June 7 - Bored Loser

First day back at work in a month.

The moustache and goatee on my face has garnered some interest from work-related folks.

My boss used his thick Chicago aaaacent for this observation:

"Yoo look like uh littl' Frenchguy."

I used to have a nemesis at a Lincoln Park post office, an African American woman with a contrarian streak. For awhile it became a great hassle to pick up the daily mail run. Over time it's gotten better, and since my facial hair, she seems even more friendly.

"You look like a secret agent or something."

We talked about Europe for a spell.

She loves Germany and Switzerland.

I agreed.

But she doesn't like France.

I held my tongue.

A receptionist, also African American, noticed the change, too, and paid me a few compliments.

Then...

"Are you on Facebook?"

She just turned 60.

Seems the conquistador look I'm going for is a hit with the "sistas".

Am I allowed to use that word?

No.

Even with ironic quotes?

Maybe. But you really shouldn't.

It's summer kind of, so it's slow.

I don't mind.

I'm still recovering from the residual backwash of jet lag.

At a house in Wilmette, I attempted to deliver an envelope, only to be greeted by a wooden sign.

"Gone to the beach," it said, engraved in craft fair cursive.

A two hour nap occurred on tony, tree-lined Astor Street, steps away from a Frank Lloyd Wright. When I awoke I had no idea where or when I was.

I thought I was still in the UK.

For dinner I made South-of-The-West Charburgers.

Hamburger patties rolled with roasted corn, diced poblano peppers, onions, and black beans, seasoned with salts and powders, poked with a raw, sliced jalapeno and topped with cheese. Lauren, who is not a burger lover, actually loved it. Especially the bites that didn't singe her tongue with pure capsaicin. For some reason, she likes my dum-dum grub.

I selected some dopey Moog music for a night of card/board games while Lauren removed the shrink wrap from a game called Sequence. We learned it and she quickly beat the pants off of me. Then we switched to Outburst. It was discovered that I completely suck at Outburst. I suck at Outburst even more than I suck at Sequence. Though at least I was having fun while sucking at it, as opposed to getting touchy, pouty and belligerent (see Bowling, Ping Pong, Twyla Tharp dance lessons, doing a Harold, etc).

But despite the lovely day and recreational evening, I truly ended the day a loser.

Verdict: Loss

June 6 - Return Of The Nurse Novels

The Nurse Novels got together today for the first time in a month.

We rehearsed.

I suppose that's an acting term.

Most bands use the word "practice".

"Rehearsal" conjures up images of make-up and wigs and temper tantrums.

So I guess we practiced today.

Only a few cobwebs to clear out.

We're playing the big top secret Electrical Audio message board BBQ this Friday.

I don't even know the address of the venue.

Jay Ryan lent his talents for the occasion.

Really looking forward to it.

In related news, while I was away both of the Nurse Novels gals got engorged.

I suppose that's an incorrect term.

Most people use the word "engaged".

C'mon now.

Later, I made a jalapeno cheeseburger while Lauren waited tables for a restaurant.

She came home.

We still had some catching up to do.

Then we made fun of the TV.

After all, it was on.

Verdict: Win

June 5 - Sand In My Socks

Just catching up on leisure with Lauren.

Another wonderful breakfast at home.

We added a strawberry puree to the mimosas, a variation on the bellini.

The champagne bottle we polished off, and opened a bottle of sparkling wine.

Round 3 and 4 plus more bad TV.

Today we got out though.

Garage sales, library, the lake.

I got sand in my socks.

I suppose these writings aren't that interesting.

I don't give one fuck.

It rained hard tonight.

Verdict: Win

June 4 - We Stayed In

We stayed in.

We watched dumb TV.

We made breakfast.

The herbs in the eggs were refreshing.

The jalepeno potatoes were just right.

We drank mimosas.

She took a nap.

I did laundry.

We watched The Wire.

She made dinner.

The marinated steak was dark and delicious.

The tomato tart was perfect.

She watched Broken Embraces.

I fell asleep.

We never left the house!

Verdict: Win

June 3 - Home!

I don't care that the crew on the flight to Newark was bitchy.

I don't care that the Newark airport is a messy shithole.

I don't care that it took 16 hours to get home.

I'm just glad to be home with Lauren for the first time in over two months.

Verdict: Win

June 2 - Ohhhh, Last Night

We woke up in France.

We had to return the rented gear and the rented van by the afternoon in Holland.

We drove for an hour or so and had breakfast at a rest stop in Belgium.

I ate a cream of mushroom soup that was not bad.

Since we were in Belgium, I also ate a chocolate waffle.

I sat in the front and worked on a piece about deaths at Yellowstone.

The sun made me sleepy.

I laid down my torso on the front seat and fell asleep.

It was nice.

I woke up violently, my neck thrusting forward.

My mouth caught my vomit before it could escape.

Instincts are quicker than you.

I swallowed it, grimaced, and looked around.

Mike was listening to the second disc of Get In The Van.

Last day of van life for a while.

I took the final leg of driving, through the inexplicably traffic clogged rural by-ways of The Netherlands. I don't know what it is about Holland, but you just sit in traffic, marinating.

Around 4:30 we returned the gear to a warehouse on the outskirts of Amsterdam. We paid the man in cash. What we didn't know was that we also had to pay the same man for the rental of the van. He only takes cash. Unfortunately, we did not have enough cash to pay for the van in cash.

You see, we had been doing alright financially on the tour. Spain really took care of us with handsome fees, as did Holland, Belgium, France, and Switzerland. But once we crossed into the UK, all those savings had vanished. It costs about 300 Euros to get in and out of Britain. The petrol costs more, the guarantees are less than half what we had gotten elsewhere, and nobody buys merch. As a human, I love Britain. As a musician, it's hard.

Yeah, so we had to take out a bunch of Euros to pay for the van.

This is the reality of touring.

And please, don't get me wrong, I love it blah blah blah.

But sometimes my non-music friends have this misconception about what we do. When I get back people think I've made all this money, stayed in these amazing hotels, ate all this amazing food, and was driven around in a big bus.

But really we didn't make money, drove 7,500km ourselves in a cargo van, ate at rest stops, and slept on floors. I had to finish a water bottle in London traffic so I could piss in it.

Oh boo hoo.

I don't know why I feel compelled to shatter the myth for my friends. Why can't I let them think I'm a big, rich rock star stereotype?

I guess that wouldn't be honest or Rollins or some ridiculous nonsense that I need to outgrow.

So we followed the rental guy to the rental van place, and then he took us to the Schiphol airport, where we paid him. He recommended a rock and roll hotel downtown. We put our guitars and heavy shit in an airport storage locker and got on the train to Amsterdam.

Alan made the call.

"Hello, is this the ROCK AND ROLL HOTEL?"

A tram took us to the Leidseplein and eventually we found the hotel, whose name was actually BackStage Hotel. It was a funny spot. There were snare drums and saxophones used as light fixtures. An out of tune piano sat covered in bands' autographs. I couldn't tell if Built to Spill or The Vivian Girls had actually stayed there or if fans of the bands had professed their love.

We didn't sign the piano.

We didn't sign the guest book.

The desk clerk was very nice.

"There are guitars on the wall and if you want to take them into your room you can."

That was the last thing we wanted to do, but we said thank you, and they put our end-of-tour convenience store champagne on ice. We waited a minimal amount of time for it to barely cool and popped it open anticlimactically.

The rest of the night was very fun. We indulged in cliches and got very lost in the red light district. A bit on purpose really. It's still strange for me to see these women behind glass, tapping said glass, and selling you a come hither look. It reduces me to shy, junior high dance behavior; stealing a glimpse and then darting to the floor when our eyes meet for a split second. I get uncomfortable. I don't think I would actually be able to perform if I were to go through with this procedure. Too much pressure and not enough reality. Maybe if I were single, it would be a different story. Or if I wasn't baked on hash.

Still, it's fascinating and I have no judgment about it.

It seems to work.

We got lost for real trying to get away from the red lights, but eventually stumbled upon a New York-style pizza parlour. I ate a chicken tandoori and jalepeno slice that I thought would be stupid, but turned out to be very tasty.

We found the Leidseplein and, one by one, all went back to the hotel to not play guitars.

First Mike, who was eager to get back home to see his lady.

Then Alan, who started feeling dizzy.

Reid and I went out for a couple of beers, watching the party city and admiring the respect it has for itself. It's unlike an American party city in that way. Less shouting. Less self-absorbed attention bullshit. Less public vomiting. After 2am, it still seems to work.

I was next to head back, a Burger King cheeseburger in hand.

And then there was one.

Verdict: Win

June 1 - Customs Cuss Out

I like Britain. There's a still a whimsy and a magic with the language.

For instance, today while driving on a roundabout we saw an ad for a bingo hall:

Bingo...with balls!

Here are some other advertisements we saw for British recreation:

Bingo...with shaved balls!

Cricket...with happy Chinese massage!

Snooker...with VacExtender penis enlargement!

Scrumpy...with a bap, a tin of crisps, and a free escort to participating abortion clinics!

But we had to get out there.

So we drove to Dover for the ferry.

We gave them lots of money to get out of England.

Then it was time to go through the customs checkpoint.

Since I was sitting in the front passenger seat of a non-British vehicle, I was the liaison for the van, as that is customarily where the driver would sit.

I gave the customs gentlemen our passports.

"Where are you going?"

That night we had a reservation for a motel in Calais.

"Calais," I answered.

He gave me a look. You see, the ferry also goes to Calais. What was unbeknownst to me at this point was that I was coming across as a smart ass.

"Then where are you going?"

I told him Amsterdam and then home.

I hate telling strangers that we're going to Amsterdam. It conjures up images of American douchebags getting aggressively high and nodding too much. And wearing stupid clothes. And meat sports. And college.

"Amsterdam, out of Schiphol, then?"

His accent made no sense to me.

"What?"

"You're flying out of Schiphol?"

Oh, the name of the airport. That word also makes no sense to me.

"Yes, Schiphol."

"Do you have any documentation..." He wanted proof that we were flying out of Amsterdam.

Later I was told that this is when I let out a big, annoyed sigh. I probably did. I do things like that still.

While I begrudgingly reached for my laptop, the customs agent pointed out that he had a right to ask this question, and explained in great detail some sort of important procedure that I tuned out.

At this point Mike, seated in the back, jumped up and took over as liaison. He put on a big smile and explained that we were an American band on tour.

"What kind of music do you play?"

Mike referred to it as "country pop". I shook my head and growled probably. The flight info was in an email.

"I can't get any flight information because I can't get online."

Reid, seated in the non-British driver's seat, spoke.

"What do you need?" He started searching his laptop.

The customs agent continued.

"Are you taking any pounds with you?"

I let out a hearty laugh. We had just been discussing how much the British portion of the tour had put us into debt.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question!"

Mike explained how much we had started with and how little we were leaving with. Reid found the flight information on his laptop and I handed it to the customs agent. He seemed pleased.

While making a final speech to us about how his job works, he held out the passports for me to take. I tried to take them from him, but his grip told me not to. So I let go of them. He continued to orate about the duties of his job, and gestured for me to take the passports. Again, his grip held onto them more convincingly. I let go again. He made a final analogy.

"I need to ask these questions in order to get paid. Just like you need to play a show in order to get paid." Awesome, I get it, let's fucking go already. This time when he offered me the passports, he let me take them. He said something about living the dream and smiled.

I didn't even know I was being difficult.

I had to have The Bitter Tears point it out to me.

Luckily they were laughing about it.

Words like "indignant" and "asshole" were used to describe my customs etiquette.

Later, I got kind of bummed about it.

This is how I go through life, as an indignant asshole.

And I don't even know it.

No wonder I'm unhappy in the straight world.

Reid and I got loaded on the ferry. We had to get rid of this soon-to-be-worthless sterling. I had a cornish pasty and two pints. Then Reid and I split another pint. I still had about two pounds in random brown or small coins. We were getting near Calais. I asked the bartender if she was almost done.

"I get off in Dover."

Whoa. I meant the bar, is the bar almost done?

I got a half pint of cider, I mean scrumpy (still on a British vessel!).

Our motel was on the outskirts of Calais. It was the first hotel in our 25 days on the road that was pre-booked. We decided to walk into town for a bite to eat. It was a long walk. The streets were completely deserted. The windows weren't even lit. It was the 10 o'clock hour, still twilight. Calais was in a coma.

We walked some more. I found a tree to get rid of my scrumpy-turned-cider-turned-waste. Eventually we stumbled onto the main drag and picked the first place we saw, a bar with a restaurant.

While House flashed silently on the TV, reminding us of Home, we ate grassy escargot, mussels, steak tar tar, and drank beer. Nothing mind-blowing but a lot better than closed nothing. On the long road back to the motel we talked about Metallica.

This might seem dumb: Today I ate well, got a bit of exercise, was at sea, would sleep on a bed and knew about it all day. But these childish interactions with authority that cost time and cause aggravation need to stop, despite their entertainment value.

Verdict: Loss