylor. How wild is that?" It was amazing how many coincidences there were. She also told me that she'd always been a HUGE fan of Len Soucy's. (He's Chris Soucy's dad and he is the official on birds!) She said she was so blown away that his son was in my band. I told her to go tell Chris, that he'd get a huge kick out of it. So she went up to Soucy and told him she was a huge fan of his father, and upon hearing that, Chris thought Ann thought that he was my brother. He laughed when she explained that she tracked red tailed hawks in Central Park. When people had left and the bar was just wooden and not littered with bodies or bottles or dollar bills, I went with Mike White and Brian Sperber around the corner to a local, low volume bar where we talked over the possibility of recording my next album together. We somehow got into the private party that was going on in the jungle room in the back of the bar and being mistaken for a party guest, I was offered a piece of dark chocolate cake with white chocolate frosting on top, which I accepted and ate the frosting off of. As I woke up this morning, I became severely disoriented and couldn't figure out where I was! Was I in Detroit? Was I at my mom's house in Martha's Vineyard? Was I in tomorrow? And where was that? I had to go slowly through the past week still in the dark, trying to remember where I was yesterday and therefore where I might be now? It was kind of scary and I felt myself having to remind my lungs to breathe. We went to breakfast with Ariel on Amsterdam and 78th and then it was time to go to RI. But where was Soucy? In my confusion I'd somehow lost track of him. "He went home with some girl last night." Said Kenny. "OOHHH" We all said. And that's about all there is to say about that without getting my head taken off by my guitarist. Can't wait to get to Providence. September 11 - The Hot Club, Providence, RI What an exceptionally fun night! In Providence's 6:30, my old college stomping grounds, the sun bloomed rose and fire and oranged up the air which seemed to calm itself and settle into the laps of those, slightly intoxicated, who came down to the shore to see the musical festivities. The Hot Club is a three day festival and it's free. How groovy is Providence?!?! A few children danced to the music they hear inside their heads, which I think all children are born with and somehow lose along with their time and their toys and their responsibilities. I hung out with the guys and drank a beer to the set of a sun and then we played. It was a smallish crowd which gathered in and around the parameters of the blue and white tent. And having had no sound check, we were hard pressed to find our instruments in the monitor mixes. So it was a hard show but short and sweet which I was grateful for, seeing as though my voice was throwing temper tantrum's every time I tried to sing above a whisper. Elijah Driscol, a groove cat we met at our show at Ocean Mist, said he'd put us up for the night at "The crazy Iguana cafe," his pad up on Federal Hill. He came to the show in his lanky slender tallness and danced for us doing wildly poetic gyrations and sleek side winder glides in his Lennon Purple lensed shades and orange tussled hair. Michele, a kind and smiling woman, sold me her barley greens. "The cure all," she insists and who am I to argue? A group of my friends, Phil, Josh, Steve and his fiancee, from Brown came down to the show. I hadn't seen them since 95 or 96 and was ecstatic to see them all. And while "Sit and Spin," an all female rock band set up and played, and after we ate chicken on a stick and signed CD's, we loaded Moby up in the satin coolness that had settled over the shore of Providence. Josh and Phil invited me to join them all up at their pad for a glass of wine and then from there, to go out dancing. None of my guys were up for a night of hula so I tried to find a way to get up to the right hand side of The Hill. I argued, on the pay phone, to a cab service that $8 to The Hill was a joke. A very nice guy who was 6'7" and drinking milk and over hearing me, offered to take me up the hill himself, he had his car parked right over yonder, he said. I took him up on the drive, talking to him, on the ride, about how "milk" is one of my favorite words to say. He said he drank milk cus he didn't drink alcohol but offered to smoke me up when we arrived in the drive way. "No thanks" I said, handing him a CD and thanking him for the ride. Upstairs at Josh and Phil's it was candlelight and red wine and laugh laugh laugh and finally home. Not my home, though it may as well been, seeing as though I don't even remember what my home looks like, save that it's white and has a lawn and a porch and black and white tiles in the kitchen and a bed that Kipp built for me with the little heart engraved in it's head board. No, I feel more at home in the van, in my suitcase, in my dreams than in the house I pay a monthly rent to not live in. Inside Josh and Phil's place, I felt the deep sense of home that they must have there, with a fireplace and hardwood floors and a porch and white walls with pictures on them and a stove that looks like it's cooked for friends before and blue place mats that are slightly worn at the edges. They said it'd be OK if I wanted to stay there the night instead of fighting my way back up to the Iguana Cafe. I can't explain my gratitude except to say that I felt that they were handing me a slice of ground, of peace, of a sigh from which I can now sip for the rest of this strange non-journey journey. We all went dancing at "The Complex," which is a "4 clubs in one building for the price of one" get up, where men must be 21 of over but women can get in if they're 18. We drifted melodically through doors which connected one decade of music to the next. Just like daydreaming we went from room to room forgetting what we'd come from and only conscious of our immediate surroundings. We danced and danced and danced and danced and danced and danced until we were asleep and it was dawn and the tension was finally gone. The tightness around the middle of my breath....it was gone. Dancing can do that. Thank you guys. September 12 - The Painted Bride Art Center, Philadelphia PA The Bride was beautiful. Mirrors clung to her side like gems and tiles cloaked her body in blue and gold and silver. Inside, she echoed blue and hollow. I felt like we were in the lungs of some enormous creature sound checking. I felt blessed to be the voice for this animal, this bride. We were opening for Entrain, some of my old pals from Martha's Vineyard who've been around forever. I remember sneaking in to see them when I was underage and dancing til the sun came up. They are a great band. The Emmys or the Grammies or the Oscars or some other ridiculous pomp was on in the green room, with the barnyard sliding doors. I watched ego dressed up in the latest glam, strut and sway like peacocks and pant, self conscious, to the interviewers, who asked them stupid and banal questions. I watched with an anthropological eye, curious as to how these people could actually survive fame. Or are these people dead? I wondered. I was in the middle of a very upsetting and distressing phone conversation when Soucy came to get me. "15 minutes Sal." He said. I could hardly open my lips to tell him that I'd be right there and he mistook my sadness for anger and thought I was pisssed off at him. 15 minutes? We'd just gotten there. I ran into the dressing room to tell the boys it was up to them to create a set list. I borrowed Delucchi's van keys and rushed out into the alleyway. I grabbed at my bulky black bag and tore out if it a gray T-shirt with a pink crane on it and a calf length red skirt. My hair was tied back in a nest of a bun and my eyes were puffy from crying. No time to change inside, I looked both ways and tore off my shirt and jeans and, naked in the ally I shoved arms and legs into the chosen outfit. A red light blared down at me like a police siren as I covered myself in my red costume and rushed back inside and directly onto the stage. "Sign of Rain," was the first song, and in my confusion and sadness I forgot to capo. I'm definitely drinking that Bud. The whole show was sort of a blunder. I was sad, Kenny was tired, Brian was using brushes instead of sticks, and Soucy was defensive thinking that I was angry at him. We weren't playing together! But no one really seemed to notice. It was definitely a sit down crowd and I wondered how Entrain was going to play their dance there? Dave Dreiwitz and Kate Bartoldus, two friends of Soucy were at the show and after hanging out, taking some Polaroid's with Phil and chilling out with Denny, signing some CD's and meeting some really great people, we went out for a beer. We walked down the street to The KhYber, a cool venue/gothic style bar. The jukebox held excellent and obscure bands which we brought to life and danced to. Dave is a really cool guy and we got straight to the no BS convo. Chris and Kenny had gone straight to the hotel from the gig, to get some shut eye but ended up showing up at the KhYber around midnight saying, and I quote, "We're going to have to drive to New Jersey," they said "the hotel can't take us here." We all filed into Moby and fogged up the windows as Dave and Kate had smokes and we all chatted it up in there for a while. We were all crunched and claustrophobic in the dark whispers we tried to use so as not to take up any extra space with unneeded words. I was just tired. Beat. Sad. The night seemed all cake. Cake decorated with pink frosting flowers and those candles that never blow out. Never blow out. Never. Blow. Out. But when they do, we are in New Jersey and the beds have a creak and a craw and a flatness that even the horizon would be envious of. September 13 The Walden School, Media, PA "These are a few of my favorite things..." - The Sound of Music. I woke up late. 11:15. Soucy got me up with coffee in bed. 'How thoughtful' I thought but when I thanked him and told him that he shouldn't have he said "I did it out of fear, I'm scared of you without coffee." He said. I took a shower, the first in 3 days, since Boston (gross) and my skin felt sore and itchy from the waxy hotel soap. I put on my new red skirt and shirt that I got at Urban Outfitters on Newbury Street and sought out Chris's approval: "That's very scholastic." He beamed. I could hear him calling the girl he'd "hung out with" in NYC as I dried my hair. She'd asked him to go to Cuba with her in November and he was curious as to whether she was serious or not. He sounded very "Soucy," like with his signature sentence phrasing. Chris starts his sentences off fast like a race and then as he's nearing the punctuation of his sentence he slows w a y d o w n . . . ... as though he were coming up to a stop sign. I love it very much. We didn't have exact directions to the Walden School's new location in Media PA and we gestimated that it was only about 20 miles away. We were supposed to be there at 12:00 for lunch and then play at 1:30 but lost in the dregs of PA at 1:15 we weren't sure we'd make it at all. We were worried that Marji (our administrator) was frantic but we had no cell phone and so therefore, had to just press on. We arrived in the nick of time. All the kids were assembled out on the lawn and the sun was bright and warm like candy. The music teacher had set us up under a tree with a little mini board and an amplifier. We started playing the show. I looked out into the crowd and felt as though I was playing to tiny, majestic, angels. I was so happy to be in front of those children. After playing a couple of songs I told them that performing music is like painting with words and to close their eyes and try to tell me how, if they were to paint the next song, what would they draw? I looked back to see what was on the set list and to my distress it was "Red Room," a song about a night I once spent waiting in a green room, to kiss the bartender. Oops?!?! But I sang it anyway, all the time watching all those little people with their eyes clenched shut as though the daylight would distract them from their visions as I sang "kissed a boy I hardly knew...left him sitting in the blue....lay me down lay me down lay me down...." and I felt like such the bad, corruptive influence on those little souls. But to my gratitude and joy, when I asked them to tell me what they had envisioned they said "My cousin, because she was just born and she was little." And "A girl in a room who is tired" one little guy came up to the mic and charmed everyone there by saying "That song reminds me of my brother's girlfriend Brittany Spears." And ran away. I was so impressed with their creativity. Because they see things without an extensive vocabulary, their understanding seems to be reduced/expanded to a personal and universal meaning of music, they're reacting not just to the words but the sound too. They really get music! It seems to me that they must live everyday inside of poetry. How beautiful and UN-confining and yet terrifying to be able to see a bird and not just "feather" and "wing" and "beak" and "twerp" but instead, to see, with the magic of their eyes, the poetry and the spirit of that thing which flies and moves by the same restless ghosts which trussles our hair and buttons our jackets and fondles the ocean into the wrinkles of a taffeta skirt. I asked them how they would describe a Christmas tree: "a tree with life on it," said one boy. "A porcupine" said another. And I wanted to stay with them all day and ask them to teach me what different things were, so that I could see, like them, without the borders and cages of the language my eyes have learned to speak so fluently. I asked anyone who wanted to come up and dance to the next song to come on up and stand next to me. I ended up wadding in little ones. They stood so close around me that I could barely reach the mic. One tiny boy with blond straight hair and shorts on was hugging onto mic stand so that it was swaying and making it very difficult to sing and I loved it. I was 1/2 way through "For Kim," with all those beautiful dancers standing hip high to me and holding onto my legs and fingers and dancing when Soucy, who was playing guitar, started getting harassed by a yellow jacket. Chris is allergic to bee stings. When I started hearing guitar fowls I looked over to see Soucy, wearing my huge purple shades and doing what we now refer to as "The Bee Dance" which consisted of rapid head thrusts, bursting, spastic runs with sudden, stand still halts and reverse spin's. But that bee was on him like glue and seemed to be really digging my purple rimmed shades and the lavender oil he insisted he have before the show. I started laughing at a very distressed Soucy who refused, or was too distracted to stop playing the guitar but was playing all the wrong chords as Kenny ran hysterically around him with the video camera laughing and whirling with him. In the midst of the hysteria, my mic stopped working, which didn't really matter because by that point I was laughing so hard that drool was practically dripping out of my mouth and all the kids were laughing and pointing and drooling too. When Soucy finally lost the bee we tried to resume but we couldn't get the mic back on. Turns out that the electricity in the whole school had gone for some reason unrelated to the bee and because we couldn't get it back on, and because I was in such a happy state from the laughter I grabbed Chris, and grabbed the kids and brought them all out into the sun on the field and proceeded to sing acoustically and twirl them around. Bri put tambourines in Delucchi and Kenny's hands and they joined the chorus. All the angels and I, unconscious of the onlooking teachers and parents, danced in a huge, tremendous circle whirling around barefoot and laughing and singing along to "Happy Now." The little boys teased each other as they came up to me pointing at their class mates "he wants to dance with you," they'd say and the little girls all fought for the room inside my hand which could only fit about 6. The joy and the ecstatic, unconditional love I felt for these light and glorious tiny angels is hard to describe. They surrounded me as though I were a cloud they wanted to perch upon and they yelled up to me, arms swinging: "group hug, group hug." Oh I can't explain it without tears it was so beautiful extraordinary for me to be enveloped by them. And as the song ended and I told them, bowing down to them in all of their magnificence: "we have to sit down now." They screamed "WE DON'T WANT TO LEAVE, WE DON'T WANT TO LEAVE," and "WE WANT TO STAY WITH YOU. WE WANT TO STAY WITH YOU" I've never felt so good in my entire life. After that they all came rushing at me with things for me to autograph. The usual: CD's, posters, lined school book paper, and T-shirts but I also signed a tortilla chip, a flower petal, a water bottle and someone's skirt. Then, all of the sudden, just as I was waking up, it was the end of the day for these little knee highs and the yellow, clanking, chuckling, buckling busses came to swallow them up. I watched them fly away and up the school bus stairs waving from the back windows. Just their eyes and fingertips were visible from the backs of their seats. I felt so sad to see them go. Marji ushered me into hospitality and once again showered us with treats and gifts. I was on cloud nine. After leaving, I decided that I definitely need a few days without talking and so it is from silence that I am speaking now. We drove through PA and through other small states without stopping. In Virginia we started looking for Brian's grandparents house. But the directions Bri had were vague and decrepit and so we drove around in circles which all ended up leading to Lee Street. We finally found their house. It was up a road that looked like all the rest we had been on. With houses all relatively the same size and trees spread loosely between the houses which all seemed to be on that one way street to holiday. Brian apologized for getting us lost. "I once fell off my skateboard right here and got a concussion." He said pointing to a curb. And Delucchi said, without a beat "So that's what happened." No one else really got it. On our way to the hotel, after dropping McRae off, in the sporadic revelations between street lights passing from overhead to behind us, I got a spider of considerable size stuck in my skirt. I had to jump up and down and freak out which amused the boys to no end. But there ain't nothing funny about a spider in the skirt, nothing I can think of, and just think of what that poor helpless spider was going through, trying to get out!!!!! September 15 - The Metro, Washington DC It was a joy to have a day off. I spent it doing stress reducing activities. While the boys went off to see a baseball game, I stayed in the rather roomy room and didn't speak. I took a bath, did yoga, meditated for an hour and tried to get my mind off anything work related. I realized just how lucky I am to be doing what I love, to be living my dreams and to be out here on my own making a living with some of my best friends in the world. It rained the day we went to play The Metro and I just didn't feel like getting out of my sleeping attire so I spent the entire day turning heads wearing my pulled up, knee high, rainbow socks with my green camouflage flip flops, my red and gray baseball shirt and my bright yellow shorts. I went for coffee in my strange costume, to the Post Office and eventually, to The Metro. I just wasn't in the caring mood I guess + I kind of enjoyed the way people were reacting to me; with disgust and hysterical laughter. 5 great bands, and we were the finale. We ate around the corner at Sied's place that Nick, Metro's owner, took us to in the rain, after sound check. Nick was a phone guy. I didn't see him once without a phone attached to his ear. I even walked in on him, by accident in the bathroom and he was there, peeing, on the phone. The whole band, bearing witness to the event, laughed along with Nick about the comedy of errors. All the bands were great and we were honored to be the headliners. The room was packed with friendly faces. It was great to see my old friends and pick up a few extras. My high school roommate, Nimi, was there and she'd brought tons of her friends. I grabbed her and carted her off into the backstage area; just a walkway really, with some stickers on the wall, coils and coils of chords, guitars on stands, guitars in cases, a raw bulb that burned with a hiss. I turned an orange milk crate over and sat down on it leaning in close to gossip with my old friend and flipping through my overstuffed bag trying to figure out what to wear? I still just had my PJ's on and was half toying with the idea of playing the show like that. After all, I was kind of in a goofy mood (lazy too) but mostly I felt silly and strongly believe in not taking oneself too seriously when performing. It frightens the ego away to act like a fool on purpose and that's good!!! But Nimi said "NO SAL, you cannot wear that on stage." So I changed into a tank and some jeans (but I kept my rainbow socks on). The show went great. The rain didn't keep everyone in as we had worried, and I got to see some great old pals. Right Now: Soucy's making teeth sucking noises. He's got his feet dangling over the back of my seat and into my face (hummmmm smells good). Kenny and Chris are rocking out in front and eating fried chicken. I'm peeling shelled and salted peanuts and Brian is working in his organizer book. "I love you guys." I say, because I'm thinking it and they all ask sarcastically: "What did we do?" They know how much I love them and respect them, and how grateful I am to be on this adventure with them. September 16 - JM Randall's. Williamsburg, VA Chris Soucy got in the van. He closed the door against him. He'd tried to avoid the rain and clipped himself on the heal on the way out of the hurricane. He slid into the sleeper seat with his Cuba book crooked under his right arm. The Cuba book appeared one day on the road in the mail from New York all dog eared and underlined. He's grown rather fond of holding the cover up and announcing it as though he were introducing a friend "KUBAH," he'll say and "are we there yet?" in his left hand he has a white, plastic bag that's been tied in a tight knot at the top, and is, like him, rather drenched in weather. "I've got presents for you guys." Excitedly we all turn as he wrangles with the knot he's made for himself from the handles. "Sally..." and he hands me a red covered, slick Johnny Taylor CD entitled "Stop half loving these women!" I love the title and insist we listen to it first, before the James Brown, Delucchi got, before the Morris Day that Kenny received and before Brian's Funkadelic. It proves to be a great CD. (not my dad, for any one who read the Detroit entree, but a great CD). I'm nervous because the day is tumultuous. Heaving and thrusting trees are warning that "Floyd" is near. Delucchi, who coincidentally grew up in San Francisco and has never been in a hurricane before in his life, is trying to tell me to calm down, that I'm over reacting, and that we should be on our way now despite the fact that we'll be driving head long into the tornado path which the weather channel had laid out as the route not to travel on. I decide not to look out the window but to knit, instead, in the black and heavy wool I've chosen to weave my instruments of warmth out of and everything becomes symbolic. The color, the weight, the pattern. I'm sure that it's not smart to drive in a hurricane. We stopped in Richmond because we wanted to check Floyd's status before we headed to the shore. The streets were desolate and windows boarded. Tree's froze then thundered down and street lights hung at 45 degree angles. Only a few places were opened. We stopped at a pizza place and got a slice. We watched the flooding on TV as the weather ate cars and homes. The TV made me feel worse. We had seen what looked like a drum store on the way into town and decided to go shopping for a little, while Floyd took some distance on Wiliamsburg. "Ghana" was the name of the supposed drum store. But inside it turned out to be a religious, African voodoo shop with incense, perfume, jewelry, pin dolls, candles which had been blessed and said under them "Touch ='s Buy" and other candles which had not been blessed. I bought a little bottle of a scent called "love drops" and some candles (unblessed) which were in long cylindrical smooth glass casings. They still had ritualistic purposes of which I wasn't sure of. One was called "run devil run," another "the quick money blessing." I loved them very much. When we got to the strip mall, where the venue was, there was no electricity and it felt erie. Despite the hurricane there were people there waiting with cameras asking if they could get a picture with me, and I knew then that the show had been promoted as "The Famous Daughter Of..." So I stood there pleasantly, feeling like the bearded lady, the circus freak, the novelty item on sale for $3.99 in the tourist store, as people stood there taking my picture having never heard me utter a single word, and thinking me rude for excusing myself after all the photo's for having to go do a sound check "after all we waited here in the middle of a hurricane to talk to you." They said. My spirit was stretched between exhausted and riled, as I entered the dark and carnivorous bar. I love my parents and I love their fans who tell me they are. I'm a huge fan of their's too. And I don't care how newspapers and magazine's portray me, I can't do anything about that. But if a venue promotes me as my parent's kid, well then it's open season on the probing questions and pictures and interrogation and that just takes the fun out of performing and makes me feel like I'm doing an interview not a show. Besides $200 bucks ain't worth being made to feel uncomfortable over. So the only thing left to do was make fun of the situation and of our selves. I was really dehydrated. I sat in a booth with my rainbow socks on, knitting and humming and drinking water which tasted really funky until a waiter came over and told me not to drink the water any more on account of it being contaminated due to the flooding, then I stared feeling sick. The show was sold out and it went down pretty smoothly despite the fact that the we started the show without electricity on a generator and then for a while we were blessed with electricity which lasted the body of the show and then died toward the end of the second set. We just made fun of ourselves and played our hearts out and drank sewer water and danced and thrashed as people called up requests: "You got a Friend" and "You're so Vain." I don't know how to play those, I said. Most of the people I met were actually really nice. They bought CD's and hung out offering advice and homes and alternative ways to get to N.C. tomorrow. Of course we had more GLOM than usual that hung around us too long and too late and stuck like gum to the bottom of our shoes and lasted big on our taste buds. But we had a good time and sleep was delicious the way it sank into my bones and melted the lines across my forehead into the smoothness of chilled milk. 3 more shows. September 17 - The Great Aunt Stella Center. Charlotte, NC The Center is a church. It's beautiful, full of light and stain glass and pews and echoes and red carpet. I rush out to the van to get the video camera. As I open the back door, Chris's pastel blue coffee press flings itself out at me and comes crashing down to meet it's death at my feet. I can't even speak. I'm filming the disaster when I hear Delucchi shriek "NO!" from in back of me. I whip around to catch his distressed, palms to cheeks, expression. We held a quiet burial for the press in the bathroom trash can and I told Chris I was so sorry. He said it was all right but I could tell that it would be a while before he got over the death of his morning time old friend. I was opening up for David Wilcox without the band but Soucy was gonna come up and play with me for a couple of songs. We sat upstairs in hospitality picking at the trays of fruit and chicken salads. Brian told us his middle name was "Serge" and we teased him that we were going to start calling him that. He was hating that idea. It was strange, but nice, going on stage by myself. I haven't played a solo gig for a really long time. I felt myself pouring out more of myself up there on the red and naked stage. After the 3rd song I said "I'd like to invite someone up on stage from the audience who knows how to play the guitar." Soucy flung his arms in the air: "Pick me! Pick me!" He squealed and came rushing down to the stage like a contestant on "The Price Is Right." David Wilcox was GREAT. He's a fantastic story teller and man does his guitar sound great. We did a radio show together after his set. I really enjoyed him. LG and Mike, some college friends of Soucy's, invited us back to the camp where they live, for the night. Camp Stuart. It's really a camp! With rope tire swings, a pond, a pool, volleyball nets, and cabins with slanted floors, "You don't need to lock up the van. You're safe here." Said Mike. We were evidently out in the middle of nowhere. I felt protected by the night as Mike led us into his art studio/guest room/brewery. He let us sample his creative beer concoctions. I had a strawberry blond. There were enough beds for every one but two people were going to have to sleep out in the cabins across the pond. The rhythm section (Bri and Kenny) said they'd go out there. "Are there any snakes around here?" asked Bri with a sarcastic giggle. "Sure are." Said Mike "Copperheads. Big ones." Brian's face went white and his lips hung limply under his nose: "For real?" he asked and did a little snake dance. He had another beer before we drove them over across the pond. I'll never forget the homesick look on their faces as we discovered that there was no electricity out there in the cabins, handed them a flashlight, and pulled away. "You guy's didn't see Blair Witch Project did you?" I asked. "Not Funny Sally. Not Funny." Shouted Kenny. September 18 - The Variety Playhouse, Atlanta, Georgia Someone woke me up with my mommy's touch. The subtle rubbing and gentle rocking of a loving hand was caressing my back and I lay in my silent consciousness just above the surface of my dreams, enjoying the loving call to the new and glorious day. With my eyes still closed, and like most days, I had no idea where I was. Usually, when I wake up I go through the usual check list: Who am I? - Sally (that one's easy) Am I alive? -yes. Where am I? That's when I have to go through a list of all the places I could, potentially, be until I settle on a location and go onto other, less important things ...What time is it? What day? Where did I leave off before I started to dream? And the like. Today, after I confirmed who I was, and started my daily scroll down the list of "where in the USA I might be," I just gave up and gave into the possibility that I might be everywhere and nowhere. It was a peacefulness I was resting on as I opened my eyes and placed their blurred, sleep splattered gaze on some wild flowers limply gesturing their innocent scent and pasteling their yellow, purple and green leaves across the whiteness of the adjacent pillow cover. A mug of coffee, steaming phantoms, dancing and grabbing at the chill in the room, sat on the night/morning table. I looked up to see Soucy. He had brought me all this love and in the puddle and childlike state I was in, I reached my arms up into the sky, where he appeared to be hovering, and I embraced him as the rest of the boys, in unison, shouted "Kiss ass!" The camp Stuart was all breakfasty and bright and LG (our hostess) was baking biscuits (which she said she had dreamt of doing the night before). We carnivalled around the campgrounds frolicking in the "bamboo forest" and bending over our reflections in the lily padded pond. The boys brought out the wiffle ball equipment and we all took turns pitching, hitting and catching. I was partial to the big bright fluorescent pink bat and I hit some pretty wicked line drives. I shucked peanuts and drank yerba mate tea on the way to Atlanta. We listened to "Love" which was given to us by a friend of ours (Denny) in PA. The Variety Playhouse was just as it had been 3 months ago. Sambo (the sound man) greeted us with opened arms that waved like his dreadlocks and was "cool," if you catch my meaning. The biggest of all treats was our friend Eric "The Bird man" who'd driven up from Mobile Alabama to hang with us. He showed us all some new dance moves and made us laugh. It was so good to see him and we recounted "the bubble incident" back in the spring of Alabama. He was the instigator of the whole bubble event. We were opening for Christine Lavin who couldn't have been sweeter or funnier. A friend of Marji's (from the Walden School), Karen, came backstage and showered us with gifts. She gave Chris S. a teddy bear dressed up as a bee (for his bee dance) and she gave me a stuffed skunk ('cus I'll be the recipient of the skunky beer at the end of this tour). The show was sort of unmemorable. But afterward we all sat down in the
green room, telling jokes: Dancing, impersonating, taking pictures, trying on each other's clothes, drinking Sierra Nevada, and "making too much noise" said the stage director. We left at 10ish to go grab Mexican food up the block. The night was warm and sort of windy. Some crazy, really drunk man, stopped us on the way into Bridgetown: "I'm trying to get to the next town over and now I now I. I'm not asking for a ride, I'm not a hitchhiker. I just need 68 cents. I wouldn't ask if I didn't really need it." Eric threw him a buck and we went in and ate. We saw the man again as we were coming out and he approached us with the same spiel: "I'm trying to get to the next town over and now I now I. I'm not asking for a ride, I'm not a hitchhiker. I just need 68--" "Hey man, we just gave you a buck an hour ago." Eric said. "Oh Oh Oh...was that you?" He asked and stumbled off apologizing. His crazy energy added a new neon to the air and I felt very aware of being a woman, very conscious of the grip with which I held my purse and, with a breath, I held myself in. There was something sad and empty and yet invigorating about Atlanta that night. Something made up from the head held hands of a mother lighting a cigarette. Something darkened by the lights of a tattoo parlor still opened like a yawn to the public but not to me. Something that tasted like the sound of asorbital and marched like wary children in a candy store full of land mines. I'm not a city person. I'm just not. September 19 - 3rd and Lindsly, Nashville, TN I wake up early and call room service, sneakily, from down in Eric's room, #1721. I tell Mark, the phone waiter, that I'd like to place an order for 4 continental breakfasts to be sent and billed to #2303 "that's the room I'm staying in, I'm just calling from a friends room 'cus I want to surprise my band," I explain. "However, I want the trays delivered to room #1721, the room I'm in now, because I would, personally like to deliver the order to room #2303 myself." Mark seems to understand. I want the trays so that I can surprise the boy's by putting their bonus checks in with the pastry assortments. I sit around with "The Birdman," singing the harmonies to radio hits he churns out on his Taylor guitar. At around 9:00 I call Delucchi who answers in a welchy* voice. "Hold on," he says "room service is here and they're insisting I've ordered a continental breakfast." "Oh man," I say disappointedly now that I've gone through so much trouble to orchestrate the surprise, "don't send her away, I sent breakfast to you guys." "Oh, thanks Sal. But there's only one breakfast here." So I have to call Mark back and tell him that I need 3 more continental breakfasts delivered to "#1721 OK?!?!?", I say somewhat condescendingly. Within a 1/2 hour the rolling table with the rest of the order is at our door. Eric and I trek the cart through the 17th floor hallways to the elevator and get in. I push floor 23 but apparently you need to have a room key to get onto all floors above 22 and so instead of going up....we go down....down...down to the lobby. The doors open and I'm in my night shirt and my rainbow socks and some business suit is surprised and getting in and the doors are closing and I'm fumbling with Eric's plastic key trying, in vain, to get to the 23rd floor. The doors open again on floor 22 where the suit gets out and so do we. I call from the courtesy phone next to the elevator, up to Delucchi as 6 or 7 well dressed men and women gather to wait for the next available elevator to the lobby. "We're, stuck on the 22nd floor" I say, leaning against the breakfast tray. Eric's laughing and people are staring and Delucchi's coming to fetch us. He laughs as the doors open up to reveal me, pathetically attired in my ragged pony tail and bare naked legs tipped by my rainbow socks. "Come on up." He smiles compassionately. The humidity is deep when we arrive in Nashville. The hot, stagnant, air laps waves at my bones as though my skin weren't even on. The sky melts orange marmalade over the already black and brick landscape. We load in, meet the openers, the bartenders, the chefs and the owners who tell us that the first 1/2 of our set will be broadcast, live from the club on "lightning 100" and that we should have a good show, as though it were a request, not an insight. We're just glad that it's the last of the tour and I find myself 1/2 way to Kansas already, in my vague and removed conversations with people there at the club. We get food. Brian, who can't, or just won't, eat cheese and specifies this to the waiter, nonetheless, gets cheese on each and every course of his meal and frustratedly returns all his orders for their proper preparation while we scarf. A pretty miss Beth Gilmore comes and shoots some pool with us. My bestest friend from Boulder, Kate (who now sadly, for me, lives in Nashville), comes too and lifts our spirits bringing my mind back, temporarily, from Kansas for some much needed girl chat in the walk in/guitar closet/green room/hospitality that the venue has given us to change in. There's a mirror on the wall with some bald bulbs above it and I change into my newly acquired black pants and maroon top as Kate and I giggle and try on lipsticks. There hasn't been anywhere to shower since North Carolina and my hair is taking on a very rat like quality but the boys tell me I look all right (they're the best) and we go on. There aren't too many people there but those that are there are there to stay and we launch into the radio show. "No curse words...NO FUCK, SHIT, ASS..." They tell me...but I forget a little (oops). Nashville, what a place. It's boots and business and tiny dogs with bandanas around their necks, and pancake make-up that looks like it would be painful to take off. It's acoustic music and slide guitars and shooting stars and smoke filled bars with denim lights left on all night. And somehow it's all good and all cozy and my back yard.... Familiar, unpretentious, not lonely, not Alone the way New York is. "I'm just assuming there's no one in the record business out there in the audience," I joke, looking into the crowd as 1/2 the room throws their hands up. "Good," I say "This next one is about the people in the record industry. It's called Strangest of Strangers." The night goes that way, with me poking fun at the audience and the audience turning from their crossed arms into hugs. At the end of the night we load up. It rains just for load out. I talk to a really nice guy about possibly doing a PBS special. I talk to a songwriter about the logistics of touring. I change back into jeans and sneakers in the mirrored closet. I pick up $25 bucks they give me for doing the gig. I leave out the back door into the heat. The air is wet but it's stopped raining for the most part and I stand in the yellow light. Chris is hanging out of the back of Moby packing up the last instruments. Brian's leaving in the morning on a plane to do another gig. Since it's the end of the tour and since he was the last to drink the skunky beer (the last tour) he needs to be the one to pass the torch. It is time for me to take the plunge and drink the hot, discusting, cooler rat, Bud mascot. Tiny flints of rain pass like ferries beneath the yellow door light and into the shiny tarmac ground. Brian, with Delucchi filming, makes his honorable speech and asks me to accept the fact that I have made the biggest blunder this tour out and he's handing me the brown labels bottle. I take it, open it, smell it and swig. It tastes beer but it also tastes like red meat (I hate meat) but I drink it like a sport and don't spit it out the way the rest of the guys did (wimps). Kate takes us to her new pad where she's set up beds for all of us. The ground is damp and the wheels on my suitcase stick and track in some mud. She has a new, tiny, brown and gray puppy of a jack rustle terrier. "Jack." He licks my feet and we eat Chips Ahoy and Tostitos with salsa, talking about the horrific state of the music business (a popular topic). No wonder I have a stomach ache. There's paintings UN-hung and boxes unpacked and we're trying to persuade Kate to just drive back with us tomorrow but she's set on making it here in Nashville and we, we are set on making it home, and making love, and making the road make us listeners, learners and teachers so that we might make.... Exactly.... And uncompromisingly.... What we want out of our lives! Thanks for coming ............ *Soucy (the school teacher that he is) strongly protests my use of made up words. He says that he is concerned that people reading my road diaries will pass judgment on my intellect. Frankly, I don't really care what people think. I believe that the lack of a definitive meaning behind a word, just like a song or a glance or a poem gives a reader/listener/onlooker, the opportunity to be creative and construct from the "meaningless" a meaning of their own. I feel limited enough by the boundaries of the English language and so I would prefer to paint with letters then to use them as cookie cutters to shape words into precise images. But for those who detest the ambiguous, let me offer my interpretation of the meaning of the word welchy: welchy: "puckered, sour, impatient, sharp" adj.Color......................OUTSIDE THE LINES!!! |
