Malden, MO – “Look for the Ring, Sal!” The Malden Youth Museum – September 30, 2000

An hour outside of St. Louis, at a pit stop, I realized it was missing—my wallet. The boys helped me tear apart the van. We searched every nook and cranny, but deep down, I knew where it was. Panic bubbled inside me. “It’s back in the motel guys.“ Memories of my most recently lost wallet (two tours ago) flashed through my mind, especially the endless line at the Boulder DMV.

Under the relentless Missouri sun at noon, my suitcase splayed on the gas-stained pavement like a makeshift garage sale, I pleaded with the lady at the St. Louis Motel to “Please!!!” search the room. At first, she insisted she couldn’t. She was tied to the front desk as the only staff on duty. But whether she was swayed by the desperation in my voice or the cash offer, she eventually took pity on me. Moments later, she returned to the phone. “It was all rolled up in the sheets,” she said and promised to send my belongings to our next stop for the $100 bill she was extracting from my belongings.

We rolled into Malden, MO at five, a town of 5,000 people and home to the Malden Youth Museum. I never dreampt I’d someday headle a youth museum but it turns out to be a half decent venue. Between soundcheck and show, Mitch and Patsy, our promoters, guided us through their exhibits, and we became kids again, reveling in the nostalgia—blowing bubbles, playing with vintage action figures and, laughing until our sides hurt.

I was a good first show of the tour. We got to shake off the rust and even tried some new tunes. During set break, I signed CDs in front of a dolphin-shaped ice sculpture that unapologetically driped onto a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries. The Malden Youth Museum is not your typical music scene, but that’s what makes it fun. Who wants normal, anyway? It’s so mundane.

I remember taking my first serious high school boyfriend home to meet my mom on a weekend break when I was 17. He was already anxious when she opened the door to shake his hand, so when she boldly asked, “So Sacha, what are you addicted to?” he stammered, “No… no, nothing, Ms. Simon,” She gave him a distrustful pause, “Nothing, Sacha?” “No, no,” he declared, chest puffed with pride “clean as a whistle.” To which my mom frowned, “How boring,” she said and walked away.

It wasn’t that she wanted my boyfriend to be an addict; she just craved a bit of imperfection, something human and unique, something not normal. In our family, “normal” wasn’t healthy. It implied the obfuscation of humanity, and that certainly wasn’t right, or so the thinking went in my home growing up.

During our second set, just when I thought playing a show in a youth museum wasn’t odd enough, a random blonde named Stephanie, leapt on stage, poured a full bottle of beer into Kyle’s mouth as he drummed and danced with Soucy for the better part “Stuck in the Middle.” I thought she was flirting with him, so during our encore, I whispered to Doc Soucy that he needn’t extend his guitar solo—he’d already clearly impressed someone. “Who?” he asked, intrigued. “Stephanie,” I replied rolling my eyes—like it wasn’t obvious. But, my mistake. Turns out, Stephanie was married and Doc Soucy looked dejected as he climbed into the van.

“Look for the ring, Sal! Look for the ring!!” he chided.

Sorry, Soucy.