The D-Tour – Apt #6S East Coast Fall 2000

Indianapolis, IN – “Spooning my way up the East Coast” – The Patio – November 2, 2000

Jay (not his real name) is beside me when I wake up, humming softly as he tucks a rogue curl behind my ear. He is wonderful. We played “The Patio” last night in Indianapolis. I’ve been spooning my way up the East Coast in an effort to forget Sam. My nights have been a patchwork of borrowed arms, stitched together—one set handing me off to the next in a “Sally” (re)assembaly line. Somehow, I’ve managed to recruit a handful of willing participants to do nothing more than hold me—fully clothed—while I sleep. They are my heroes, offering their warmth despite the fact I have little, if anything, to give in return. They know my limits—no more than a snuggle, maybe the occasional kiss and that I’ll disappear by morning, my mind preoccupied, my heart outlined in chalk. Yet, they take me as I am—broken down, broken into.
Jay’s steady presence anchors me into the quiet morning. He kisses my ear and pulls another errant curl away from my face. I cling to these small, tender moments like lifebuoys in a storm.

At 1 PM, I’m sitting at Vinnie’s Italian Kitchen/Bar with the band. A bowl of soft, blond, mozzarella cheese covers a layer of french fries which are lumped atop five huge, steaming, buttery slabs of chicken composed on a wilting bed of iceberg lettuce. I guess this is the grilled chicken salad I ordered? Kyle, sitting beside me, tries to hold back his laughter as my meal is laid before me but it pokes through his lips with little lawnmower sputters and a few apologetic tears. The waitress glares at him with indignation, her manish sideburns peeking out from under a backward baseball cap. I’m on the hands-free cell phone with my mom and she wants to know what’s so funny. “Cheese Bowl,” I tell her without further explaination and Kyle lets out another sputter through tightly clenched fingers.

Above the bar, a country music station plays on a widescreen TV, featuring flawless stars in cowboy hats dancing on dusty roads next to haystacks and stables. The air inside Vinnie’s is thick with smoke. Everyone is puffing between bites making the carcinogenic haze seem like part of the decor. Outside, it’s humid. Inside, it’s cancerous. It’s hard to taste anything through all the country music let alone the smoke, but after the third bite, I begin to suspect, my cheese-lathered meat might not be chicken after all. I push my plate aside and spontaneously climb onto the booth bench. I start lip-syncing to the 80s tune that’s interrupted the country playlist. “I know what boys like, I know what guys want,” I mime, my gestures syrupy with exaggerated seduction. The guys laugh, their amusement loud and unrestrained. The other patrons, however, look at me like I’ve just landed from Mars. To them, I must be an alien in my blue aviator sunglasses, green felt hippie shoes, glitter in an undone downtown dinner in middle-of-nowhere Indiana.

But after my performance ended with a flourish — hip wagging, arms in the sky — Na na na na na-ing a few customers applauded and one old guy gave me a standing ovation.

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Columbus, OH – “The one about the time my dad picked you up hitchhiking” – The Thirsty Ear – October 31, 2000

The Thirsty Ear was buzzing—especially for a Monday night. The show was nearly sold out, and the energy was infectious. Afterward, as I signed CDs, I noticed there were a surprising number of attendees with the same “funny story” to share.

It always starts the same way. “I was hitchhiking on Martha’s Vineyard when this guy picked me up, and it turned out to be James Taylor.” Without fail, each person says it like it’s the ultimate plot twist. Then come the variations—“He was so kind/tall/handsome/skinny and a bit shy. He complimented my red scarf/bee keeper suit/Icelandic sweater/ZZ Top beard. If you tell him this story, he’ll definitely remember me.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad my dad picks up hitchhikers—it’s a lovely trait. And to the thousands of people who swear this happened to them, I’m not calling your bluff. But I can’t help but wonder when he had time to do anything else in his life. Was he just circling the island, trolling for thumb riders? And honestly, after hearing this story every single night from someone who expects me to be shocked, it’s all I can do not to spoil the punchline halfway through.

We had a day off yesterday and drove to Columbus to get us closer to the next show. It was eerily quiet at 2 a.m.—except for the blaring red neon “Bob Evan’s” sign advertising their “Famous Fudge Brounies.” (Yes, Brounies—their spelling, not mine.) Delucchi couldn’t help but point out the typo as we pulled into the hotel across the street. A massive billboard nearby loomed in judgment, asking, “What part of ‘Thou shalt not’ didn’t you understand? – GOD.”

The hotel, creatively named “Cross-Country Inn,” had a drive-through check-in window, which was a first for us. Naturally, we had to document the experience, so we started filming. The night shift attendant—a blonde woman with smudged mascara and a less-than-enthusiastic demeanor—squinted at us through the window. She couldn’t find our reservation at first, but we didn’t panic. This kind of thing happens all the time. Sure enough, after her third attempt, the reservation turned up. It was filed under some inexplicable name like a club owner’s wife’s maiden name or their daughter’s pet hamster “Hugo.” Go figure.

The club got me my own room. It was quiet in #217, except for a mini-fridge humming with an off-tune bathroom fan. I dropped my bags and had barely settled in when there was a knock at the door. “Knock, knock. Open up. It’s Kenny, beer police,” came a muffled voice from the hallway. I opened the door to find Kenny grinning. “Gimme a beer and a hug,” he said before strutting back to room #221 to play video games with the rest of the crew.

At 4:30 a.m., just as I was about to drift off, Soucy barged into my room—full of energy. “Can you shave racing stripes into my head?” he asked, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request at that hour.
I wasn’t asleep yet, so I groggily agreed. “Have you ever shaved a skull before?” he asked skeptically.
“Yes,” I replied, offended by his lack of trust.
“Whose?” he pressed.
“Kipp’s, my brother Ben’s,” I listed confidently.
“Did you mess up or cut either of them?”
“Of course not,” I said, though honestly, I couldn’t fully recall.
“Because scalp cuts bleed a lot,” he emphasized.
“I know,” I cut him off, rolling my eyes. Eventually, I convinced him to sit down, and I swiveled the TV to catch “Sex and the City” on HBO while I worked.
“You’re not seriously going to watch TV while cutting my hair,” he protested.
“Just trust me,” I said with exasperation.

And, I nailed it! Soucy may have been too much of a baby to outright thank me, but I knew he liked his new look. “I’m sure my mom wouldn’t want to read about this in tomorrow’s road tales,” he hinted, hoping I’d leave the story out.
“Oh, there’s no way I’m not writing about this. I did too good of a job not to brag,” I shot back.
And that’s how Soucy ended up with racing stripes at 4:30 a.m. Sorry you had to find out this way, Mrs. Soucy.

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Buffalo, NY – “Heir Force” – October 30, 2000

The People article came out today. “Heir Force,” the headline reads. A photo of me, arms stretched like an airplane cruising at altitude, was taken against the canvas of my mother’s gazebo on Martha’s Vineyard this spring. While the tagline is regrettably cheesy as all get out, the piece is flattering and praises the independent path I’ve chosen to take in music. In many ways, the it’s exactly what I’d hoped for — public recognition of my musical capabilities propelled under my own steam and on my own terms. But the headline makes it painfully obvious I remain in the shadow of two musical giants and ride the pages of People magazine, not on my own merits, but on Heir Force One. Folding the rag in half, I decide the piece is both a victory and an embarrassment and choose to focus on the victory. Next, I grab the boxing nun and challenge Kenny to a match. I need to let out a little steam.

I found the puppets- – “boxing nun,” “boxing rabbi” and “boxing devil,” at a gas station back in Albany and they’ve become the band’s go-to entertainment during long drives. Our boxing matches are not fun in themselves but the band’s sordid and inappropriate commentary make for great comedy. I admit it, I’m the least sportsmanlike of our brood when it comes to boxing and if puppets could bite, mine definitely would. Kyle’s commentary on my fights are my favorite:

“… Usually, before long, Sally resorts to illegal head butting, hair pulling, and grabbing the other puppet’s muumuus for which the ref, time and time again has to reprimand her. He will not hesitate to take a point away if such behavior continues Sally!!!!”

The show at the Tralf was decent enough. My voice held and Tom’s desil leaking 80’s Mercedes Benz managed to get us to soundcheck on time. After the shock of watching my lyrex’s pornographic debute at the throat doctor’s office, Tom drove me back to Buffalo, but half an hour into the ride the car started smelling funny. Worried it might be leaking carbon monoxide into the main cabin we stopped at my pop’s place in the Berkshires to check it out.

My dad’s no car expert, but he jumped under Tom’s hood like a well-oiled mechanic. After careful analysis, he decided it could be remedied with some dental floss (his goto tool for almost any project).

His fiancee, Kim, and I made soup and veggie burgers for our burly dental floss-wielding technicians. Pop and Tom returned, covered in oil, their faces blackened with assurances the carbon monoxide situation was abated. But as we waved goodbye and got back on the highway, I was more nervous about the repair job than the possibility of carbon monoxide poisoning. But we managed to survive the rest of the ride and as we pulled up to The Tralf I was starting to wonder whether dental floss might be the cure for all the world’s woes.

—

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Buffalo, NY – “No Coffee, No Chocolate, No Bubbly Drinks” – Morning TV Show – October 27, 2000

There’s something magical about the week before a tour wraps up. The road feels like home, the crumpled itinerary is a keepsake now covered in coffee stains, and the van? It’s a disaster but no one minds or cares to clean it up.

By this point, we’ve conquered the dreaded “mid-tour blues.” – that 3-to-4-week slump where you’re convinced THIS TOUR WILL NEVER END and all you want is a bed that doesn’t smell faintly of fried food. A week out, the finish line is in sight, every gig crackles with an energy that only comes when you’re burning the candle at both ends—and occasionally, in the middle.

8 AM. Room 111.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“S.T., time to go, girl. TV time.” Soucy’s voice, muffled but chipper, rang through the motel hallway.

Reluctantly, I untangled myself from the beige fuzzy blanket that clung to my legs. Cheap motels rarely offer fitted sheets, so the mattress—a spectacularly ugly green-and-yellow relic from the ‘70s—was fully exposed. The room smelled faintly like old carpet and stale cigarette smoke. A boy was next to me in bed. We’ll call him Tom. The heating unit went “thump thump thump.” A crack in the polyester curtains bleached a pie-wedge of daylight on the adjacent wall.

I shuffled toward the door, opening it just enough for the security chain to hold firm. There was Soucy, awake, too awake. He looked washed, and refreshed. He let out a seagull-like laugh when he saw me, all puffy and crumpled around the eyes. “I didn’t get my wake-up call,” I said, stating the obvious in a garbled morning voice.

“I can see that,” he said, amused. “We’ve got five minutes before we have to go. Wash up, put on some clean clothes, brush your teeth, and meet me downstairs,” he directed. I washed my face but because I hadn’t bothered getting undressed the night before; I spared myself the hassle of picking out a new outfit.

Still clad in the jeans and the tank top I’d worn onstage in Syracuse, I figured it was passable enough for TV. We’d driven straight from the gig to Buffalo and landed at 4 am in the current shit-hole motel we found ourselves in. Well, I didn’t drive—I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, “Thank GOD for Chris Delucchi.” I swear that man is my savior. If it weren’t for him, I’d lose my mind, not to mention my wallet, my keys, my voice, and probably any hope of a music career.

Soucy and I performed on AM Buffalo, a local ABC affiliate, at 10 am, after an inadequate vocal warm-up in the women’s dressing room and some black coffee. My pop called as we were packing up.

“Man Sal, you sound awful,” he said.

“I know pop. My voice really hurts. Between stage, radio and TV, we played twelve shows this week.”

“12 shows!?!?!” he said in an exasperated voice that mirrored the tone he once used to respond to the tatoo I got when I turned 18. “That’s too many shows Sal.” I’m calling my throat specialist in Boston. Can you get there today?”

Boy-in-bed-Tom agreed to drive me. The doctor sat me in a straight-backed chair, sprayed a numbing, watermelon novocaine into the back of my throat, then stuck a miniature video camera on the end of a metal stick into my throbbing windpipe.

“Oooohhhh,” he said “Ahhh, uuuhhh, yup. Looks swollen.” He said as Tom sat bedside, staring fixedly at my naked larynx (the most nudity he’d seen of me). *

“What should I do?” I asked, choking on the cold camera stick.
“You gotta sleep and drink plenty of water. No coffee, no chocolate, no bubbly drinks, no acidic juices, no spicy food, no eating before bedtime, no talking, no singing and try an’ avoid smokey areas” he said. I almost laughed out loud. That aint gonna happen, I thought as Tom drove me back to Buffalo for the gig at The Tralf.

Footnote:

The larynx is often mistaken for the most private of the female anatomy and I felt oddly exposed in front of Tom.

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New York City – “Meeting Tarantino Part 2” – The Bitter End – October 21, 2000

CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY….

After The Point, in Bryn Mawr, night before last, Soucy decided to get 3 bags of laundry done (at 1am no less), napping between loads. This made for a junk night of sleep for me. His alarm went off every half hour proceeded by what felt like passive-aggressive turning on and off of lights. The roof was tin, so the torrential rain echoed like a thousand construction workers opening brown paper bag lunches. It was impossible to get any honest rest. The morning of the 19th hurt and our Itinerary was stacked:

Oxygen Media (Oprah’s Network) TV show: 10:45 am
CD Now interview (at The Bitter End): 5:00 pm
CNN interview (at The Bitter End): 5:45 pm
Sound Check: 6:00 pm
Doors: 7:00 pm
Show: 8:30 pm
WNEW radio interview: 11-3 am

Oxygen Media’s office sat above the Chelsea Flower Market, a bustling maze of fragrances and sounds that overwhelmed the senses. Fresh blooms mingled with bread, chocolate, and the bass drum hum of New York City, hot and unrelenting. Walking through the brick-hauled hallways, blue guitar in hand, I felt like a wraith gliding through the chaos. The noise, the heat, the smoke—they all seemed to break around me like waves on a rock.

Upstairs, we were greeted by a showrunner, “Nikki,” who brought us coffee, bagels, and flowers, and settled the band in a huge, clean, comfortable, unnecessary but much-appreciated dressing room. Kenny parked himself in front of the TV and turned up the volume on the show being filmed in the control booth next door. Quentin Tarantino was on in a Hawaiian shirt, flailing his arms around frantically talking about the new script he’s writing — a movie called “Kill Bill.” He was high on his own brilliance and Delluchi, staring at the screen mused, “Man I’d like to smoke that guy up.” So, I put on my cutest pink skirt and sauntered into the hall just as the producer was escorting Quenten out and I “just happened to” bump into him.

It was the least I could do for Delucchi after all the stress I’ve put him through this tour. “This is Sally Taylor, Quentin,” the producer introduced us. “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” I may or may not have said flirtatiously. “Sally Taylor,” said Quentin, bowing his head to kiss my hand, “I’ve heard a lot about you. You playing the show now?” He asked cooly. I brought him back to our dressing room and poured him a cup of coffee while Delucchi beamed at me and offered him a blunt.

Quentin was hysterical! He had us all laughing so hard I got the hiccups. Knowing it’s impossible to sing with hiccups, Quentin frantically insisted he help me get rid of them, only making me laugh harder. You know when you meet someone you feel you’ve known your entire life? That’s what it was like with Quentin. He was familiar, fun and after watching our set, a fan of our music. He requested a ticket for The Bitter End that night.

Backstage hundreds of thousands of band stickers, desperate for attention, culung to the splintery dark walls and I stuck mine up there too. CD Now and CNN came to interview me before our stage call and the show was packed to the gills. Jimmy Buffett, who’d recorded our most recent show at Steven Talkhouse for his webcast, “Margaritaville” sent Chris Blackwell (Founder of Island Records) and Russ Titleman (Producer) to the show and, as someone handed me a newly printed Vanity Fair bought from the newsstand on the corner, I couldn’t help thinking, this is our time. This is our break. This is Apt Success (APT. #6S)

It was thrilling to see my face in such a fancy, glossy magazine and more thrilling still to watch Quinten Tarantino bounce in his seat to “Happy Now” and later, ask to be our roadie* for the night. He helped us tear(ntino) down and shlep our gear to the van. He kissed me on the mouth between loads and told that “When We’re Together” was his new favorite song and that I was amazing. Driving away from the city, I felt important, scared and lonely.

Footnote:

Roadie: A member of a crew for a traveling group of musicians or other entertainers, whose work usually includes the setting up and tearing down of equipment.

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New York City – “Meeting Tarantino Part 1” – The Bitter End – October 21, 2000

October is the Sunday of months. For 31 days each autumn, the world hits snooze and time is suspended, like linen, licking at the wind on a slack clothesline. The earth holds its breath and we are weightless in the air before the gravity of the holidays brings us slamming back down to the ground.

Ahead, through the windshield, the world is a patchwork of rolling fields — blond wheat and dead corn interrupted by orange-dotted pumpkin fields all hemmed in by fire-engine red leaves. The cerulean sky beyond, towers tall and jagged, swallowing the earth’s edges.

Jeff Buckley sings Hallelujah on the radio. His voice is threading perfectly. A jumble of cables – radar detectors, CD players and car phone adaptors balance precariously in the cigarette lighters, threatening to collapse at the mere mention of a bump. The “Happy Camper” supplement I only half jokingly picked up at the last rest stop, sits in a cup holder signaling a Pandora-like hope with its joyous yellow box. We should have called this tour, Tour-ture. We are all at our snapping points.

We’re bound for Great Barrington tonight for a gig at Club Helsinki. My dad’s (who is coming to the gig) offered his pad after the show and the promise of a proper bed and a good night’s sleep is all I can think about– That and how stoked I am to see my pop and tell him about our EPIC our show at The Bitter End.

The Bitter End is considered New York City’s oldest rock club and is where my dad got his start. He used to play the club’s legendary “hootenannies” in the 60s along with Jonni Mitchel and Carol King and is partially responsible for the reputation it earned for showcasing great new talent.

It was an honor to stand on the stage where my pop got his start and almost as cool, to meet Quentin Tarantino there….

TO BE CONTINUED….

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Media, PA – “Gratitude” – The Walden School – Oct 12, 2000

Those of you who’ve been on the road with us from the git go know how much playing for the kids at The Walden School in Media, PA means to me. Walden in Media is my happy place, my refuge, my spa day. No matter how I arrive—exhausted, heartbroken, or road-burned—the kids meet me exactly where I am, with open arms and endless love. They lift me up, erase the sorrow from my face with their hugs, and bring me back to my core.

Today, they outdid themselves. They were waiting for me on the lawn, holding acrostic poems they’d created after our last visit in Spring. They couldn’t have known just how much I needed this—how deeply their sweet words would heal me. Each poem was a gift, a priceless reminder of why I do what I do. It was exactly what I needed after this long, winding, backbending, challenging year on the road.

Though I could pour my heart out forever, I’ll let the photos do the talking. To the kids at Walden, thank you for restoring my spirit, my sanity, and my soul. You are my light.

Thank you, Walden kids. You are simply THE BEST.

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Harrisburg, PA – “Payback is a Bitch” – October 9, 2000

We picked back up with the band outside Harrisburg, PA. The boys had to drive through the weekend from down south to link back up with us. Soucy and I had traveled light when we flew to the PA show with only our instruments and the clothes on our back (give or take an extra pair of undies). I was looking forward to being reunited with my extra-large suitcase filled with the freshly washed outfits I’d recently laundered in a coin op back in Annapolis. It was a hot day and I was desperate to ditch my new leather Harley jacket and change out of stage cloths, so I was shocked and dismayed with what I found when I opened the back of Moby.

Out of the steaming trunk came the noisome chemical scent of fruit. It was so strong, I instantly got a headache and I closed my watering eyes to curb the assault on my senses as I felt around for my jumbo black bag.

“Pew!” I shouted up to the boys in the front “What happened back here while we were gone?!?! Did you lose a battle with a porta-potty or something?” I heard a snicker as I unzipped and flipped open the main compartment of my suitcase where I was accosted by the toxic fragrance of not one, not two but twenty Little Tree air fresheners scattered throughout my clothes in every scent and every color.
“Oh, Good LORD!!!” I screamed as the rank fragrance defiled my face.

“What in the —. Who the HELL —? How did this —? WHAT?!?!” I yelled.

Picking one of the car air fresheners out of my bag, I studied it like an ancient artifact. The stiff pineapple yellow tree had dyed its acrid silhouette into my favorite white sweater on which it had sat for the last 48 hours, sweltering in the hot trunk. Suddenly I heard the van erupt with laughter and four heads appeared at my side with huge naughty smiles. I dropped the yellow tree back in the bag.

SOUCY! That tolerant, patient band-brother of mine had bided his time, letting me think he was a picture of piousness, putting up with my relentless tickle attacks, spit ball fights and imitation designer cologne ambushes only to counterattack with the entire catalogue of Little Tree offerings. Bravo Soucy. I was both deeply impressed and totally dismayed.

“Payback’s a bitch,” yelled Chris as I chased him through the parking lot.

Soucy remind me to keep looking over my shoulder

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York, PA – “My Panties For a Harley Jacket” – The Women’s Expo – October 7, 2000

“I traded my underwear for a Harley Davidson jacket.”

“You did WHAT?!” screeched my mom over the phone.

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t wearing them.”

“Excuse me what?!” Apparently my wearing them wasn’t mom’s main concern. “Back up. Where are you? tell me what you’re talking about?!?”

“Soucy and I flew in for a one-off at a woman’s expo in Pennsylvania and it turned out to be a Harley convention with booths and food and tons of people in grey long beards and – ”

“O K A Y ?” she was still confused.

“And this guy named Michael drove me onto the stage on the back of his motorcycle with my hair all flowing out behind me. It was wild mama.”

“Y A A A,”

“And I complimented Michael on his cool leather jacket when he dropped me at my mic stand. Did you know York, PA is where the manufacture Harleys?”

“So how did you end up losing your panties?!”

“After the show the promoters, Michael and a huge crew of his rider friends and their girlfriends all helped me sell CDs. Then they wanted me to sign their denim shirts and leather hats which of course I did, and then they insisted I pose with them on their bikes – ”

“Sally!” sigh, “please get to the point.”

“So, when we were done, fifteen of them took me aside as a group and said, “can we get your underwear?”

“They just out and asked you?!”

“Ya.”

“And you said YES?!?!?!”

“NO!!! I said no.” Pause “But then they said they’d trade me for Michael’s leather jacket and I said ‘sure.’”

“You said sure!?”

“They said they wanted ‘um dirty.”

“WHAT?!?!?!”

“Ya. Isn’t that freaky? Especially the women in the group, they insisted. So I said I was just going to excuse myself to slip out of them and instead, I grabbed a clean pair out of my gig bag, threw them to the wolves and Soucy and I headed out the door.”

“Sally Taylor!”

“The jacket is really awesome mama.”

“SALLY TAYLOR!”

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Memphis, TN to York, PA – “Mail-Order Meat” – October 6, 2000

Doc Soucy and I flew from Memphis to Pennsylvania for a one off on Saturday, arriving in Harrisburg a little past 9 pm. A six-hour day of travel was hardly easy considering how scared both of us are of flying.

I flipped nervously through the Sky Mall catalog thinking I might get something for one of the Chrises, whose birthdays both fall during this tour. (Soucy’s is Oct. 24th and Delucchi’s, the 28th). Hummm, Hammacher Schlemer? Sharper Image? …. What up with the mail-order meat? I thought. “Hey Soucy,” I said, grabbing and clutching at his shirtsleeve from across the aisle, “I was thinking of ordering you a nice steak from Sky Mall for your birthday.”

“Dude, don’t you dare.” He replied as I bat my eyes. An attractive stewardess walking down the isle stopped to look at the two of us, and said “Aww, you guys are cute,” before passing.
“No, we’re not. NO WE ARE NOT CUTE!” Soucy called after her.

We had a 3-hour layover in North Carolina, which we spent playing and regressing in a toy store. I bought a fluorescent yellow “nose flute” for a buck and walked around the airport annoying fellow passengers trying to learn how to use it. Soucy followed me, dragging his disaster of a bag around the treadmill walkways. Little known fact, Soucy loves airport conveyor belts and would spend all day going back and forth on them, given the opportunity.

Let me take a moment to describe the abomination that is Chris Soucy’s travel luggage. It’s a bag on wheels, like the rest ours, only, it’s somehow taken 100 times the abuse. One wheel has come off and so it limps and clumps through hotel lobbies like a stray puppy tearing up carpet as he tugs it pathetically behind him. The leather handle is broken and flacidly flaps to one side. Three tours ago, he attempted to fix it with some duct tape and now it’s sticky to the touch. the metal pull-up frame is crooked too and clicks when he walks like a prosthetic knee. He refuses to retire his bag because “the new ones are so expensive,” and so, continues to drag the poor thing around behind him like some sort of dirty binky.

At the Hotel in PA we threw our stuff in our rooms and went for a nightcap in “Chats,” the hotel bar. There, a wedding reception was winding down. Muffled disco music wah wah-ed it’s way through warped mirrored walls. Glittery dresses walked their wearers around with mannequin-like stiffness. Men in tuxedos tripped through balloon-filled halls with plastic glasses of Champagne, small talking to one another: “Where are your kids in college Stan?” and “My wife always cries at these things, Bill.”

I leaned over my gin and tonic and sighed. I’ve been feeling under a considerable amount of stress recently from the discord in the band and Soucy let me vent to him before taking me to the hotel arcade. There, the least enthusiastic wedding guests and most derelict kids had assembled and we fit right in. Doc Soucy knew just what would make me feel better. First he fed one buck into a jukebox and cued up a stack of Led Zepplin tunes, then slipped another buck into an air hockey game. I went to town on that floating blue disk and lost every game. But by the end of the night, I’d won my sanity.

Soucy truly is a doctor.

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