Ok. We're back. Since last we spoke, I went to Reno and played a whole bunch of banjo at a family reunion for not-my-family, listened to Elton John's "Levon" way, way too many times, and a bunch of suicidal goons tried to blow up a veritable fleet of airplanes, which led, as always, to a bit overly gung-ho backlash wherein folks weren't allowed to bring water, books, or music onto planes, thereby damning passengers to 8 ounce plastic cups full of airplane bathroom water and a far too friendly knowledge of this month's Skymall ("Maybe I do need a solar power beard trimmer"). Hectic times to be sure.
But, yes: we're back. And, with that, only for about eighteen hours here, as we leave for Anaheim tomorrow, the official kick-off of a rather lengthy jaunt across the United States and parts of Canada. And by parts, I mean two cities, but, well, because we're playing Canada, we can legitimately claim an International Tour, which makes us sound like spies or pirates or pirate spies---basically, anything that doesn't insinuate that we're in fact four dangerously-close-to-bums* hoping to make in home without lame beards or a smoldering Patrick Stewart.
Where was I? Ah yes: Touring. Canada. We were touring with Division Day when they tried to sneak across the border using ignomious tactics and were banned from our Northern neighbor for a a full year. Thankfully, we didn't try that, and instead spent the night in The Castle and the morning at the Original Pancake House and the rest of the tour scoffing and mocking Division Day for all of the above. Poor saps. My point though: we don't really know how we're getting into Canada. There may be some sort of form to fill out or a special soft-shoe you have to perform at the border but I know neither. Maybe we'll sneak across as one of our innumerable and completely non-serious side projects: System of a Ho-Down, Memory of the Oversoul, The Electric Corpse of the Shemale Windigo. Maybe we'll cruise through without a care. I'm not sure. But lump that one into the "things we need to discover by early September" category.
Speaking of the venerable D-Day, we played with them and a few other friends on Saturday night in Oakland. It was one of those incredibly long, all ages shows where the knees of the young are forever ruined. We had our little reunion with those Los Angelians** and it felt like going out to dinner with old friends. A very loud, dank dinner. With no food. Or privacy. Or menus. So, no: not the best analogy there. Moving onwards.
Today brings the boring things that you do before any big trip. You do your laundry, realizing that none of your socks match. You round up books, ignoring the intense desire to just bring your favorite novel and read it twelve times. You clean your room so you won't return to an unmade bed and a dangerously ancient coffee on your nightstand. You find all the crappy little battery chargers that seem necessary for travel these days: CD players, distortion pedals, cameras, iPods, cell phones, robot-puppy. Then, if you're me, you wait till 1 in the morning and shove them all in a giant duffel bag because you spent the evening watching Simpsons reruns and drinking brandy instead of folding your underoos. Oh, and a haircut. I need one of those.
So here's the plan: do all of the above. Forget only the things that can be forgotten. Finish the tour poster. Fold some t-shirts so we can get gasoline on the way. And then, we're gone. 40 days. Goodnight chair. Goodnight old shoes. Goodnight moon.
As some surely know, we do try & keep this here blog dealy updated while we're away. Stories, musings, and, since we're finally properly equipped, some photos from the 8,000 mile odyssey ahead. Leave some comments, stop on by, ignore us completely: do what you will. Hopefully: see you soon. Until Anaheim.
*not, of course, to be mistaken for hobos. We've learned the subtle differences.
**Los Angelesians? L.A.liens? I don't know. At any rate it's no "Glaswegian," so I'm not incredibly concerned.