Camino, CA – “Here, put on these Handcuffs” – Rainbow Orchards – September 9, 2000

I’d never set foot in an orchard, much less played a gig in one, and neither had the rest of the band. It turned out to be the most magical experience any of us had ever had. Smiles hung from tan faces as ripe as the fruit that hung from their trees.  Children with a twinkle in their eye, played hide and seek in frilly dresses between the apple trees whoes branches looked like the weathered hands of old jazz musicians. The stage was nestled in the heart of the orchard. Apart from a small, cleared area where people danced, the crowd was tucked away under the shade of trees laden with juicy apples, clinging like ornaments on crooked, dark branches. It was the most mystical place I think I’d ever been.

The crowd was wonderful too —generous, joyful, and earthy, like the dust that mingled with the air. We were on just before Jefferson Starship, and as we poured our hearts into the orchard, bubbles drifted lazily past the stage, adding to the dreamlike landscape.

Afterwards, while signing CDs, some little boys came up and blew bubbles for me. I caught them in my mouth and blew them back, much to their delight. I spent the rest of the afternoon playing bubble games with them, sipping cider, and lounging on a patchwork quilt beneath the arms of the orchard. We slurped peaches and listened as the psychedelic sounds of Jefferson Starship painted new kaleidoscopic colors across the sky, filtering through the gaps in the branches above.

We also met some really cool cops there. Since we’d almost been arrested in McAlester, Oklahoma back in May, we thought it would be funny to take some photos in a McAlester, OK T-shirt, with the cops joining in. They were all for it, and soon enough, we were taking turns wearing the T-shirt, posing as the cops directed us in hilarious scenarios.

“Okay, now we’re gonna throw you in the back of the paddy wagon, and you try to escape,” they said.

“Here, put on these handcuffs.”

“Now, let’s do a dominatrix one. Sally, hold my club like you’re going to whack us, and we’ll bow at your feet.” They came up with all sorts of ideas, and who was I to refuse a bunch of cops? It was a blast!

When we ran out of film, we hopped into Moby and headed off to Lake Tahoe. The orchard’s promoters sent us away with a gigantic carton of peaches, a jug of cider, a frozen apple pie, and aching bellies from laughing so hard.

What a day!

Arcata, CA – “Abstain from Cocaine” – Café Tomo – September 7, 2000

I keep buying things at the gas station–plastic rings, gum, keychains with bottle openers–hoping it’ll be the thing I’m missing in my life but it turned out I was missing an hour soak in a hot tub… Found on at the Mokka Cafe in Arcata.

Straight out of my journal

After a decent show at Café Tomo, Noel and Felix, a couple locals invited us back to their hippy-dippy crash pad for some homemade wine. They met us in their doorway with huge smiles and an industrial size mayo jar full of weed. They hoisted fistfuls into our hands as if we were felonious, underdressed trick-or-treaters. There was coke too, copious amounts of it, which Noel chopped on a cheese board, spilling it haphazardly all over the counter. I politely declined. Cocaine is one of the few drugs I’ve never had to try thanks to my dad who when I was 13, took me aside.

“Sal,” he said, “you can try cocaine,” shocking words coming from your father’s mouth, “but first,” he continued, “do me a favor, 1. Drink 20 cups of coffee as quickly as you can. 2. Punch yourself as hard in the nose as possible and 3. Gather all the money you have and light it on fire. If you like that, you’ll love cocaine.” And just like that, I escaped the clutches of that drug.

Hotel Arcata

After two glasses of moonshine, I stumbled out of Noel and Felix’s macraméd drug den. I walked alone through the town square under a full moon to the hotel where I watched Dexter’s Laboratory on Cartoon Network until two in the morning. When I woke up I discovered an expired, crumpled, soggy hot springs pass next to the bed stand,

“Courtesy of Noel and Felix,’ said Soucy who was up for a soak and knew I was in need of some serenity.

Cafe Mokka Postcard

Café Mokka was sort of run-down, or maybe it was never built up to begin with. A murky, green duck pond sat stagnant in the center of a circle of changing huts and soft, silvery moss had taken up residence on everything. But when I got into the hot water I could feel the painful pressure that had been weighing on my heart lift, and for two hours I didn’t think about anything– not work or the next gig or the drive back to San Francisco. I just floated in the stillness of the moment with the light filtering through the redwood trees like water through a helpless strainer. I was high for the rest of the day—reborn—a phenox from the ashes of a music career.

Mill Valley, CA – “The Show Must Go On” – Sweetwater – September 5, 2000

We rose early at Delucchi’s parents’ home, where Bob and Judy graciously, albeit a bit madly, put the band up whenever we were in the Bay Area. The morning light stung my eyes, puffy and red from last night’s emotional breakdown. On the ride back from the Golden Gate Park show, I’d vented to the guys about my guitar’s annoying buzz in the stage monitors.


“Try taking guitar lessons,” Delucchi mumbled from the driver’s seat. I brushed off his jab, assuming he hadn’t meant it to wound. “Could it be my pickup?” I wondered aloud. “Try taking guitar lessons,” he repeated, this time louder.
I told him I doubted my guitar skills were the cause of the buzzing. I told him I knew my guitar playing was my weakest link. I told him it was easy for him to say and then I told him he’d hurt my feelings.


Soon I was crying—tears I battled to suppress—until my eyes were swollen like ripe berries and my face was a canvas of mascara and hopelessness. When we reached his parents’ home, Delucchi offered an apology and a hug under a flickering street lamp at the end of his parent’s cul-de-sac, but I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be “good enough” — to be simultaneously seen and unseen — I wanted fame.


Fame!?!? The very thought horrified me, far more than Delucchi’s remark. It revealed how little I valued my love, as if its worth depended on the accreditation of a crowd of screaming fans—as if I needed an audience to co-sign my heart.


I’ve noticed since my breakup with Sam I’ve started measuring my worth by show attendance, CD sales, and the number of compliments I get on my voice, my outfit, my stage presence, etc. I’ve been using praise like a drug and applause to mend my broken heart. It is not healthy.


I should just focus on recouping the money from this album and escape this business, I ruminated, wiping away the makeup debris in Delucchi’s bathroom mirror. I thought back to my therapist’s hippy shack on Martha’s Vineyard. I recalled the day I’d asked if she thought I was crazy to consider a career in music. Of course it was crazy, but she didn’t think so and together, we put some measures in place that might protect me against my ego if I ever chose to pursue a musical path. They were, in short,

  • 1. Don’t sign a record deal.
  • 2. Don’t read reviews. and
  • 3. If your ego gets in the driver’s seat, jump ship!!!

But while it was clear my ego was in the driver’s seat now, how could I jump ship two albums deep, in the red, halfway through a tour? I imagined various music business escape routes as I drifted off to sleep on a futon in the middle of the Delluchi’s livingroom–some of which, near the horizon of dreams, involved life rafts and scuba gear.


I feel better this morning; besides itchy eyes and a throbbing head, my despair has largely cleared. We’ve got Sweetwater tonight in Mill Valley, and I know I have to rise to the occation. I pull myself up by my bootstraps, eat a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast with jelly and OJ and remind myself, “The show must go on.”

San Francisco, CA – “Visiting my Childhood” – Golden Gate Park – September 4, 2000

Performing at San Francisco’s iconic Golden Gate Park, I’m catapulted back to my childhood adventures during mom and dad’s outdoor concerts. The air is crisp and sunlit, carrying that familiar nostalgic scent that instantly feels like home. I can almost see my younger self playing hide and seek with my brother beneath tables draped in starched white linens, dodging the charcuterie displays that always tempted us—despite being warned to tread carefully.


Backstage, ghost-like plumes of smoke rise from the grill pits, blending with the tawdry scent of the beer tent. It’s a sensory recall of raucous laughter, stumbling musicians, and performers’ spirited spouses hauling pitchers between tents, painting a vivid picture of those vibrant days.
Out on the lawn, facing the imposing, insect-like black stage, there are white blankets scattered across the green expanse. There are free-range children everywhere, their faces adorned with painted butterflies and dragons. The sloping hills are a mosaic of disheveled towels, flapping-armed dancers with sun-kissed smiles, and blue cherry snow cone stained tongues sing along to every song. Charcoaled shish kebabs smoke somewhere in the distance… and then there’s the music.

Hours upon hours of M U S I C. Pure and exhilarating, the melodies float through the air, mingling with beer-buzzed cheers and pleas from the crowd for “more” and “never stop!” The harmony of it all surrounds us—the music, the hum of conversations, the sound of children, and the cheering merging seamlessly with the cloudless sky.

After our set, Los Lobos takes the stage, high-fiving us as we exit, arms loaded with our instruments. Their genuine compliments leave us awestruck. We retreat to the beer tent, our golden pale ale winnings spill as we find a spot on the sunny lawn to watch Los Lobos own the stage. My lungs feel fuller on days like this; the sky seems infinite. I dance with a little girl whose face is painted with angel wings. At the end of each song she yells “AGAIN!” and I can’t help but wonder if she is me, visiting her adult self from all those years ago.

Casper, CA – “Banding” – The Casper Inn – September 3, 2000

“This place used to be a brothel,” says a pretty maid named Melissa who’s just finished cleaning our rooms. Her brown, moplike hair is thrown up on her head like a hurricane just came through. Her outfit—a black taffeta skirt, tall combat boots, and a knotted black T-shirt—hints at playful irreverence, captivating the boys as she gathers up laundry with a knowing smile.

The hallways are yellow and glow brilliantly like orange marmalade in the mid-afternoon sun. The floors are so old and warped that the door left ajar, slams violently without warning and Mellisa scurries out of the room. Soucy and I put our bags away in room #6 which is by far the smallest space I’ve ever shared with someone I’m not sleeping with. Meanwhile, room #9 across the hall—our designated “snoring room”—hosts Kyle, Kenny, and Delluchi, with its bunk beds and patchwork quilts, perched directly above tonight’s stage.

In Casper, there’s little to distract us, so we wander to the shoreline before sound check. The dramatic cliffs take our breath away. The mountainside cuts away to a metallic ocean that laps a thirsty tongue at crumbling clay walls.

A snake suddenly slithers by. “Look, a garter snake,” Soucy points. Mishearing him, I exclaim, “GARDENER SNAKE,” and reach out with childlike excitement.

“Garter, Sally, Garter snake.” He corrects, as though I were one of his fifth-grade students. Soucy can’t stand to let a mistake go uncorrected. It drives him crazy the way it drives me crazy to listen to the chomping of potato chips or the slurping of soup.

“GARDENER SNAKE,” I yell out again with the same childlike enthusiasm, intentionally mispronouncing the word now.

“GARTER GARTER GARTER,” he says annoyedly and stamps his feet. Kenny and I laugh at how easy it is to get under Soucy’s skin.

These are the moments that transcend the music—the times when we forget that work brought us west and instead feel like we’re on a family vacation, a band of lovable misfits. We’ve grown to know each other more intimately than most siblings, and the love we share is as profound and enduring as any I’ve experienced. We’ve ventured deep into each other’s hearts. We’re doning more than bonding, we’re BANDING.

We stumble upon a steep, muddy path leading down to the beach, laughing as we clumsily slide and tumble, covering ourselves in dirt. The beach is empty, inviting us to explore and play. Mysterious creatures and strands of Pacific Ocean algae line the shore, perfect for playful antics—tossing them at each other, slipping them down shirts, and surrendering to infectious laughter. Sand clings to our skin, and water drips from our clothes.

We gather, barefoot in the shallows, the waves licking our ancles. Breathless from joy, we fall silent at the horizon, as if in prayer. We watch the sun descend over the metallic ocean and disappear below the horizon like a candle flickering out.

In these moments, we’re not just a band; we’re a family bound by shared adventures and relentless laughter and a deep respect for every day that passes.

The end to another glorious day on the road

Salt Lake City, UT – “My Husband’s Scarf” – The Zephyr – August 31, 2000

Salt Lake City turns into a picturesque canvas in the fall. The heat doesn’t hurt the way it does in June. After a long 520-mile trek, my legs refused to cooperate when we finally arrived at The Zephyr. They’d grown accustomed to their 90 degree possition having spent the road trip sleeping, reading, eating nothing but Swedish fish and immersing myself in knitting—a blue scarf for a husband I haven’t met yet.

No, I’m not engaged. And no, there’s no serious relationship in sight. But standing in a yarn shop in Boulder, I stumbled upon this irresistibly soft, variegated blue yarn. It struck me as the perfect material for a scarf I’d want to someday knit for my future husband. Why wait? I thought. Why not start it today? I bought a bushel of the stuff for $10.99 a ball and began my future husband’s gift that afternoon. My plan is simple—knit this scarf exclusively until I meet him. I’m under no illusions that my soulmate is just around the corner; in fact, I suspect this scarf will grow long enough to wrap around several city blocks before we cross paths. But I like the idea I’ll have something to give him when we meet. I like the idea I’ll recognize him by how naturally he complements the yarn and I like the idea he’ll know I was thinking about him long before we met.


As sensation returned to my feet, I cautiously scanned the area before stepping out of the van. A sense of unease clung to me; I couldn’t shake the feeling that Cindy, the lunatic Soucy had picked up during our last stop here, might spring from the shadows at any moment. It’s not paranoia when it’s justified. Two months ago, following our last Zepher show, Cindy had lured us to her place, promising a party and accommodations for the night. However, upon arrival, we discovered there was no party—just a cramped studio apartment with a lone twin bed and an oversized framed poster of James Taylor above it.

To Soucy’s dismay, Cindy had offered us her bed while she took the couch. But once the lights were out, she suddenly launched herself between the two of us, attempting to kiss us both. Escaping Salt Lake City unscathed felt like a narrow victory.

In the dressing room, I ran through vocal exercises, scoping the mirror for any new band stickers among the usual suspects. Then, my gaze caught something unusual—a child-like scribble on the wall that read, “Who is this Chris Soucy and why does he keep blowing my mind?” It was the only graffiti interrupting the sea of band stickers plastered around. When I pointed it out to The Doc—Soucy—he laughingly accused me of writing it as a prank. But I didn’t.

Is it a puzzle wrapped in mystery? or is it Cindy? You decide.

Boulder, CO – “Vanity Fair”- Between Tours – August 30, 2000

After the John Cafferty show I flew to Martha’s Vineyard for a family photo shoot with Annie Lebowitz for Vanity Fair. I know, this is a huge honor and how dare I mention all this privilege in one sentence. It’s disgusting—an embarrassment of riches — and I should hate myself for normalizing it and I do, believe me, but it gets worse. In the following days, People and US magazine sent reporters to the island to do stories on me—Just ME!!! and I got all caught up in my ego’s sparkly spiderweb. The attention made me drunk and blind and disgustingly ambivalent about it all. Make-up artists curled my eyelashes, lighting specialists lit angles I didn’t know I had and cameras snapped mechanical bites off my soul.

Annie Lebowitz Polaroid From Shoot

But as the fog of attention lifted and I made my way back to Colorado on the 25th, I felt a brutal hangover from drinking so much false love. I was worried about how easily I’d given myself to the adrenaline and glitter of being celebrated. Didn’t I know better than to get high off that kind of affection? Hadn’t I gone to therapy for a year, for god sake, to ensure I wouldn’t get hooked on applause and yet there I’d been—no resistance whatsoever—guzzling for the cheap buzz People and US and Annie and Vanity Fair offered. I wondered, as I wandered past first class, to my coach seat in row 16B, if my recent heartache had something to do with how readily I’d welcome the drug of artificial affection.

Thankfully, Boulder brought me right back down to size. Rehearsing for a week in a rundown, grungy garage warehouse sandwiched between a homeless shelter and “The Bus Stop” (Boulder’s local titty bar) will bust even the most resilient of egos.

Tonight was our last practice before we leave for the West Coast tomorrow. The warehouses were quiet when I arrived at 7:30 but within the hour, 20 bands would fill North Boulder with a soup of colorful sound—Thrash, Bluegrass, Punk, Rock and Reggae would all blend in the humid air outside our open garage doors until the neighborhood was a brick of impenetrable noise. There would be bad covers of “Brown-eyed Girl,” bad covers of “Blinded Me with Science,” and bad covers of “Fire and Rain.”

While I strung my guitar, musicians skulked like skinny, crooked shadows in the slick, wet parking lot — smoking cigarettes and waiting for their drummers to show up.
Some of them actually live out here in the warehouses — those who can’t live off their gig money or tour too much to justify paying rent on a real apartment. Kyle, our own drummer, used to be one of them. He showed us where he’d made his bed in the very space we were practicing in. “Unit #50 costs $35 bucks a night whether you’re rehearsing or sleeping,” he told us.

Even though it was raining, we left the door open, like the rest of the bands, to avoid the musty, dank, moldy stench that grows on you if you hang around one of these spaces too long. The fan was on and I came up with the brilliant idea to spray my gas station imitation Drakkar into the spinning fan blades to make the room smell better, but when I spritzed the fan, the imitation Drakkar flew directly back at me, into my hair and eyes. The guys howled at my idiocy and I laughed along with them.

We rehearsed for a couple of hours just to polish intros and outro’s and then, loaded up the van. We leave for Salt Lake City in the morning. As I helped Delucchi shove the last guitar into the boot under a yellow street light I thought back to Martha’s Vineyard just days ago — how fast I’d gone from feeling like the bell of the ball to just another struggling musician in a van. I hugged my guys goodnight and drove home to get one last good night’s sleep. I crawled like a hermit crab into my bed and dreamed of the road ahead. It’s good to have my feet on the ground again.

People

Patchogue, NY – “John Cafferty, I Love You.” – The Performing Arts Center, Opening for John Cafferty – July 29, 2000

John Cafferty is one hell of a good guy.

His band immediately offered us their extra dressing room when we arrived at the Patchogue Performing Arts Center. They must know what it’s like to be an opening act who get little or none of the following:

  • Space to change clothes
  • Time to sound check
  • Food to eat
  • Respect or attention from the headlineing act

John Cafferty and his guys went out of their way to make us feel welcome. They beconed us into their catering area where we all sat around eating egg rolls, taking music business and drinking lemon tea with honey. I must’ve asked them 10 times if they were sure they didn’t need the extra dressing room as they walked by our open door. We managed to relax and make ourselves at home come sundown and Kenny finally shut the door.

“Close!” I yelled out, and the boys instinctively closed their eyes to let me change into an outfit. There weren’t too many clean options to choose from at this stage of the tour and I was basically nailing jelly as I sifted through my bag.
“Open! What do you think?” I asked.
“Too casual” “Too dressy” “Too much” “Too little” The guys responded in turn.
“Close!” I’d shout again “Still naked… still naked… still naked” I’d repeat like a truck backing out of a parking space, “OK, Open.”

The boys finally ok-ed a black skirt with a pink top and we went on stage.

The spotlights were so bright I couldn’t even see the people in the front row and with my in-ear monitors I couldn’t hear applause so, as our 45-minute set wore on, I got the surreal impression we were alone up there without an audience. Regardless, when we finished our last song I called out, “We’ll be selling CDs in the lobby.”

Surprisingly, when we got out front of house, there was a long line waiting for us and we sold a record amount of CDs (no pun intended). The line just kept going and going and going until my signature turned into an illegible Charlie Brown scribble and my vision had little blind spots all over it from disposable camera flashes.

Finally, after what seemed like an unreasonably long intermission, the chandeliers in the lobby flicked on and off to indicate John Caferty was about to take the stage. I tried to hurry sales along but the line kept getting longer. The lights flickered again a few minutes later but still no music, so I kept selling. I took a quick glance down the line to assess how much longer it would take to get through sales when my eye stumbled on a John Cafferty fan who ridiculously had the same haircut, same white wristbands, and sported the same tude as John and I thought how odd it must be for him to have fans that dress up like him.

But when the man got up to the counter I realized it wasn’t a fan at all, it was, in fact, John Cafferty himself! He’d waited in line to purchase my CDs when he was supposed to be on stage!!!! People parted like the Red Sea around him apologizing for having pushed him or cut him in line. Some even asked him to add his signature to my CD. I told him he could take as many CDs as he wanted but he modestly and supportively insisted on paying for them and asked me to sign them for his two sons. I was so taken with his generosity and humility.

When John left, the line diminished, the music began and a couple of guys who’d managed to buy every last vinyl copy of my father’s “Gorilla” and mother’s “Anticipation” still in existence were waiting for me to sign them. Don’t ask me why they wanted ME to sign my parents’ work, but they did. One guy must have had 100 records on him, the piles just kept coming out of his Mary Poppins-like carpet bag and he wanted me to sign his red bass guitar too and “the ticket stub, and here’s a magazine clipping!” It was a little overwhelming and I wondered what he thought my scribble was worth, but hey, he can have it, don’t cost me nothin but time and ink.

John Cafferty, I love you.

Oakland, MD – “ICU. URAQTπ.” -The Little Yaugh Summer Music Festival – July 28, 2000

It’s a still, gray morning, damp from the recent rain. Once again, I find myself on vocal rest. My larynx ache, like a frozen tree unable to bend. Six shows in six different towns have left me as dry and worn as an old dishrag.

My tired larynx

We drove 90 MPH from Phili to Maryland yesterday, arriving in a quaint town called Cumberland as the day was winding down. Birdman, gracing us with his humorous, talented and generous self, treated us all to dinner at a New Orleans-style joint—think alligator tail and gumbo—a hidden gem underground and empty, except for us, the wisps of smoke from a waitress’s lipstick-stained cigarette and a James Taylor CD stuck on repeat.

We sat around the table drawing phonemic sentences on my speech pad:

  • CDB? DBSAB-ZB.
    (See the bee? The bee is a busy bee.)
  • AK8, TLIQ12BLON.
    (Hay Kate, tell Ike you want to be alone.)
  • ICU. URAQTπ.
    (I see you. You are a cutie pie.)
  • I NVU.
    (I envy you.)

After enjoying a grilled chicken salad, a glass of Chardonnay, lemon cheesecake, and a shot of espresso, we headed back to the warmth of the van to continue our journey to our promoter, Ken’s house in Oakland.

When we arrived, a misty blue fog was settling in the valleys between distant green hills and there was a party going on. For us? I couldn’t ask since I was on vocal rest. Throughout the evening, I stayed silent, furiously scribbling notes to keep up with conversations until the night’s darkness stole my words from the page of my note pad and I became just another shadow sewing together the night.

At Ken’s, we made full use of his hot tub with the special massage seat and the view of the moon as it rose and etched a silver sliver into the dark blue ripples of the universe just beyond the horizon.

The next morning, Ken’s adorable wife Nancy made us coffee before sending us off to our gig. We’d been told we’d be playing a farmer’s market type of hall but I guess I hadn’t expected the long, thin, tin roof painted with the words “Fresh Produce,” next to the train tracks which stumbled through town escorting locomotives with great roaring “yeehawws” through the adjacent neighborhoods. It reminded me of places my dad used to play when I was younger. I remember him calling me to the stage to sing with him and the pride and excitement of being in front of an outdoor audience that I could see.

Birdman and I skipped off, arm in arm, to find a leather craftsman to cut me a piece of hide to fix my watch band. We stuck out like sore thumbs in the quaint town of Oakland full of antique shops and old-time coffee shops with swivel stools. Birdman wore a shirt decorated with subway cars covered in graffiti, while I sported a panther print skirt and dark NYC shades. A shopkeeper, standing outside her wind chime store yelled after us:

“You going to the concert tonight? Starts at 7:00.”
“We’ll be there,” Eric shouted back over his shoulder. A few paces later she hollered again,
“Hey! YOU ARE the concert?!” and we laughed in recognition.

At 7:00 people started pulling up to the farmers market and pitching their families and lawn chairs on the surrounding grass. A nice young guy with a guitar and synth sampler opened for us. A train ran by with high-pitched toots and kids scampered between parent’s legs to get a look at the stage. Polish sausages, pork sandwiches with coleslaw, and baked ham stands were served in white tents; not much for a vegetarian in Maryland, unfortunately.

Halfway through our set, an Amish family pulled up on a tractor to listen to the show. A bunch of cute kids came up on stage and danced to Happy Now and Split Decisions and some even stayed to sway to Tomboy Bride.

It was a brilliant starry night. We sold CDs, I signed kids’ shirts, and Elizabeth, Amber, and Tina —three groovy little girls—helped me hand out stickers. I was taken with the honesty and beauty in people’s eyes—the children in particular, with their blue, snow-cone-stained tongues, gleefully requesting my signature on their dusty, farmer’s market T-shirts, enchanted me. Somewhere during the night, someone gave me an “I Love Oakland” pin and as the crowd dwindled and distant laughter filled the night, I looked at that pin and realized it was true—Oakland is great!

Bryn Mawr, PA – “Imitation Drakkar” – The Point Bryn – July 27, 2000

The morning after our gig at The House of Blues in Boston was gray and rainy, a fitting backdrop as we retraced our steps back along the coast. We’ve been ziging and zagging from gig to gig for seven nights straight. We’ve played in Maine, Martha’s Vineyard, New Bedford, New York, Boston, and finally Philly last night. Sleep? Barely. Time to write? Nonexistent.

“Big Ben! Parliament!”* we yelled in unison, passing for the third time, that giant blue plastic bug perched on the building just outside Providence on I-95. Our pit stop routine had become a ritual at this point, hitting the same gas station as yesterday. My lyrics—“Stretch me out, I’m your rubber band. State to state, don’t know where I am”—felt particularly fitting as the rain spat rather than poured, dodging us as we dashed inside, collars over heads.


We knew the drill inside the gas station. Fruits to the left, auto magazines to the right, bad coffee in the back, and a single unisex bathroom we have to stand in line for holding our bladders, listening urgently for the flush and running water followed by the ripping of paper towel, and unbolting click of the door.

In our bleary-eyed, boisterous mood, Soucy leaned over like he was about to share a secret. Instead, he stuck his whole tongue in my ear. “Yuck, Soucy!” I yelled, scanning the store for retribution. My eyes landed on a rack of imitation cologne sprays. Grabbing one, I launched an all-out attack, drenching him with designer knockoff Drakkar Noir. The air now reeked of teen cologne, testosterone-y memories and laughter, and suddenly we were all in a heap on the sticky floor, laughing so hard our sides hurt.

Even the old guy behind the counter, wearing prescription glasses with sun visors flicked up was laughing with us even though he’d no doubt be stuck with the stench for the next 48 hours. Soucy, doing his best Pepe Le Pew impression, choked out between laughs, “I don’t think that’s a sample, Sal. You’re gonna have to pay for that cologne now.” Honestly, for $1.50, owning my own arsenal of ‘Drakkar’ to torment Soucy whenever I pleased was a bargain.

The show at The Point was sold out long before we arrived. I absolutely adore playing there and the crowd never fails to laugh both with and at us. The especially roared when Soucy took a guitar solo and I took the opportunity to spray him into a cloud of Drakar on stage. Soucy, however, did not appreciate it and I expect I might have to pay for my mischeviousness for weeks to come.

** Vocabulary:
Big Ben, Parliament” is a line from European Vacation that Chevy Chase utters. Scenario: He’s gotten himself stuck on a rotary in London and for whatever reason, can’t get off and he keeps passing Big Ben & Parliament, which he’d initially, excitedly pointed out to his family when they’d first got on the rotary, but as he passes it for the 1000th time he sarcastically sputters between tears and laughter “Look kids, Big Ben!Parliament.” So we use the line when we yo-yo a highway a bunch in one tour, or when we miss an exit and have to turn around to find it again.