We're finally back home. It was fun and all, but, I was tiring of the floral patterns that graced the Motel Six's not quite queen beds. I left after the home town gig sick and bound for Chicago, spending two nights on a hard wood floor at a friend of a friends in the Mexican district. No soup to be found but tortilla with pork-rinds and heavy cream.
The Midwest was harsh. But we slowly befriended our tour-mates and watched some sunsets through bug splattered windshields and eventually wound up in the westwest. Seattle was bunk but pretty. Portland was even prettier and not bunk at all.
We crossed one of those big Golden-like Gate-like bridges when San Francisco seemed to be burning with one of the most beautiful sunsets that I can imagine hung above it. So very sadly, Southern California really was burning when we drove south. We drove through the smoke and the hills were rolling for miles into it. The Troubador sounded better than any club had yet.
"When you guys going on?" asked Pauly Shore as we stood on stage tuning, obviously about to go on. "Right now, Pauly," I said.
He bobbed his head for a few songs then wandered to the bar and out of sight for good.
We saw old missed friends in LA and then drove further south where The Shys displayed their immense hospitality and friendship toward us, letting us share their beautiful homes and beers.
We headed back east, through the desert, Tombstone, and eventually ended up in our own beds.
The end. Give or take a few stories.