Ok, So I’m drinking the skunky bud this tour. The tradition, if you don’t know already, is that whoever makes the biggest blunder during a tour, must drink the skunky Budweiser beer that’s been intentionally sitting in the cooler, heating up and cooling down for the entire trip.

Picture this: I’m on stage, having just strummed the last chord of “Spilt Decisions,” when I suddenly realize I’ve misplaced my capo. “Where’s my capo?” I shout to the guys, pointing to the bald spot next to my mic stand where I swore I’d placed it. The boys help me turn the stage upside down, searching under every rug and wire until Kenny polightly taps me on the shoulder and points to my capo—right there on the neck of my guitar, perfectly primed for the next song.

I was embarrassed, sure, but that wasn’t the end of my mishap. Next, I butchered the opening verse of “Happy Now.” It came out something like this:

There is a house without a phone
and we have locked ourselves in here.
It’s broken shlick anotham en found it
asham aglockafondu afair.

My friend it is because of you
toganther frolick meair
to what you and I all blabla bla. Blabla bla bla bla bla bla. HE HE HE!!!”

Had this been the Olympics, I’d have lost the gold for sure. But at Newby’s, my fail earned me

1. The audience’s laughter
2. A bewildered look from Delucchi behind the soundboard, and, of course,
3. One gut-wrenchingly, skunky BUD! (read more about Skunky Buddy here)

Despite my blunders, Newby’s was a blast. It was heartwarming to see familiar faces and share a laugh at my own expense. Tensions have been running high in the band, even minor slights escalating into full-blown feuds—people picking sides, and glares being shot that could kill at close range. A couple of (non-skunky) beers, a venue full of familiar faces, and an excuse to laugh was exactly what we needed to ease the tension.

In New Orleans, the city pulsed with life. People with luminous, dewy skin and fevered gazes danced through the streets, captive to the rhythmic beats of brass bands and zydeco music pouring out of novelty shops and po’ boy sandwich stores. The air was filled with a never-ending symphony of magic and jazz and I felt like we were riding a conveyor belt of sound as we strutted up the street to find our venue. Every other person we passed seemed to be out busking, whether strumming a guitar, blowing into a trombone, or hitting a drum—each played with a broken heart and passionate expression, their straw hats on the ground outstretched to catch the infrequent passing dollar.

Upstairs at the Parish, an almost cathedral-like calm enveloped us. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and folk-art watched us out of sequined eyes. The Birdman met us backstage, having driven 100 miles to serenade us with a 28-minute opus to our last Eastern Tour together. Dressed in a black and blue, sparkling, see-through shirt—he was a sight to behold. It was wonderful to be reunited with him again!

At ten we play for a crowd of beautiful people clad in feather boas, masks and mardi gras beads. The exotic room was filled with salacious laughter and smoke that flowed like condensed milk on the stagnant air.

After the show, the lighting girl—a vision in blue dreads, innocent eyes, and translucent tattooed skin, approached me with her pet snake. “This is her first show,” she said, placing the small, rainbow boa constrictor in my hands. “I want you to name her.” I could feel the spirit of New Orleans winding around my fingers—beautiful, cold, dangerous, and mysterious. I named her “Isis,” after the Bob Dylan song.

We woke up early at the Residence Inn. “Welcome Home!!” It said on the door, and I inhaled deeply knowing that this nondescript inn in this podunk town would be the closest thing to home I’d find for the next six weeks.

I made the mistake of taking the rollaway last night. I woke up, after staying out too late post-show at Juanita’s, immobilized in a cocoon of blankets, sheets, and pillows—my back arched like a bow and my eyes slammed shut against every painful movement.

We’d partied with Todd last night, the regional manager for The Waffle House, who once again invited us to eat on his tab at any Waffle House between here and Louisiana. Breakfast at The Waffle House in Little Rock has become a STB (Sally Talyor Band) tradition and it’s egg yoke yellow doors opened with their familliar charm—a haze of smoke, sizzle of skillets, the tantalizing aroma of bacon, and laughter hanging in the air like a pool of Southern Comfort. Melba and Mary (our two favorite waitresses) greeted us with unrestricted enthusiasm which included flailing arms and swaying hugs.

Customers with trucker hats floating atop oceans of rumpled hair, smiled half-toothed grins and tipped their heads in our direction as we passed on our way to our favorite booth. Costomers smoked cigarettes while they ate, puffing in between bites, and they spoke in southern drawls we picked up faster than green grass through a goose, finding ease in the lazy boy lull of their southern tongue. “Hey, Melba” one of us would say, “cud’I git me sum’more’uh that coffee when you git a sec’n’ darlin’?” and: “Mary, what you been doin’ wit yer self girl?”

Ever since I misplaced my wallet, I’ve been using an empty Pop-Tart wrapper to hold my money. The guys are convinced I’ll accidentally throw it away at a gas station, which is probably why I haven’t lost it yet. Stomachs bulging under the weight of free grits, OJ, coffee, bacon, and, of course, waffles, I pulled out my silver Pop-Tart wallet to leave a tip. Melba snatched that wrapper clean out of my hand faster than a one-legged man in a butt kicking competition and tossed it in a trash can full of spoiled batter and discarded napkins despite all our protest. We laughed as she retrieved my make shift money holder all covered in eggshells and goop.

She refused my tip and offered an empty hot coco packet to transfer my funds into — frankly, it’s an upgrade. Now, we’re off to Shreveport.

It’s 4:00 am and I’m awake, staring at the cottage-cheese textured ceiling. I can’t sleep ‘cause I’m not used to having my own bedroom and because the hotel is inconveniently located next to a landing strip across the street from some train tracks. My eyes are blurry on the way to the bathroom mirror, blurry on the way to the magenta curtains which I pull aside to assess the proximity of dawn. In the dim light of the parking lot I can make out a chain linked fence, a field of flat dry grass and the silloet of suburbia just beyond the horizon of my sight. Missouri. Misery. Missouri. They sound the same in my mouth and I tease the two states into a lyric as I sit down on my bed with a guitar. What are my options? Watch TV? Read a book? Write a song? Do some yoga? and then I’m up ‘til 5:30, inverted and converted into pretzel-like shapes and tired (but not tired enough to sleep).

At ten, we headed to a BBQ held in our honor by last night’s promoters, Patsy and Mitch. Their house was adjacent to a cotton field so while short ribs sizzled and a strawberry rhubarb pie cooled on the sill, Mitch took us to pick some cotton. It’s something none of us had done and it’s harder than you’d think. Each white cluster is filled with jellybean-sized seeds which, without a cotton gin, you have to abstract by hand. I still have the little cotton ball I de-seeded, in my jeans shorts and give it a little squeeze each time my hand visits my pocket.

After our BBQ, the family took us to a driving range where the boys proved naturals at the sport. I however sucked!!! I’d approach the T and hit a ground ball 20 feet to my left and that was on a good try. Most of the time I was yelling “heads up” before hitting the shiny white globe into someone’s butt. But the outing was fun and I laughed a ton, mostly at myself but every once and a while, at the person I was hitting.

I was giddy by the time we left Mitch and Patsy for Little Rock and when I get giddy, it often spells trouble for Soucy. For some reason, he’s my target when I get playful—his seriousness makes him fun to tease. We were at a gas station, browsing balloons and light-up toys when I discovered a “tester” blueberry air freshener. With a mischievous grin, I liberally sprayed Soucy with a happy trigger finger, before dashing out of the store laughing like a hyena.

Soucy smelled the whole van up like a cheap New York taxi. He had a puddle-sized blue stain on the back of his shirt but never once lost his temper with me. He remained cool as a cucumber until we stopped for dinner at Cracker Barrel and it wasn’t the spitball fight I waged on him or even the relentless tickling while he was tryng to eat soup that made him lose his patience.

I’d ordered a hot tea which came in a little silver pot next to an emaciated slice of lemon. I was just shaking on a truce with the exasperated Soucy when a jumbo glass of ice water was set just beyond my metal teapot. I reached for it, my naked underarm touched the top of the steaming teapot and I spastically retracted my hand with a yelp inadvertantly knocking the glass of ice water violently into his lap. Everyone held their breath as the water dripped icily down The Doc’s forehead and shorts. His lap sparkled with transparent cubes along with the red striped straw I’d used as a spitball weapon against him in the moments prior.

“DO SOMETHING! SAL!!! DO SOMETHING!!!” He shouted frantically. But all I could do was laugh. Hunch over, laugh, and apologize – “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry, Soucy.” And I was. Soucy, though older than me, is the closest thing I have to a little brother on the road and I play with him as I would play with Ben but suddenly I could see I’d taken things 11 steps too far. “I’ll be good. I promise,” I told him, tail between my legs. But retiring back into Moby’s dark belly, I could hear Soucy’s thoughts screaming across his quiet lips: “This Means WAR.”

Spanning 900 miles, our road trip from Boulder to Malden, Missouri marks the start of a new tour, a tour we’ve cleverly named “D Tour.” This stretch of highway is flat, filled with endless cornfields, cows, and cumulus clouds billowing like bong hits on the horizon.

I’m at a gas station somewhere in the expanse of Kansas, standing at the counter when I catch a glimpse of myself and Kenny in grainy black and white on the security monitor overhead. It shows our backs, the cashier behind us, a display of candy, and the juice I’m about to purchase.

“Hey, Kenny,” I say, grabbing his arm, “We’re on TV!” I whisper, pointing at the screen without breaking my gaze. But instead of Kenny’s familiar voice, I hear, “I’m glad I’m not doing anything illegal,” come out of the man (not Kenny) whose arm I’ve embraced.

I gradually loosen my grip, and turn my gaze to find a man at least three decades older than Kenny. I offer him a sheepish chuckle, and he nods gracefully. With a mix of embarrassment and humor, I hurry out of the gas station, eager to share the hilarious mishap with the rest of the band.