Just when I've got my life at home back to some level of normalcy, it dawns on me: we're leaving again. To be specific, we're leaving on Thursday for our last trek of the year, one which, essentially, is a bee line to New York, a five day sojourn in the most expensive city in America (read: lots of hotdog breakfasts), then an abrupt U-turn, a show in Philly, and a four day drive through the middle of the country back home. We'll be driving right around the election too, which is good because it means low gas prices. That's what happens when oilmen are in the White House. What with all the torturing, moral legislating, and general disregard for the Constitution, you take what you can get. What you can get is 30 cents off a gallon biannually. It's a slender silver lining, but it's there. I promise.
Of course, there are marked improvements this time. For starters, we have a van capable of ascending hills at over fifteen miles per hour. That's a biggie. Plus, this van has a crappy little TV in the back, which means hours of "Freddie's Dead," "Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid," and, maybe, if we're lucky, a good movie. We have a new song too, which we may or may not play, but we can talk about playing it a lot, which will be kind of like playing it in the first place. Or not.
Another nice part of this tour is that our first stop is Los Angeles (obviously on the way to New York from San Francisco. Thanks public schooling). L.A. as a town isn't what I'm excited about----although once I saw Ethan Embry on the street; soooo dreamy----it's that we get to go into KCRW and play Morning Becomes Eclectic. Almost makes me feel legitimate, you know. I should wear a monocle to enhance the feeling. Nothing makes me feel more legitimate than a monocle. Not even a cape.
Anyway (I don't know what that was all about either, just bear with me: it's Monday and my coffee is half empty---definately not half full): it's going to be fun, if only to hear Nic Harcourt say Birdmonster a half dozen times. Honestly, I can't think of anyone with a more pleasing voice, besides maybe Rod Roddy, who's dead, so he doesn't count. Although if I could get Zombie Rod Roddy to say "Birdmonster: cooooooome on down," I'd die a happy man. Presumably at the hands of Zombie Rod Roddy, come to think of it.
But we've still got three days. Three days to do laundry, scrape together November rent, and watch the Departed again. Three days to pack up, go back on sabbatical from the office, and say yet another set of goodbyes. Here we go again.