Everything began seamlessly. The guy from SST showed up with the van on 13th St. at precisely 11:00 on Wednesday morning. I packed up my gear and headed over to Brooklyn to pick up the boys. Ethan was ready, WhyNot had to be taken to his favorite coffee joint, and then we were off.

We attained Boston just in time for sound check. Reunited with our friends in Ivy, we quickly settled down for a dinner of hummus. Showtime came and we stormed the stage, perhaps a little too authoritatively at first, but things settled in and we played a pretty smooth set.

SET LIST
Mine and Yours
Sweet Sunshine
Elodie
World of a King
Robert Bradley's Postcard
Comfort
Touch of Mascara
Girl on the Roof
Figure of Eight
Telephone
Breathe You In

(We stuck to this, with the exception of a few substitutions here and there, for most of our 45 minute Ivy shows)

Afterwards, we hung out with our buddies Seth, David and Adrian. A few rounds of a few bars were made. Everything ended up at Seth's impressive apartment where a large red rubber ball was thrown around and single malt Scotch was consumed, completely unnecessarily.

The next morning we stopped by a Thai restaurant that Ethan and Whynot used to frequent in their Berklee days before hitting the highway back towards Manhattan. We arrived in time to load in and sit around the Bowery Ballroom while Ivy completed theit interminably long sound check. Dominique and Andy's daughter was in tow. She has a phobia about seeing her mom in front of a microphone, apparently; I could hear her screaming above the entire band. Listening to a mother comfort her daughter in French over a PA was rather soothing, however.

After sound check we retired to Sammy's Romanian next door. E and Y shared a 20 oz. Steak. I had an iced vodka and soup.

The show was truly amazing. All traces of hangovers vanquished by red meat, the boys were truly on and I wasn't half bad myself. The crowd simmered down for the accapella section of "Figure of Eight" and "Breathe You In," unbelievably. It was my first time at Bowery and I hope it won't be long before the next.

E left early after the show (maybe the steak wasn't so great) and Y and I hung out and chatted until late. I was in bed by 4:00...

...and right back out by 8:30, for some reason. Probably some sort of post-traumatic disorder, I suppose. Anyway, we were back on the road to Philly by 1:00. The Khyber looked suspicious at first, but turned out to be a really good sounding place. Stargazer Lilly opened up, doing a fine job with their sweet and sour tunes. We headlined, so our set stretched far beyond what it had the previous nights. Highlights I can remember: finding my fly down (again), hiding behind amplifiers to simulate departure for the encore; a blistering, albeit hideously flawed, encore version of the Police's "Next To You," during which I broke a string and effectively ended the night, if not the rest of our God-forsaken lives.

After the show we hung with Stargazer Lily and friends at a loft apartment that featured a fully-equipped karaoke machine. Y dueted with a suitably tall girl on several numbers, then E and myself hogged the mic for several hours straight, covering everything from "Fame" to "Love Lift Us Up." I am nearly positive the clock at the hotel said 6:30 the last time I looked, but it was difficult to see as Ethan had it cradled in his comatose arms like some sort of missed lover.

The next morning we retrieved our road manager, Jason "Silky" Wilkins, from the Philly airport and began the quick drive to DC. Silky was slightly disappointed to hear how little time we had been spending in the luxury accommodations he had booked for us. So were we- the man has an uncanny talent for finding five and four star hotel rooms for fifty dollars a night. The entire tour would continue to expose us to a new world of 24 hour room service and high-end complimentary body lotions in marble bathrooms.

Accordingly, we arrived at the Westin Grand in Georgetown that afternoon. Our rooms were on the Penthouse floor, with adjacent balconies that we could peer across a courtyard from and watch each other iron, knit, whittle and masturbate. The beds all had five pillows, of various sizes and uses, each; the furniture was faux-Danish modern. The bathrooms were all the size of my apartment. Everything was glorious until E threw a gallon of castor oil onto a wedding party that was being photographed in the courtyard. The police and a riot squad quickly arrived, as snipers began taking up positions on the roof. E and I were terrified, crouching behind our downy beds and throwing M&M's at the door, which was on the verge of being knocked down by the FBI. Suddenly, as a tear gas grenade punctured the balcony window, E stood up, took off all his clothes and shouted "Malcolm X and Tony Alamo got nothin' on me, you asswipers! Clear the clothesline and come and get it!" and, with that, executed a perfect triple-axel off the balcony and into the pool eight floors down. We would not see him again until seconds before we took the stage that night.

The gig at the Black Cat came off without a hitch. The crowd was a little subdued, but given current circumstance of war and the fact that our drummer was wearing a Geraldo Rivera disguise, I understood. Afterwards, we hung around and chatted with the peeps by the merchandise booth. Y and I stayed in the downstairs bar for awhile, but the intensity of the day was too much to warrant an extraordinary evening.

We enjoyed our day off on Sunday. Silky, Y, myself and someone resembling a stubbier version of Dolly Parton spent the day wandering around the Mall and the American History Museum. That night we ventured down to Adams Morgan and met one of Dolly's friends for a few beers. We saw a rather good magician before packing it in for the Westin, which welcomed us with open arms and thank-you's for our assistance in the fight against terrorism the day before. Y and I were offered free breakfast and complimentary drinks at the bar, which we graciously declined. Dolly stood behind a potted plant by the elevators, smoking a menthol.

Morning arrived and we powered off towards Pittsburgh. The Rosebud is a confusing place; it is large enough to be a decent rock venue but is decorated with tables, couches and funny lamps that screamed 'IKEA' and left me feeling as if we should have been doing Edith Piaf instead of "Venus Again." The most comforting aspect of the evening was looking behind me and seeing Ethan at the kit; apparently, neither the FBI or any other known law enforcement agency has any jurisdiction whatsoever in Pittsburgh.

After the show we went to the Club Café, where we caught up with old friends, several of the fairer sex who seemed intent on making out with each other as much as possible. E and Y were suitably entertained. I got onstage and performed questionable renditions of "Cecilia" and "Maybe I'm Amazed." We took a taxi back to the Hilton and collapsed.

Grand Rapids. Our friends from the local radio station, WYCE, bought us a fine steak dinner. We played a headlining set to a great audience; two standing ovations, if memory serves. Our friend Ralston sold 52 CD's for us. A fine evening was had by all.

The next day brought a fairly grueling nine hour drive to Minneapolis. It had begun to snow when we arrived at the 400 Bar. The long hours were catching up to us; everyone was a bit testy and sound check was even more tedious than usual. After checking in at the hotel and showering, we made it back to the bar just in time to walk onstage and play. Fortunately, the place was packed; a lot of people seemed to have come back after seeing us this summer at the Fine Line. A fine bunch, with the exception of one attention-starved fucker in the back who was heckling, but not loud enough so that I could justify embarrassing him. I caught up with my childhood buddy J.P. We got a slice of pizza and went back to yet another ('Christ, Silky, can't you do any better than four stars?') Hilton.

The drive to Chicago the next day was bearable, but six or seven hours, still. At some point I took notice of what a disaster the van had become; various periodicals, Yoo-Hoo bottles and dead animals were scattered everywhere. I mentioned this to Ethan, who sneered before checking out the window for any undercover cop cars. Ever conscious of breaking his personal record of 20 hours of sleep in one day, WhyNot continued to snore peacefully in the back seat. Silky put in a Nick Drake CD and swerved into the passing lane. I lit a cigarette and stared across the barren Midwestern landscape, contemplating death.

After following some bad directions and nearly driving headfirst into Lake Michigan, we made a triumphant return to the Double Door in Chicago. I was unable to get a very sweet underage fan into the show, but we rocked nonetheless. The sound was much better than the last time, and the crowd was teeming. My old buddy from Nashville, Steve Padgett, showed up and we chewed the fat as he destroyed me at billiards. We soon retired to Estelle's and celebrated the evening by mixing liquor and annihilating ourselves. Many plans and strategies were laid out, to little avail; morning came, sure as shit, and all ambitions were ruined, at least until noon.

The day was salvaged by an afternoon trip to an unnamed music store on the South Side. After an hour and a half of browsing, we emerged triumphant: E with a snare drum, a rack tuner, and various pedals; Y with a great new Ampeg bass (for $150); Silky with an accordion and a renewed outlook on life in general; myself, yes, me, sporting a beautiful 1971 Fender Mustang bass and some wonderful old Barcus Berry pre-amps for my acoustic guitars. Joy.

Chicagoland traffic nearly kicked our ass, however; we arrived in Ann Arbor with only minutes to spare before the doors opened (A brief moment should be taken here to say thanks to Lance, Ivy's roadie, who was so damn helpful and cheery throughout the entire run we wanted to take him home. Actually, I think we did). Despite the rushed circumstances, the set came off nicely, vaulting us back into the ranks of the confirmed. In light of the long drive back to NYC the following day, we decided to call it an early night, despite Y's protests that he was getting a major 'vibe' from the two girls that had been in front. Jesus, if Y had a dollar for every woman who gives him 'vibe...'

Silky made a clandestine departure the next morning for the Detroit airport. The boys and I were on the road by 8:30. The drive was smooth, augmented by extraordinary weather variations and a nice lunch at the Wolf's Den restaurant in Knox, PA. We were stuck in traffic near the Verrazano Bridge by 7:45. As I looked upriver towards the gaping hole in the Manhattan skyline, I felt an extra surge of the survival adrenaline that always comes with a return to NYC. I made a short and rather eloquent speech to my bandmates regarding the essence of humanity and the passage of time.

"Yeah, whatever, dude," Ethan wearily intoned as he exhaled cigarette smoke. "I just hope the FBI ain't doin' any search-and-seizures at the bridge, dig it?"