A three show monster that ravages the South. Jesus, I've already bungled the opening day by forgetting that I lost my wallet and driver's license two weeks ago, which makes renting a car rather difficult. I was out last night until 4:30 and I feel like a champion, despite. A sadly misguided champion, but still, an overcomer, dammit.

So I'm sitting in NYC waiting for my girl Rolanda at the Tennessee DMV to fax my driving record so I can finally get one of those hot NY driver's licenses. The fact that I have not procured this document in over two years of residency is disturbing, but there's a kielbasa and cheddar omelette on the way to my apartment right now. I'm truly looking forward to having another ID photo taken.

My Dad's wife gave me an amazing electric kettle for my birthday. It boils copious amounts of boiled water very quickly, which I make tea with.

Waiting for the government to come to my aid, I purchase two fine novels today: The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen and Naked by David Sedaris. If I have to take the train to South Carolina tonight, these will come in handy. The Amtrak website is fucked up again, understandably.

Ahh, the door buzzer; the omelette. The chocolate milkshake.

Next day. I show up in front of Penn Station with three guitars, an amplifier, a pedal board, a suitcase, a backpack and a big box of CD's. I have been assured by my loyal Amtrak representative that porters will be there to help. I wait twenty minutes; no porters. I pay a homeless fellow twenty bucks to help me carry my stuff to the baggage check, where I am curtly informed that my baggage cannot be checked without a ticket, which I have not yet procured for obvious reasons. Under threat of confiscation by the police, I abandon my formidable pile of stuff and make a dash to the electronic ticket kiosk. It will not accept my reservation number. I find a porter (lounging, quite comfortably, by the baggage check) and give him ten dollars to watch my stuff while I wait in line for a ticket. Forty minutes later I reach the front of the line, where I am kindly informed that I will not be able to make my train. I am re-routed on an express train to DC. I return to find my porter livid about the waiting. I give him another ten and we head for the train.

I relieve myself of twenty more dollars to another porter in DC and promptly head to the bar for an hour of heavy contemplation. Four hours old, the tour is already hemorrhaging money. A call to my mother proves futile due to lousy cell phone reception. I board the train to Greenville at 7:25 and settle back for the ride.

I enjoy a dinner of crab cakes in the dining car with a Mexican man named Alberto and his traveling companion, a 75 year-old woman from Maine named Marjorie. They are riding the train to New Orleans en route to Guadalajara, Mexico, where they will be engaging in some sort of litigation involving a bed and breakfast they own there. Marjorie does not trust planes anymore after September 11; this is the first of several train rides they will be making over the next few months.

I have ordered coffee and asked for my check by the time all of this information finally comes out. Alberto warmly shakes my hand as Marjorie gulps down enough medication to neutralize a bull in heat. I retire to the lounge car, the only smoking area on the train after 10:30. Predictably, all the rowdies on the train have gathered here. I sit quietly reading as the car gets louder and drunker. At one point, a guy actually produces a guitar and begins to play. I am expecting a real 'literary moment' until a dispute arises between those passengers who want to hear Skynyrd and those who are content to let the young man piddle on with his Dave Matthews-esque noodling. Needless to say, I leave shortly thereafter.

Seven hours and 254 pages of The Corrections later, we arrive at the Greenville station. It is completely deserted except for one exceptionally kind attendant who helps me with my over-sized load of luggage. Then I pay for a very enjoyable and informative cab ride with a driver who, in 79 years, has never been farther than Columbia, SC. He possesses an astounding wealth of information about Greenville. After picking up my rental car (my dad procured a duplicate of my TN license and over-nighted it to the rental place), I find a hotel and sleep soundly until 3:00.

I am reunited with my buddies in Jump, Little Children at sound check. Evan, Johnny and Ward have learned six of my songs and back me up beautifully, smiling and dancing all the way. I realize about halfway through the set that my fly had been down since the beginning. (Extra credit, they call that) Watching the boys during their set, I am struck by what a precarious dynamic they maintain. Very impressive. I hang around for the duration of it and call it a night.

I high-tail it for Nashville the next day, bright and early. I arrive to find out that the Honorable Robert Bradley has a show at the Springwater that night, which I gladly participate in. Afterwards, we go to a party at a house that has huge trampoline in the backyard. My brother JJ and I suitably exhaust ourselves and make plans for the next record. I sleep soundly that night at Bobby B's.

My father accompanies me the next day for the drive to Knoxville and admirably participates in the eternal waiting that is sound check in a town where you know no one. The show goes off again without a hitch- I am surprised to find out that I do, indeed, have more friends in Knoxville than I originally thought. JJ and Heather have come over for the show. Sophie is having surgery for a knee ligament. She will stay behind for a week of underwater physical therapy.

(Sophie is a dog.)

After dropping Peter off in Nashville the next morning, I bust out for Atlanta, arriving in a personal record time of 3:15. Sound check at the wonderful Variety Playhouse is exceptionally enjoyable; I finally have time to properly work in my lap steel and vocal arrangements to the JLC set. They exchange a few worried looks, but ultimately humor me. The show is the best yet; lighters aloft on "Breathe You In," sing-alongs on "Girl On The Roof," etc. I leave the stage feeling like a rock star, then come back to join JLC for four numbers and a failed attempt at blues lap steel during the encore.

Afterwards, everyone goes bowling at an all-night establishment. I am kindly boarded by my new friends Liz, Tiffany and Carrie, who ask for nothing more in return than a few jokes and the opportunity to darn my socks in the morning.

And morning comes, far too soon. I set out for my Mom's house in Cartersville and proceed to have a wonderful three-day visit. Then another swing through Nashville to play and hang with the Jump boys one more time. A few more days of merriment and quality time, and I am off again homeward. (Another personal best: 12:45 to the Lincoln Tunnel)

As of now, it looks like I'll be heading back down South for more dates with John Mayer and JLC in November. I have all my documents and luncheon meats in order, so watch out. Thanks again to everybody for coming out early and being so damn sweet. Keep the love coming; your boyfriends might not always listen, but I do.