In which we discuss fawning over other frontmen, possible Harry Potter 7 endings, and the curative powers of White Castle

It's a rare occasion when I do the circa-1988
-fainting-girl-at-a-Michael-Jackson-concert thing.
But there I was last night, stomping in place, doing
the limp wrist face fan, yelping "OhmiGAWD"
because we got to meet one of the guys from
Thunderbirds are Now! in their hometown, Detroit
Michigan. Zach had a stroke of MySpace genius and
invited them whilst we bogarted the University of
Michigan's internet connection and, lo and behold,
they came. With their brand new CD in tow no less.
Their first LP is one of my personal go-to late
-night driving records, so I'm rather giddy about it. I
probably embarrassed myself a bit last night
though. I don't think humping his leg helped much.

We had another such moment earlier this tour
when we met Paul from Harry and the Potters in
Boston. For those who don't know, Paul is Harry
Potter year 7 and, in stark disobedience of
Dumbledore's suggestions, used a time turner so he
could play music with his brother, Harry Potter
year 4, rocking medium-sized venues and libraries
all summer long. We schoolgirled out on him before
trading book 7 predictions. I think, through some
heroic deed or five, Harry loses all his magical
powers while saving the magical and muggle races.
Of course, my mouth is in my ass when I say this.
Still, Harry year 7 was intrigued. We high-fived and
vanished.

That was several days ago though. We're finally
at that light at the end of the tunnel stage, with
three more Midwest shows, a Minneapolis NPR
appearance, and a handful of Northwest shows
then...home. I remember home. Vaguely. There's a
Victorian with my bed in it, a bunch of fog, a bunch
of bums. Oh man. My bed. Odds of there being a
gecko under the comforter: low.

Last evening we played without Catfish Haven
but with Someone Still Has Feelings for Mikael
Gorbachov in Hamtramck (really, that's how it's
spelled) and some hometown friends, the Lovely
Public. They rocked in a Tim Burton on acid at a
carnival sort of way. Highly recommended. After
the show we all had our very first taste of White
Castle. Which, come to think of it, deserves it's
own paragraph.

First off, we don't have White Castle on the left
coast. We have it's superior godfather, In N Out.
But let it be said: White Castle is magical. See, I
was sicker than I'd been all tour yesterday
evening. I was 25% mucus, 35% headache, and 30%
self-pity. The other 10%: snips, snails, puppydog
tails. But I scarfed down some post show White
Castle, went to sleep in a real bed (thanks Matt &
Wendy), and woke up feeling wonderful. In other
words, White Castle: 1, Airborne, Advil, Multi
-Vitamins, Chicken Soup, Crushed Rhino Penis
Voodoo Cocktail: 0.

Onwards to Cleveland. Heavy Metal and Lebron
James await.