APRIL 10
____________________________________________________________________

In a plane over the desert.
Leaving when I don’t want to.
I want to go up on my roof and wrestle with the swamp cooler again, like last night, when it won. In all these summers it’s never beat me and now I want another round.

I am having strange attachment disorders with my kids. I am addicted to their drastic actions, their subtle movements, their smells, their annoyance, and their sheer spark. Most specifically,
the flamboyance of their laughter. Such fine form compared to the hapless pontifications of the adults they will join into someday.
They are set on stun right now.

– — —- – – – - – -
I am headed to Newcastle. I can rely on them Geordies to snap me out of this. But at the moment I am drenched in self mired muck.
I am filthy with it.

- – - – - — – -

Matt ward dropped me off at the airport at noon back in tucson.
He and his lovely wife came to town the night before, so they dropped me off nice and late today, me hoping I’d have missed my plane. I always want to miss my plane. But no. I am an hour early somehow. This sucks. It’s a terminal feeling.

- – - – – - — – — – - – - – -

A few weeks ago matt and I recorded a couple songs together with neko case. I am not sure where they ended up. Songs are like that. They get emitted and then omitted.
But I’m committed and I admit it.

Before the ride to the airport, we had breakfast at poco cosa.
We were talking about the Dylan concert the night before.
It was Monday morning, and I had postponed my flight to Newcastle by a day in order to stick around for the Dylan and haggard show on Sunday. This would mean I would have to perform in Newcastle the same day I would arrive, which is never a good idea any more, but the concert seemed worth the hard ship.

The strangest thing at the concert was the our seating arrangement.
dylan’s guitar player had ended up comping us 2 seats.
But they ended up directly behind patti (rainer’s widow) and tom larkins (first giant sand drummer), and they had bought their seats months ago. Then, winston watson (dylan’s old drummer for 4 years and giant sand’s other first drummer) showed up and sat with his date exactly in front of tom and patti. That all seemed like strange coincidence out of the 10.000 people all seated there. Until mr. and mrs. matt ward showed up in mid concert and had the seats exactly in front of winston. Everyone got their seats from a different source, but there we all were in a clustered formation, 2 in front of 2 going up the stands like that.

Merle haggard had opened up for bob. He sounded fantastic and brought back many memories from my early days living in Tucson in the 70s. My room mate then, jon tucker, would play a lot of haggard. I was 19 then and tucker would turn me on to a ton of country music like hank snow, david alan coe, and willy’s red haired stranger album. Now at this moment over breakfast, chuck tucker, jon’s brother, walked in the restaurant. I have not seen chuck for 20 years. – - – — -

Last Friday, I stopped in for lunch here at my usual joint, the little poca cosa cafe. You know I love this place cause I sang about it in that song ‘cowboy boots on cobble stone’. They have managed to make the absolute best chile rellenos in the world.
Now they are mired with that distinction.
A distinction in which you just have to add mire.

– – — – - – — — – - – -

The place is run by sisters who are fiery and hug and kiss everybody who comes in the door. Sandra, the one that rides a harley, asked me the friday before the sunday he was supposed to play here, if I could hook it up to have bob dylan come in for dinner.

Blank space here.

No I said. So she asked again. She asked 4 times actually. I repeated my inability. Now the original native folks around here have a thing about asking for something 4 times. I don’t think she knew about this.
I paid and left it alone.

- – — – - -

Saturday came and and patty stopped by the house. I casually mentioned the invite for dinner at poca cosa because I knew that bob’s bass player, tony, always hooks up with harvey, her old man, to buy some new old basses.
Aesthetically speaking, them basses are loaded,
So now then, here comes the pitch.

- – - – -

The next day was Sunday. Harvey called. He asked if that dinner thing was still a possibility. I said maybe. Tony wants in, apparently.
Sandra freaks out on the phone and says yipes, then calls back and says she’s in. Sets it up for after closing hours of course.

None of this means bob will come. Of course he won’t come, but the band will come. And if the band comes, then there will always be that last minute chance the boss will jump on board.

They both ask if I’ll be there.
I tell them I’ll be taking my son to ‘funtastics’ because he did well in school this week, and will stop in late, if I can.
- – - – — – - – – - -

Anyhow, after the tastic fun, we head home. Poca cosa is down town on our way. My son and I stopped and went to have a look see.

As we cross the street to the front of the restaurant, it already fires off an eerie illuminating glow. A box shaped shop of low light almost that of an impossible theatre. This restaurant is always closed by 2:30 in the afternoon, but the sisters opened it up after closing to feed them dylanistas. Now it has a glow never witnessed before.

As I approach, I was beginning to look forward to talking with tony and offering up my function as a piano player one day if they ever figure out they need one. I had the idea that we could get one of those little pianos you only find in denmark, and thereby avoiding those digital pieces of crap. Overtones are everything.

But the dull lighting in poca cosa gives way to a peculiar symmetry with everyone there seated in formation like the ‘last supper’.

There was a long table made up of several small tables, and
there in the middle facing out toward the street was bob dylan.
To his left and right were seated the disciples of decible.
Easter conveniently lingered just around the corner.

I walked in with my 7 year old son, who had insisted on dressing in his punk costume from halloween. The boy looked good and natural in his black anarchy t-shirt and black stove pipe jeans with the chains . No one said a word when we walked in.
It was like a moment in a western.
Things went silent.

- – - – - — — — -

the end.

- – - – - – - – - – - =- – - – - – - — – -=- — – - – - – - – -= =- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

begin again.

There I sat. inches away, and I would not ask him for anything. Not the time of day and not even a hello. He looked good. He looked better then he does on stage or in pictures and was gratifying to see him ageing well. He had a fire in him, in his body motions. He was in deep conversation with tony and kept it that way. And it began to occur to me how much we seem to want from these situations. I have never known a world without dylan, and that has played out into some kind of difficulty here.

So I just hung around some and ate my chile rellenos. The sisters were cooking and kept looking over the counter at me and silently mouthing “thanks”, but all I did was connect the dots. So I hung out mostly with marsela, winston’s daughter, who had just lost a friend to a severe car wreck on a dark desolate desert highway. I know that road, and it always plays with your mind out there. She was sadder then her years should allow. It was giving her a ride, some years ago at the request of her dad, that put us all here in this same situation with dylan. So I hung with her now and let dylan’s posse eat without interruption.

At one point, at the end of dinner there, I went out to get the 12 pack of beer in my truck, in case anyone was thirsty, but mostly because patty, winston’s ex and mars’s mom, asked me to go get her one.

Bob just managed to expertly not look around the room much, just took in his food and continued his talk with tony and the other new guys in the band. The new guitar player was right next to me and he looked like he really wanted a beer, but no one from the group would take one. Like there might a be an ordinance not to drink in front of bob’s sobriety. Makes some sense. The situation was very sobering.

Shortly after that 1st beer got cracked, bob stood up quick to leave and the entire table got up with him like they were an extension of his physical motor actions. I was exactly in the way. Bob would have to at least acknowledge my existence by walking by me.

Nope. He was a professional. He stopped next to me for a moment, sighed, then continued on out the door.

So that was that. I would not attempt to punctuate such a barrier. My friend harvey was reduced from his normal social practices too. Every one was socially inept except for the children of course. But the crushing thing of all was that bob did not touch his chile relleno.
Just ate the rice and beans, like in his song.

- – - – - – - — — — -

The clouds gathered that windy evening .
Something was in the air. The next day there would be more then 12.000 people marching in streets protesting the current immigration bill attempting to pass in the house. The very same day dylan and merle haggard would play that night.

As bob and entourage left the building, he encountered a truck unloading some equipment out on the street. He mumbled something to the loader about the truck and the fellow answered back and said “you look a lot like that bob dylan fellow”.
“so I’ve been told” bob said leaving the scene.

- – - – - – - – – - -
===================================================================================================================================================================================================================

So this is the wild concern. Why do we need things like autographs or anything else in these situations. Are they a form of capture? Like a photo op? Another opportunity to acquire ?

I have never asked anyone for an autograph. It always seemed useless and just simply really made no sense. The only good thing about the autograph ritual is that it grants purpose for converse. But other than that, it seems only like a habit.
I’d like to sign off on that.

Have you ever walked into an office that had those pictures staring back at you with the famous people they have been able to get pictures with. That is the saddest display. Like it should matter. That’s a bit what autographs seem to lean towards. Evidence to show off which might only cause negative gloat energy to a responsive envy on an otherwise good buddy having to bare witness.
You will alienate your friends, and we can’t have that.

Sick kids. That is the only good reason for autographs. If a kid is sick and couldn’t come, so his friend can bring him back some element of the show, or proof that he was thought about in the moment of yippity, then fine. So, you should be sick in order to get an autograph.

The end.

Unless I can get a stamp made like a passport stamp. That makes more sense. I can validate the date with a stamp. One big stomp and its over. Next. Ka-chunk. Next. Ka-chunk. Yes sir. You sir. Wait behind the yellow line sir. Now then, how long do you intend to stay here this evening ?
And is this visit for business or pleasure?
Your documents please.
Ka-chunk.

That’s making some sense to me.

And no more handshakes either. What’s up with that ?
That’s like asking for a fresh disease please.
When we get sick out here on the road its not so simple.
I can’t remember a time I cancelled a show when I was burning with fever on the road. I just get through it and it’s miserable. Although for some reason, the hot lights provide a sweat to burn the thing off by the sets end. But it’s a miserable ordeal. And I am still not sure what’s more fair to the audience, performing like that in a zombie state, or just calling the whole thing off.

What about kisses?
Lips or cheeks, its still a risky business. In belgium they kiss the cheeks 3 times, like they want to make certain some of their germs will stick. Kisses used to seem ok, especially when disinfected with a stiff swallow of good tequilla. No problem. Just good hygiene there. But these days, maybe not so good, cause drinking sucks too. It does not offer up the resolve it used to.
There is nothing out there that does anymore.
Except the music.

So what else ?

Maybe no more lyrics either. Why bother with such a derived ego driven display of dingy doldrums.

The end.

- – - – - – - – - – -

Later that same day.:

I make it finally to newcastle and the hotel. Travel is at an end and so am I. The hotel is the trampled variety. Too many humans have come and gone and treated the place like it was just in their way. The elevator is broken of course and the first room I am given has no phones working. It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just the state of affairs out here on the road sometimes.

They switch me to the next room. Somehow it feels better too until I hit the light switch and sparks fly. The whole room goes dark.
Perfect for deep jet lag afternoon sleep.

The cell phone wakes me several hours later.
It’s robert plant from morocco.
Apparently I texted him.

– – - – - – – - —– – –

I should get up anyway. A moroccon plant is a good wake up call
and a great antidote for my other bob hangover.

Voice in my head asks: “what are you doing now?”
Lips barely blurb: “I suppose I’m between bobs at the moment.”

I gather my stuff. My ride is down in the lobby to get me to the venue. His name is adam. A good bloke. Champion I say.

I am still a little off.
It happens out here with constant motion.
Something like the bends. You get bent.
It comes and goes. Hangs out for about a day or so.
So this is just me bending.
I am happy, but bent.

Then the venue is what I think will be the last for me on several fronts. I like the place, but this will be the last night I sign any more autographs. A fellow comes at me with a little professional looking tablet of paper for me to sign, so I make it a contract with myself.
I print out :
“This Is the last autograph I will ever sign” and then I sign it.
This makes him very happy too.

The evening is off to a fine start. I play a long time and include a huge amount of yammer. I love playing Newcastle. I love the crowds here. I do not pause to figure out why. The club fills up with a lot of people. Earlier today when they set up the piano for me, they mentioned it was last used for Daniel Johnston.
The coincidences continue.

So. I also mention that I will not shake any more hands and explain why. I tell them that and I tell them songs might be on the way out too. So the evening rolls on. I play stride piano. I play fuzz guitar. I orchestrate a string section with my ebay pedal. I jam with Daniel on my cd player, which I won’t do anymore either. The show is long and folks stay to the very end and seem satisfied.

After the show a few of us all chill in the emptied pub. We come up with an important revelation there. It started out with the bar manager talking about a mysterious woman’s high heel footsteps they heard one late night in the empty club there. Just the sound of those kind of shoes going up the far stairs and then disappearing. This reminded me of a time when I heard something similar.

The screen here goes all wavy whilst I reminisce;

T’was a night like no other. Long ago and very dark. I was alone in a house in a town called kutztown. I was 19. I had a puppy with me named “dobro”. There was a kitten in the house called “banjo”. No one was home. I went to sleep on the couch. Was woken up by a loud clatter which sounded like the animals chasing each other around and then whizzing by my head and up the bare wooden stairs. Then the sound just vanished up at the top of them. It was winter and I was sweating. It began to get very hot when I heard all that sound that woke me out of my deep sleep . I flicked on the light and the dog and cat were still sound asleep there on the floor. I got out of there fairly quick. The next day when the people of the house came home, they told me of the ghost there that walks up to the top of the stairs and then disappears.

Here then in Newcastle was the same thing. And then another man there told of his friend who witnessed a regiment of roman soldiers marching down an ancient road. The image of these phantoms were only from the belly up because the ancient road they once walked on was now a meter below the current terrain.

I determined something there and then. The explanation of all this seemed to be that they were not ghosts at all. They were recordings. It made some sense, more so then ghosts anyway. It seems that there are more things on this magnetic earth that gets recorded then we know about. It has to do with repetitive actions. And if this occurs as such, then sometimes long after the cause of the actions are gone, the recording of the action remains.

Why not?
We have heard sound recordings on petroleum (vinyl), metals (wire), even paper coated with alloys, and of course magnetic tape. We have seen visual recording transmitted through the waves we are all ready saturated with, there on the TV. We live on a magnet. Sometimes things must get recorded on the elements around us.

What’s more is this would explain the difficulty in trying not to obsess over a lover that has left us. Or worse, a loved one who has died. After so many repetitive actions with this lover, their imprint on you is stuck. You have to suffer that recording long after they are gone. This will drive you mad of course, unless you acknowledge it as a recording. Then maybe you will figure you are lucky to have such capture.

So:

Adam and I head back to the hotel. I drop my stuff off at the hotel and we try to hit a bar that’s still open. I am way bent now and jet lagged the wrong way. Not sleepy at all.

The bar we find is closing fast around us when we get there, and so we have to leave. Walking back in the restless night I order a pizza to go from just across the street of my trampled hotel.

Adam says that there is still another bar that might be open and it’s just below the hotel. Wondering why he didn’t mention this earlier, he says because it’s a lap dance joint. Ok. Never have been in one before, and since I love newcastle so much it seems I can almost trust the notion. So I poke my head in and they have a rule that says although they are open to 3 you have to be inside before 2:00. It is 2 minutes before at that moment and seems like enough of an omen to me. Adam has to leave so I venture in while I am waiting for my pizza.

It is almost empty and seems ok enough. They have san miguel on tap, so I set down and drink my last beer of the night attempting to tuck away the endless miles of my commute to work. I sit and try to sort things out in my head of all that has happened the last few days:

The dylan dinner, the mighty march of mexican nationals, merle haggard + chuck tucker, the matt ward breakfast, the robert plant wake up call, the impending daniel johnston ho-down, hooking up soon with vic chesnutt in london, and having henriette fly in from denmark to sing there too. It’s like I am catching up with myself. Or maybe this is what is meant by “collecting yourself”.

I am alone thinking about everything and shedding the last stumblings of the bob hangover, forgetting where I am. A girl comes over and walks away with my hat. She hands it back after checking herself out in the mirror. Now it’s almost pizza time.

I suppose it’s all like a study on the reproduction ritual drenched in female lure. A display of basic essence which is some pause for ponder. When one of the women working there approaches, of course I begin to lecture her. “Make good choices” I preach. I am the preacher man here in the bordello. It has a classic ring to it, but I wonder why I have to be here when I just wanted to be somewhere other then what ever was left available. Anyhow I have a pizza to get to.

It all reminded me of something similar to what college used to be like so long ago. Sitting there drawing the naked models in art class. Thinking about the reproductive zing that can deliver us unto family eventually, which is always a funny think. The temptation of egg. And it still seems so fantastic why it works at all. It is primal enough to have to be ok. Nothing but a pause and effective reminder of how this universe works us over here.

I wonder if its habit forming.

Another woman stops by and is wearing glasses. I like to wear glasses too. Piano players should wear glasses. Thelonious monk seemed to acknowledge this even though his frames had no lenses in them. Now I really need pizza.

Back outside the air is cool and damp. I get my food and head back up to the dank room. They have fixed the lights. I can finally let the day go. Such a long travel day. But it ends at last and pizza fills the void.

The end.

- – - – - – - – - – - – – – – — -

Next day I am heading down to london by train. It’s a beautiful spring day. Billowed clouds and stern winds. Extremely pleasant. The train is full from it being the easter weekend, but I am recognized by some folks because they were at the last barbican show in 2001. Weird.

When I get to london I am fetched by a nigel. Then off to the hotel, and before I can check in I see vic in the lobby having a coke. It’s so very good to see him. We sit there for hours. We talk about everything. He tells me about how much fun he has been having playing bass with a band that has mark eitzel singing in it. Later when his manager rep shows up, he reminds me of how lucky I was for turning down his offer to play the sxsw show he set up last year. He also mentioned mark eitzel was there and how terrible it was for him because of technical spoinks and a maniacal methed up sound man.

Eventually daniel johnston comes in with his brother who looks after him. We meet again after 20 years and when he sees vic, he calls him floyd. The afternoon slips away. Then vic and I go off to meet polly harvey for dinner. Rob challis is there too. It’s a fine delve. I put on the table my new theory on human recordings on the planet and how they stick in us long after relationship break-ups.
It seems to make sense still.

The night ends without the need for pizza.

– – — — – -

Next morning is an early radio call for me. Turns out ok. It’s a plug for the gospel choir tour next month. Then back to the hotel. Nap time. Jet lag does not know what to do with me.

Henriette and nils grundahl (from ‘under byen’) arrive sometime after that. We all head down to the barbican for some rehearsal and sound check.

It feels good to be here again. Its been 5 years since the last time.

The page gets all wavy here.:.:.:.:.:.:.

It was almost a month after 9/11. No one was flying anymore.
Bands were canceling tours. Nothing was worth the gamble of travel.
Now originally we were invited by the barbican people to do a giant sand/calexico show. But the boys in calexico opted not to go through with it, though it was never made clear why. John eventually said he needed to be home with his daughter after having been away touring way too much with calexico. And there just was no word from joe at all. We had all still been trying to keep both bands going, but something unexplainable was working against it.

At the time, it didn’t matter much to me cause I had no clue what the barbican thing really was. When I contacted them to say we could not do it as giant sand, they suggested I do it solo and hand them a wish list of performers to have on hand as guests. That seemed like wishful thinking, but I obliged them with a list and continued to forget about the whole thing.

Several weeks later I received confirmation that the barbican people had secured the list of guests I had suggested plus a couple more. They included: john parish and his large band, evan dando, vic chesnutt , kurt wagner from lambchop, and mark linkous from sparkle horse and polly harvey would also show up to sit in throughout the night. But Kristen hersh found herself pregnant and opted to remain home to nest, especially given the current circumstance of the new world order. A sound idea I thought.

So, amazed at the notion of the show, I set forth to assemble a band for it all. I invited the folks that had been playing in the current line up of giant sand: saholy and laureline, the girls from france on guitar and bass; susan voelz and noah thomas on violin and trumpet; and I figured to ask john parish to sit in on drums.

When john convertino came off the road about a month before the gig date, he changed his mind when he saw I was going ahead with the show without him or joe anyway. It all seemed like too much fun, I guess, so he asked if he could still be a part of it.
Ok.

The week before we were to leave, joey came around the house. He had developed a habit of never coming around to hang out, so it was strange when he kept coming over every day. This was his way of wanting to now be a part of the show. After so many days of this routine, I asked him if he wanted to get re-invited to the show he canceled out of.
Yes he did thanks.

So that was that.

We all flew over, did a week’s worth of giant sand shows to warm back up as a band, and then landed in London to commence with the barbican show that was now billed as a howe gelb show under the auspice of [UPSIDE] DOWN HOME.

the name HOWE is HOME spelled upside down.
DOWN HOME is a phrase for a good time home spun feeling.
UPSIDE DOWN is just what happens when our music gets all topsy turvy: which happens a lot.

Anyhow, we then got to London a day early and rehearsed some songs with everybody on the bill, and the show felt very much like a family reunion in a world that had just gone dark. It felt like this gather was way more important then we could have imagined. The world now needed positive happenstance and any amount of music more then ever. It needed a strong sound too to combat the ill will and negativity that was now festering on the planet. And we all just needed to hang out with each other like it might always be the last time.

That show somehow went on to be voted the best live show of the year for 2001 by London’s ‘time out’ magazine.

- – - – - – - – – - – - – -

Back to 2006:

Tonight will be sold out too. I go over one of vic’s renditions of a daniel song, then he sings with henriette on ‘classico reprise’ and then just henriette and nils on ‘man on a string’. But I also have a couple of dan’s songs to do later, and one I wrote up this morning:
‘daniel johnston: king of the wild frontier’.

Then we break. Daniel is still looking like he could tip either way, but it will turn out to be mostly nerves. After the show he will be much more relieved and animated, buoyant and jovial.

The day mangles into night. We have a dinner, and share a table with what will be jason pierce’s 3 piece choir. The last time I met jason was with sonic boom back when they were ‘space man 3′. The year must have been 1989. John and I were the giant sand 2 piece thing playing vienna and they wanted to come up and jam. I looked down at my little fender deluxe amp, which was all we all would of had to plug into, and opted that we all just get together and get stoned in the kitchen instead. After the set.

Now the barbican show here begins. The back stage is so massive, it always feels funny to realize there is an actual performance going on the other side of the stage wall, especially when you watch any of it on the backstage tv screens. You almost feel like channel surfing.

Then it’s vic’s turn, and he sounds stellar. I needed to hear him sing again. He is the best. When he calls me up to play guitar on the last song, I use the ebay string thing on my git and then some piano with stuff piled on the strings. That then segues into my set. And it’s a pure joy to have vic and henriette sing and have nils on singing saw. The last song will be a duet with me and “hank”, which is what I call henriette. She is beautiful and very much reminds me of the way a girl gets drawn on the page, but not how they ever actually look in this dimension, so I take in that impossibility about her.

The duet warrants more. I will have to figure out some new material for us maybe. My instinct clues me in that some kind of duet project is something I might gravitate towards. But for now, my part of the night is over in those 20 minutes. That’s all that was needed.

A slight intermission then “teenage fan club”, jason pierce with a string section and those brilliant backing singers. And finally daniel.

He does alright that daniel. His guitar is far out of tune and that helps somehow. And then after several songs, he goes over to the piano, which was not set up anymore since he said he would not use it. And there lies the grand finale;

daniel way off to the side of the stage, stage hands frantically trying to accommodate, stage lights just missing him. But he is rocking on that piano. A great song about beating the devil while unbeknownst to him, a huge drawing of his of the devil himself is projected up on the screen for the duration of the song. This is a wonderful random coincidence, but shows the elements of the evening coming together in glorious yippity.

The end.

No encore of course. We all huddled there in afterglow.

- – – — – -

After some manor of mingle backstage, we slip off to the hotel bar and finish off the day. I do not feel like drinking much and call it a night early after getting to know the “teenage fan club” tribe some.
I will miss ol’ vic.

- – - – - – - – - – - – -

When morning comes, we meet for breakfast. I am sad to be leaving.
I drag my heels. I leave alone for the airport.
Back to another terminal feeling.

I fly down to italy for a show this night. Its become a game to sneak my old guitar on board every time. I arrive in milano and am fetched by a luca. I fall asleep in jet lag fashion on the long ride to wherever we are going. I don’t know where. It will turn out to be a small village that is part of the parma-emilio reggio. The club is one of those that seems impossibly out of the way, but always fills up. The dinner will be stunning. Sicilian, my favorite. Northern cuisine is usually more meaty and has too many cream based sauces. The south is more red and spicy with lots of seafood. The pizza is the best in the world.

The hotel is the depressing kind of impersonal excuse for shelter.
But its ok. It seems deserving somehow. Basic and lean. Stark and mean. But it’s all in my head. There is also the only statue of lennin in all of Europe just across the street here. He looks like he has a headache. I head back to the club ache.

A young fellow is there waiting for me. He has a daniel johnston t-shirt on. He doesn’t know I have just come from the daniel johnston tribute show. I have a hard time not signing his cds, so I just do it. And I give him my unused backstage daniel johnston pass for his girlfriend who couldn’t come. Maybe she was too sick.

Antonio is opening up with his band “sea of cortez”. They always sound good to me. Then my turn. I make due with the electric piano and attack it. The crowd is full. 2 beautiful women work the bar. I guess I am sad because I have a barbican hangover.
Did I just say bobby conn ?

I wish vic was here. We need to tour together. Maybe we need to do a record together first. Maybe get john doe in on it. We could have a cover drawing of us looking like the pep boys.

After the show I do my best not signing autographs. But the next morning I will lament disappointing those folks. I think the Italians invented the whole process of autographs anyway, and maybe they continue to do it just to make the entertainer feel better. I bet its something they don’t really want to do.

They sure do make the planet tastier.

The end.

– – - – - – - – - – - – — – - — – - – — -

I get up late the next day and right on time to get a pizza for breakfast. It’s easter in eat-a-lee. We head off to the tiny airport of parma. Luca thinks he would like to work at this airport because all the people there are in good moods and smiling. Yes, I say, he should.

I take off to London, sneaking my guitar on board again.
I have to spend just the night there and head off to my flight the next day for home. I arrive in the tumultuous stansted airport. Tons of people clotting up the place. My name is called. I turn to find mark eitzel there. “Hi howe, its mark”, he always says to me every few years when we run into each other. We share a train back into London. He tells me his story of when he sang for bruce springsteen. So my dylan story haunts me a bit.

Later I am back in the same hotel where I left all my friends the morning before. It is weird there now that they are gone. All that excitement in the air is gone too. it is a funny weather system when there is a show. There are certain elements in the air that spark it some. There is a climate. Afterwards the place feels foreboding and empty. Like the enemy forces have regained the ground they had to give up. I head up to the room, and its wrong. I change it. I am ill placed is all. A hot bath might be the medicinal pizza I need.

- – - — – - – - – - — -

Mark calls up and we should meet for a drink. Ok then.
I walk down to a place suggested. Not many people in there, it being easter. Mark is lost. A fellow comes up to my table. He says that he saw me play last week in los angeles with john doe. That’s weird. There were only about 70 people there that night.
Mark shows up to help end the day.

That’s about it. Back at the hotel. Not what I call lonesome. But there is a missingness in play. Tomorrow I head home. Find my way to the airport again. I will be home now for 10 days before I have to leave again. Up to Ottawa to rehearse and then commence with the gospel choir tour.

Meanwhile the new record is still hovering high on the metacritic.com chart. It’s back up to number 2, which is sweetly insane and does not mean anything in actual sales. But it is a tickle to see it there as a sort of batting average based on how many stars the selected reviews gave it. It has a score of 88. ghost face killa is just below at 87. neko case down a few titles at 85 and calexico at 69. The only title in my way at first place with a score of 93, is the ‘tropicalia’ complilation, and coincidently enough, that is the next event being put on at the barbican.

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epilogue:

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Now when I get to dallas. I make another mistake. I walk out the wrong doors and can’t get back into the terminal with out having to go through security again. They tell me I am not allowed to fly with my guitar on board. I tell them I am allowed because I just did. This plays itself out and I finally get to board with it again. By the time I leave for the next tour the same guitar will be splitting apart anyway. Everything is cracking.

For now, more primitive time travel ensues.
The bourbon comes when we hit the heavens.
Tucson tugs at my shirt tails.
There is a nail in the sky and home is where the hat hangs high.

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the end