I opened my eyes in the middle of Breathe You In to a most fantastic sight. Scott and Andrea were waltzing across the dance floor of the night club, oblivious to the other members of the audience looking on. Afloat on the moment, they held each other in a soft embrace as their feet slowly levitated off the floor and carried them into the warm essence of a fond memory.

It is easily forgotten that the scene took place in Sacramento. Never mind that the other members of the audience numbered only six. And what, exactly, is the point of recollecting that the song had not been performed in quite awhile and was most likely suffering from a medium-to-pretty good performance? The proof is in the pudding, as they say. Music has the innate ability to transcend circumstance and take us back to places and moments that we will treasure all the way to our graves. Scott and Andrea's slow dance to my song was the high point of my recent West Coast tour, and I am hesitant to put the rest of it down into more practical prose as not to spoil the beauty of the moment. But, as any reader of these god-forsaken pages will know by now, I am nothing if not a teller of tall tales and foregone inaccuracies; a blabber-mouth, if you will. And so, for what seems to be the 435th time, here goes.

Colonel Krones had been kind enough to educate me in the proper use of American Airlines upgrade segments before the flight to San Diego. As I looked out over the Grand Canyon from my first class window, I silently thanked him again before ordering another complimentary Bloody Mary from the flight attendant. My sciatica nerve was suitably unaggravated for once, and since my former road manager and fearless confidant Jason Silky Wilkins had been able to procure a $176.00 round trip ticket into San Diego and out of Seattle, I felt that the acquiescence to luxury was justifiable.

Peter Stuart picked me up from the airport in a rented Buick. We quickly got to catching up while navigating the mean streets of San Diego. I have known Peter for over five years now, which is a mighty long time in the singer-songwriter trenches. Years of unfulfilled ambitions and solo touring drive many of us to early deaths and/or volunteer work, but Peter has managed to stay focused and somewhat directed. Besides possessing a mean talent with song craft and an extremely likable stage manner, he is capable of running fifteen miles at a clip and has an affinity for Ashtanga Yoga. Over the course of his career he has written and recorded a top five hit and hiked in the Himalayas. You might expect an individual with such depth of experience to distance himself with a gleaming eye and a cocksure air, but Peter would prove himself to be a marvelous traveling companion and a worthy musical conspirator, to boot.

After regaining my composure and sobriety at the Holiday Inn, I met my Grandmother and her husband Floyd for dinner. We dined at an oceanfront seafood restaurant and traded various family stories before driving over to the gig in North Park. The venue turned out to be a bar of questionable repute; Floyd and Doris decided to forego the performance and floated on back to Fallbrook in their Cadillac. Peter and I passed the hours before the performance eating Carne Asadas and playing Galaga. My childhood buddy Jay and some of his friends came out for the show, which, unfortunately, turned out to be a bit of a groaner. Seven to eight people listened politely while the rest of the bar continued on about its Thursday night business. I had to ask a drunken patron to stop throwing darts across the stage area as Peter began his set. The night was somewhat redeemed by a very friendly promoter who assured me that she would like to do another show with a bit more advance promotion and a more suitable venue. I thanked her kindly and we headed back to the hotel for some rest.

The next morning we headed up the I-5 to Los Angeles. I arrived at the hotel in Century City and proceeded to watch television for nine hours straight before heading to the airport to pick up the Colonel, who had decided to attend the shows in L.A. for business reasons. The following day we drove around to various points in the city, eating and shopping all along the way. I scored some more State pins to bolster my collection (Minnesota- a real find) and we drove up to Kips old house in Los Feliz. There was a garage sale next door...

(Christ, I am bored senseless already. I will qualify the rest of this entry by saying that there is something in the air out there that truly inspires me to do absolutely nothing. When telling friends that I am about to go on tour, I am generally greeted with responses implying that there is something unbelievably cool about the impending experience that they will never grasp. While this is true on one very thin level, the reality is that touring involves passing an enormous amount of time by forcing oneself to get out and attempt to take advantage of all the unfamiliar places one finds oneself in. This, while being an amazing opportunity, is a situation that requires a consistent level of brio and self-motivation that comes and goes with the tides. Some days I want to conquer a city to the point of calling it a home-away-from home; on others, I am reduced to laying in a hotel bed and watching Operation Dumbo for the third time while spending stupid money on artery-clogging room service food. Oh, you poor miserable, whining bastard, you might be thinking. Well, don't. For years I have been proud to be out here consuming mass quantities of salt and alcohol on your behalf, and I ll be damned if Im stopping now.)

The Hotel Cafe turned out to be a mighty little room. The two shows we played over the weekend were very well attended and performed. I tried out a good bit of new stuff on the Los Angelinos and they seemed to respond enthusiastically, waving sombreros and writhing uncontrollably in their red nougahyde seats. I met a lot of very nice folks, one of whom happened to be in Brian Wilson's band and called the next day to see if I could fill in on piano and vocals for a TV special they'll be doing in Nashville. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Monday morning found us back on the interminable I-5 making a beeline north for San Francisco. After eight hours of more bad food and good conversation, we arrived at the Phoenix Hotel on Eddy Street. The Phoenix is something of a rock n roll institution in San Fran that has catered to the specific needs of musicians for years. One can always count on bumping into rumpled, unkempt members of the tribe who are also not morning people and may or may not have achieved some degree of notoriety in their careers, or at least the night before. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no one at the hotel when we arrived except a German video crew and (unbelievably) a screaming bunch of children splashing in the terra cotta pool.

We rolled over to Cafe Du Nord to find that our double bill had been turned into a triple bill. No strangers to surprise, we accepted the news calmly. After a brief conversation with the aforementioned act in which the rules of engagement (45 minute sets, quick turnaround times) were agreed upon, we decided to embrace the situation and let bygones be bygones. My set was augmented by the presence of a nice baby grand piano at which I was able to bang out satisfactory renditions of Bucket of Girls, Only In The Movies and Painless. The crowd was small but very appreciative and I left the stage very happy to be in San Francisco again. Unfortunately, the story sours from there: After my set, the aforementioned performer took half an hour to set up her minimal equipment and then proceeded to play for over sixty minutes, showing no remorse when confronted afterwards regarding her blatant abuse of the situation. Peter was forced to take the stage at nearly midnight to a withering Monday crowd that had most likely been drained of all its goodwill by that point. He soldiered through admirably, but the damage had already been done. Afterwards, we packed the gear back into the Buick and headed back to the Phoenix to find the bar closed and no rock stars anywhere in sight.

Which, more or less, brings us back to Sacramento. The day preceding the gig was spent meandering aimlessly through the town eating mediocre food and watching a truly awe-inspiring display of cinematic art entitled 2Fast 2Furious. The show was difficult. Scott and Andreas slow dance really saved my life. All else was lost.

(If you are beginning to feel physically drained from the heavier aspects of this account thus far, you are in good company. Take a moment to grab a drink, feed the dog or slap the kids. I'll be here when you get back. In fact, I am more resolved than ever to put this thing into words for you, to take you there, as they say. Good fortune comes to those who find consistency and patterns in the most minute details of this life, and I will figure it out here with you, if you're up for it. For instance, I found the speed limit signs in Oregon, when we finally entered it the next day, to be particularly odd, suspicious. They breed a healthy, presumably keen-sighted stock out there, and I was befuddled as to why the numbers on the signs were twice as large as they are in other states. Who was responsible for giving the sign contract to a different company than the one the rest of the country seems to use? Is there some kind of Satanic corruption brewing in Eugene? The American Interstate reveals very little mystery these days within its corporatized refueling and refreshment centers. What ever happened to the odd billboards advertising topless lunch buffets, random Bible verses and morally bankrupt Mexican restaurants? Everything is Exxon, McDonalds, AM/PM, Starbucks, Taco Bell, Wendy's. Oftentimes these somewhat detestable entities are even housed under the roof of one ugly strip mall, a stucco abomination with a couple of tiny trees struggling to hold on for life under a mountain of cigarette butts and obese drivers. David, do you get inspired on the road? Well, Penelope, if I spent more time frolicking in actual cities with planned infrastructures instead of questioning my very reason for living in the parking lot of a goddamn myopic refreshment multiplex, perhaps I would be. But I happen to be speaking to you on a cell phone beaming and receiving brain-damaging microwaves whilst smoking a cigarette full of toxic chemicals. My friend Peter is inside the aforementioned stucco hellhole, buying me a coffee concoction loaded with refined sugar and genetically-modified dairy product, which I'll soon be drinking while continuing to inhale my cigarette and the exhaust of three Dodge Caravans carrying the Fruit of George Bush's America to an undisclosed location. Damn it, Sweetie, I try to reap the creative rewards of this situation, but they continue to elude me like the phantom deer of Niagara.)

The next day I awoke in Portland, a true pioneer's city and home to Peter Stuart. After dusting the cobwebs from my brain I called him up and we headed out for an afternoon in the city. Coffee was consumed, books were purchased from Powell's Megastore and a truly fine and appropriate film, Owning Mahoney, was viewed. That night Peter took me to a local bar called the Boiler Room. We shot pool and watched karaoke to the tune of a lot of vodka and a skewered view on the world. The next evening we would forego a Lisa Germano gig and do the same thing.

The next night we finally had a gig. Dante's was a nice venue with a good sound system and a fire pit in the front to heighten the impact of the inferno theme. A decent number of people turned up, several of whom I had been waiting to meet for awhile from e-mail correspondence. I decided to revert to a more standard set, which served me well. I had been experimenting with a number of new songs from various new albums and it was nice to settle back into familiar territory and just rock. The gig was early; Gene Simmons was supposed to be appearing late in the night to do something or another. Peter and I opted for yet another visit to the Boiler Room. More pool was shot; more vodka was consumed. An unidentified redheaded visitor from Nashville took the mic for a truly avant-garde rendition of Sophie B. Hawkins' Damn, Wish I was Your Lover. No one was hurt.

Peter collected me from the hotel the next afternoon for the quick drive to Seattle. I was fortunate enough to meet my friends Brian and Erica that afternoon for some afternoon carousing and catching up. That evening brought another good turnout for the show; buoyed by familiar faces and the impending journey home the next day, I played my best set of the tour. The only questionable moment occurred at the end of the show when, pretending to make a big rock star exit, I accidentally booted my acoustic guitar with the toe of my boot, leaving a large hole that I am still scared to examine. Well, it was probably time for a new one, anyway.

Or so I told myself the next evening as the plane settled at cruising altitude over Montana. The West is a tricky place, one that has captured and driven many a man stark raving mad in its clutches. It was good to me this time, and I have every intention of kicking it squarely in the ass in December or so. Thanks to everyone who came out to fry the freak acoustic pop flag; it was great to see so many of you after my inexcusably long absence. Keep the faith; tell all your friends about the forthcoming realization and well all have a grand time together come Winter.