Goodnight Minneapolis. Goodnight Boris. Goodnight Moon.

The sun is setting over the edges of Minnesota.
Maybe South Dakota. I haven't really been sign
watching for the last couple hours. I've had my
head burried in a Michael Malone book, which is a
veritable tour tradition, one which, unless he gets
cracking at some new novels, will forcable end
itself three tours from now. So get going buddy.
And straight to softcover, if you wouldn't mind.
Thirty bucks for a heavier book with a flimsy dust
jacket has never struck me as a grand bargain.

Anyway, it's gorgeous here. It reminds me of a
colder, more corn-lined central California, lacking in
windmills and In 'N' Outs, pleasantly free of that
lingering manure aroma that lingers over most
everything south of San Jose and north of Santa
Barbara, with plenty of rolling green, ominous
cloud-cover, and anonymous smushed mammals.
Perfect Richard Buckner scenery. Excuse me while
I put some on.

Ah, that's more like it. Warble on, big guy.

So here we are. A 1300 mile trundle to the Pacific
Northwest which we're elongating by an additional
hundred miles so we can take the 90 and maybe
see the Corn Palace or Walldrug or Mount
Rushmore, all of which are in South Dakota, the
most interesting state I never gave much credit
to and assumed was just a 300 mile yawn. Of
course we got a late start this morning---or,
rather, this late afternoon---so we might miss
them all, thanks to a marathon of horrific beers,
bittersweet au reviours, and copious Ping Ponging.
Our priorities: maleable. Perhaps retarded. But I
rediscovered my backhand, so back off. Ping Pong,
the onamotopeic sport of the aristocracy. Or
something.

Before I get even further off-track, let's talk
about Minnesota. First off, it should be mentioned
that we played an in-studio at 89.3, the Current, in
one of the most impressive recording spaces I've
ever seen. And any station that plays Nancy
Sinatra, Okkervil River, the Temptations, Mr. Lif,
and Ryan Adams in the same set gets brownie
points up the wazoo. Or is it out the wazoo? In
any event, they've been given far too many
brownie points for the wazoo to begin to contain
them all. Plus, they were the first station to play
Prarie Home Companion (Lake Wobegon, if I recall,
is in Minnesota), so, well, the wazoo is overflowing
as it is. Let's leave it alone, shall we?

One lingering sadness: no Fargo-esque accents. I
was rather looking forward to that.

The show was enjoyable, enjoyed, memorable,
and, sadly, our last night with Boris Yeltsin and
the Someone Still Loves Yous. We had that lovely,
storm the stage moment during each other's
respective sets and my palm is covered in plum
colored splotches due to overly aggressive
tambourining. It's always sad when you say
goodbye to a friend band of guys whose songs you
thoroughly enjoy but there's really nothing you
can do about it. Except violent kidnapping. Sadly, I
left my twine and blackjack in Rochester.

It's fully nighttime now. We're God knows how far
from the Corn Palace, civilization, other, less
appreciated Dakotas. I think I'll kick back and
enjoy the Tom Petty. Seems like a good thing to
do.