I attempted to paint my naked toenails red while riding in the van—a decision I quickly regretted. In the passenger seat heading up I-405 towards Dana Point, I propped my feet on the dashboard. Holding the polish brush steady, I relied on the highway’s bumps to jostle my nails against the bristles. Unsurprisingly, my attempt resulted in a mess—a murder of red polish on my feet as well as on the dashboard.

Our day started at the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica where I discovered Kyle’d stole the miniature lotion out of our bathroom before I could use it to sooth my sunburn. Soucy and I ventured out for a morning run along the beach, joining a throng of joggers each donning “Los Angeles Marathon in training” T-shirts. Judging by the sheer number and their varying fitness levels, it seemed like it must be the first week of training. “25,000 sweaty little reasons not to move to LA,” Soucy quipped as he retreated to the bathroom. His grumble prompted me to call after him, “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, Soucy?” which set the tone for his smart ass demeanor the rest of the day.

The show was set up outside, along the beach. Although there were two stages, the music flowed seamlessly as one band finished and the next began. Strolling through the festival, the sun blazed overhead. Vendors called out to us with wares ranging from bathing suits to sky chairs and the air was rich with the scent of chicken teriyaki and flat beer—an intoxicating mix. It was a perfect day filled with fantastic music from bands like Tommy Castro, Dave Mason, Ozomatli, the iconic Steve Miller Band, the legendary John Lee Hooker, and of course, …. us …. just happy to be included.

The AC is blown in Moby and driving through Death Valley without a coolant, spelled disaster for our trip from Tulare to Los Angeles. The relentless heat was unyielding, searing us whether we were parked or hurtling down the highway at 90 mph. Poor Kyle, drenched in sweat on a normal day, had it the worst. Stuck in the back with the least ventilation, he made a beeline for the air-conditioned gas station the moment we stopped. Inside he gasped:

“Do you love me, Sal?”
“So much, Kyle, you know that.”
“Enough to get that AC fixed,” pant pant pant “NOW? RIGHT NOW!?!”

We lingered in the gas station as long as humanly possible, loitering in the cool air. We didn’t bother with gas or snacks. Instead, I snagged some ice cubes from an open cooler and rubbed them on the guys’ backs, a little band maintenance, if you will. While we wasted time watching heat mirrages in the parking lot, Soucy broke into “New River Train,” an old country standard. He could only remember the first three verses, so we improvised our own, blocking the entrance and laughing as people squeezed by with polite “‘scuse me’s.”

Kenny sang, “Darlin’ you can’t love four, ’cause that would be a chore…”
Sally, “…Can’t love six, ’cause that’s way too many pr___s…”
Delucchi, “…Seven ’cause you might not get to heaven…”
Kyle finished with, “…Nine, cus that’s too good of a time…”

Later, Back in Moby’s hot belly, Soucy tried to cool us down by reading “cold” words from his book about Sir Ernest Shackleton’s icy Antarctic adventure. Words like “ice-encased boat,” “icebergs,” and “freezing gusts” floated through the van in Soucy’s best spa inspired voice. It offered a meager respite from our sweltering plight but we appreciated it none the less.

With windows down, the hot wind whipping through at a blistering 105 degrees, the scent of cow shit mingling with my essential oils inside the cabin, and cell reception cutting in and out, we finally emerged from the hot desert into the hot City of Lost Angels.

The gig was electric. CNN recorded our sound check and did a quick interview with us after. Agents from Virgin and Sony were there to try to sign us (of course I stuck true to my plan to stay independent, told them I was honored but not interested and to enjoy the show). James Gandolfini and Kelly Lynch were among the sea of familiar faces and to top the night off, our fantastic new booking agent, Jonathan Shank, told us Colm Meaney, the Irish actor of The Commitments and Star Trek fame, had offered us his mansion while he was out of town on a shoot!?!?! Only in L.A. do such incredible opportunities present themselves, and we eagerly harvested them. While Delucchi and Shank tried to chase Luna Park’s management down for the $375 they owed us for the gig, the rest of us loaded the van.

We wrapped up our night, drinks in hand, in Colm’s sprawling estate nestled in the hills, with the city’s lights dancing below us like waves. Jonathan, handing me the gig’s pay out (in a very slender envelop) promised that theaters and $2,000 offers were coming in for next year. He set me up in the luxurious master suite, complete with a courtyard view, a glowing pool, and a sauna that enveloped me until 3:30 am. It was a night to remember, one befitting the wild, sweaty ride it took to get there. Rock on!