[The following was written (and shot) for LocalCut by Menomena's Danny Seim over the course of the band's recent U.S. tour. Contextual links have been added to this piece at the author's request.]

So…

We’re traveling along interstate 10, leaving Los Angeles. Brent is driving. Jared is riding shotgun. I’m in the back with my new laptop computer. Justin stayed the night with his brother Paul, so he’s riding separately today. Jared has just plugged his iPod into the van stereo, and a song I’ve never heard is now blaring through our crappy door speakers. It sounds like vaguely like…Bruce Springsteen? No. Hm…I know that voice. It actually sounds like a male Cher (or an even more male Cher, I should say). I can’t place it though.

“Who is this, Jared?”

“WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! It’s the KING, man!”

“Oh. What song?”

“Wearing that Love Gone Look.”

“Oh.”

I consider quoting Chuck D in “Fight The Power,” then decide against it. Jared’s iPod playlist is rocking the hits now. The King fades out, followed by some funky disco thing that I could imagine hearing in Old Navy circa 1998. Brent wonders aloud, “What’s that noise emphasizing the snare in the background?” Jared thinks it’s hand claps, or some sort of drum machine. I’m eating trail mix, bland tortilla chips, bananas, and drinking bottled water, all of which were taken from our dressing room last night. Now Arcade Fire is playing. It’s a good song that I don’t know by name, but I’ve heard it a million times…something about hiding lovers underneath the covers.


Jared Hankins is awesome. He’s our new sound guy. Brian Joseph, our former sound guy, had to pass on this tour because he’s out with the Fray again for two months. Right now, he’s probably nestled cozily in a bunk on a fifty-foot tour bus. He gave Justin and I a tour of a similar bus when the Fray were playing the Rose Garden Arena a year or so ago. It was pretty incredible. Each bunk has a flat-screen DVD player, positioned about a foot above your nose if you’re laying on your back. There’s a kitchen area, full-sized bathroom, and a living room complete with satellite wi-fi for all your internet needs. The Fray is currently using three of these buses for the band and crew to travel in, along with four other semi trucks for their lighting and stage props. Wow.

Brian told us it costs about a thousand dollars a day to rent the vehicle and pay the driver, and of course there’s another $500 or so for gas. It sounds expensive, but if you figure in current gas prices ($3.50 a gallon) multiplied by the number of miles a regular van (such as ours) can travel on that gallon (10-18, depending on how much air conditioning the outside heat forces you to use. Right now it’s 110 degrees outside as we fly by the giant yellow and blue “Have you seen…THE THING?!” billboards in the scenic hills of the Arizona desert), the cost of changing oil and buying new tires, plus other general upkeep (if you felt like, say, adding a Playstation or fridge or captain’s chairs or stuff like that), the cost of insurance and the cost of sleeping in hotels every night (even if you’re Priceline-ing them every night for less than $60 like Brent’s doing for us this tour) because you don’t have a bunk in your vehicle (with or without a DVD screen above your face)…hiring a surly dude to drive you across the country in a lavishly equipped bus starts making a lot of sense. By the time your former little hometown hero band can afford that sort of luxury, you’re probably already signed to Sony anyhow. So I hope the Playstation was free (as your soul evidentially was. Har, har.)

But enough about Brian and his intelligent career moves. Jared’s our man now, dammit, and he’s one a heck of a guy. He’s a farmer, a cabinet maker, and the proud owner of a beard that would make the Iron & Wine guy blush. Best of all, he’s currently blasting John Lennon’s “Mother” while driving us toward Austin, Texas. He just hit “pause” on his iPod so he could turn around and announce, “is it just me, or does this song sound awesome right now?” I have to agree. Wait, did I mention Jared is a FARMER? I’ll let that sink in while also mentioning that he lives across the Puget Sound in Washington on a remote piece of land that is only accessible from Seattle by a 30-minute ferry ride. Henry Rollins doesn’t have an ounce of hardcore on this guy. And now he’s ours! For a month, at least. Before we have to release him back into the wilderness that spawned him.

We first met Jared when we were opening for the Long Winters on a short tour last November. Jared was their man at the time, and we only knew him from a distance. He was the silent, hardworking soundguy with the beard. Ah, that beautiful, cascading red beard. It was envy at first sight. We tried to seduce him on that tour. I mean, since he was already there at the clubs with us, it wouldn’t be too much more work for him to give a little love to the mixing board during our set as well, would it? We’d even pay him, we told him. Come on, Jared. Maybe something like $75 a show? You’d almost be doubling your gross per night, you know. He said yes, but seemed a little uncertain. We didn’t understand this hesitation until we got scolded by the Winters’ frontman/larger-than-life cultural icon John Roderick for stealing his man without his consent. We apologized, but silently vowed to one day win Jared back.

That day arrived on June 1, 2007. We played at a club in Seattle called Neumo’s with our soon-to-be tourmates (and friends for life) All Smiles opening the show and an all-star, soon-to-be Sub Pop Superstar band called Grand Archives playing second. It was a fun way to kick off the summer tour. Jared completely outdid himself, and there was nothing Mr. Roderick could do about it (John was actually present in the audience and re-confirmed our suspicion that he’s one of our favorite people in the world, regardless of his tendency to be a complete control freak).


This tour has taken us up and down the West Coast since then: From Vancouver B.C. to San Diego with a bunch of interesting stops in between. I’ve noticed myself becoming numb to these little adventures, though. Well, maybe I’m not numb to the actual shows or the touring lifestyle…but to the act of meticulously cataloging them after every somewhat mundane (at least in retrospect) event. It’s more fun for me now to type about my lust for Jared’s heavenly beard, or the fact that I just bought a new skateboard at age 30, or even the big crickets we just saw hopping around at the last rest stop. Things that anyone can experience, in contrast to playing a sold-out show at The Troubador in Los Angeles.

It’s kind of an odd situation to be in. In my perfect fantasy world where this “former little hometown hero band” I’m in somehow manages to continue increasing in popularity, I imagine that the good-intentioned folks that commission these sorts of tour blogs will continue to do so in order to hear tales of The Life that accelerates in proportion to the growth of the band: The romantic war stories of super-sized stages, frenzied fans, and foreign frontiers that are trekked across along the path to Bono-esque fame and fortune. But the reality is that the more we clip along at our snail’s pace towards, um, a lesser level of complete obscurity, the less I feel like writing about it.

So maybe I should have disclaimed this whole jumbled mess with the following: If beards, crickets, and old men skateboarding ain’t your thang, then perhaps you should tune out now. If you haven’t already.

Sheesh, are we still in Arizona?

Brent’s driving now, and Justin and Jared are in the back. I’ll offer a brief transcript of what I’m hearing right this very second as I sit here basking in the glow of my computer.

Jared: “GOODBYE!! HAHAHA! Ohhhh…SNAP!!!” (more hysterical laughing)

Justin: “Ahhhh. Ugh. How did you do that?!”

Jared: “Hahahahahah! Wait, what was that view?”

Justin: “That’s your best player”

Jared: “Oh no no no…That’s not right.”

Justin: “You suck.” (banging something plastic against the van door)

(long pause)

Justin: “Wow, look how big that guy’s crotch is! That’s just not fair.”

(cut to sounds of both grown men making more tapping noises, more indecipherable swearing and grunting)

Get your minds out of the gutter. It’s 2K7, folks. In the likely case that this means nothing to you, it has something to do with our National Pastime, the brand name Sony, and a Playstation…and Jared and Justin both being ex-high school baseball superstars. Fittingly enough, Justin was our school’s star pitcher (Westside Christian High, 1995, entire student body = 200 kids. So yeah, being “star pitcher” is like being proudly known as the least-wrinkled resident of a retirement community). Jared was his school’s star catcher. If that’s not better than the Ambiguously Gay Duo, I don’t know what is.

Anyway, they’re completely brawling back there. It’s most hilarious/annoying because they’re both wearing headphones to hear the game’s All-American soundtrack (featuring the likes of Nirvana, Tapes N’ Tapes, The Walkmen, and even our very own Thermals) without bothering Brent and I up here in the front. So all I hear are the little noises people make when they can’t hear the sounds that are coming out of their own mouths. I wish I had a microphone handy.


We’ve decided to drive through the night to Austin. We’re playing an in-store performance at a record store called Waterloo. If you aren’t familiar with the term “in-store”, then you obviously aren’t in a band. Thank your lucky stars. If you DO know the meaning of the term, then you also know that it is synonymous with “playing a concert in a tiny space for a tiny crowd that is most likely there to add to their Bluegrass vinyl collection, not hear your crappy band.”

So far, Menomena has played five in-store shows in our sordid six-and-a-half year career. The first was at lovely Ozone Records Portland, to celebrate the self-release of our first album way back in ‘03. That was a good experience. Bruce is a wonderful person and I still consider his store among the best in the world. Our second in-store wasn’t so good. It was at an anonymous record shop in Chicago where our CD wasn’t even on the shelf while we were playing. The three people present were only there because they (inexplicably) thought we were a Phish tribute band. That’s it, we said. No more in-stores.

Then along came Good Records. Good Records is in Dallas, and they are awesome. We’ve been helped out by nearly all of their staff, most of all a man named C.J. Davis. We’ve played twice at the store, and both times have been sweaty, loud, and fun. We took these fond memories and used them as fodder to revoke our “no-instores” policy at Amoeba in San Francisco and Waterloo in Austin.

Amoeba was intimidating. We’ve played in SF about eight times now, and each visit has been capped off by a trip to the Costco-sized mega music mecca. It’s one of those places where if you go in without a list, you’re either going to walk around like a zombie for 45 minutes and leave empty handed or walk around like a zombie for 45 minutes and leave with $500 worth of rare Japanese import Fall Out Boy CD’s that you’re probably just going to re-sell within a week (for 1/16th of what you originally paid). Always bring a list.

Amoeba has always been one of those record stores where I casually (sweating nervously) stroll past the “M” section and pretend to be deeply engrossed in Menudo, the Mendoza Line and Men at Work while desperately hoping I’ll find a Menomena CD or two. I’ve never had any luck. I always leave feeling worthless, like I’ve forever failed the Gods of Musical Critique and am therefore forever banished to an exclusive agreement with CDBaby.com (no offense, CD Baby. I love you, but come on. You’d cheerfully carry William Hung’s jazz fusion side project if he paid your $40 introductory fee).

So now we’re playing a show inside the place, and I’m not so nervous for the performance for once. I’m more worried that my feet will move on instinct towards that damn “M” section again, and I won’t see a little scrawled Monster or a little Craig Thompson character looking back at me again, and I’ll just spontaneously choose to end it all, right there in the aisle…slit my wrists with a broken shard of jewel case plastic or something. Or maybe I’d be too shaky in the hands department and I’d slash my chest instead. That seems to work better for solidifying rock infamy these days anyhow.

I remember talking to John Vanderslice before our set. What a great guy. We sought his advice when we were hesitant about signing to Barsuk. It took a year for us to make the decision, and in the end, we’re glad we trusted him. Thirty minutes later, the show was over. It went pretty good, I think. The people working there were really nice…way less snobby than I remember them being when I was just a lowly customer. They gave us each a $40 gift certificate for playing, and I redeemed mine for Elliott Smith. Go figure.

Where was I? This is becoming such a circular bunch of rambling nonsense. I think we were driving to Austin when I got sidetracked on the in-store topic. Oh yeah…Waterloo! It’s several days later now, and that performance is under our belts as well. I remember hearing that the Stooges were playing at the same store during SXSW a few months ago. After being on that tiny stage, it’s hard to imagine Iggy up there looking like anything other than a shirtless homeless guy in a record store. I’m sure we didn’t look much better. Again though, the employees were very nice, and the crowd seemed to be understanding about our rather blah performance.


I’m returning to that point where talking about shows seems so boring. Forgive me. Right this second (for reals. Not yesterday, not last week for once) we’re traveling north on I-45 away from Houston. Brent has his hands on the wheel, and yes, I believe he’s letting the golden age begin. Daniel Lanois is playing on Jared’s iPod right now. The song is called “Power of One” and it sounds really, really good. I’ve never heard anything other than his production before. Now we’re listening to the Cure’s “Close To Me,” from that remix album of theirs that I fell in love with shortly after I got my first Discman in 1993. I bought three CD’s shortly after. The Cure’s Mixed Up, U2’s Zooropa, and UB40’s Greatest Hits. Funny how I lasted nearly two years on those CD’s alone, but now I still feel incomplete with (roughly) ten billion songs on my iPod.

But yeah, we’re leaving Houston. Jared is playing The Headphones now. He engineered and mixed this album that was written by a friend that he refers to as simply “Bazan.” I’ve never heard this music before, but it sounds great. And I’m definitely familiar with that voice. There’s a lot of s-words in this song. Evidentially, Bazan won’t hold it against you if you won’t hold it against him. I was such a Pedro The Lion groupie back in the day. Justin and I were in a band that played this Oregon-based festival with a couple hundred other Christian bands every year. This was from 1995-1999, I think. My two biggest memories from those events are the following:

1. A couple months before the 1995 festival, I wrote a gushing review of the latest album by a band called the Dime Store Prophets, entitled Love Is Against The Grain, in a high school ‘zine I started called Family Fun. I’m pretty sure I compared them to U2, the Cure, and possibly even UB40. I urged all of my readers (i.e. my five best friends) to “DROP EVERYTHING AND BUY THIS…NOW!” I believe I gave the album a 9.5 out of 10 (for the sake of comparison, I gave Weezer’s blue album a solid “8″), and I’m positive I used a lot of giant words and run-on sentences.

Anyway, our band gingerly approached these guys at their merchandise table (all the bands shared merch space in this giant, dusty barn that gave you giant brown boogers and turned your white shirts beige by the end of the festival) and bashfully handed their guitarist (his name was “Masaki.” At the time, I thought He was totally worthy of christening himself with a single moniker like Michaelangelo or Houdini) our debut 6-song demo cassette tape. “We, uh… really like…uh, you guys a LOT and we’d, um um…be honored if you’d listen to this, please”, we stammered in sweaty teenage unison. Without hesitation, the Honorable Masaki plucked it from our trembling hands and blurted, “Okay. We’ll spin it twice in the van: Once in the tape deck, and then once out the window.” This was a nearly a decade before I first heard the term “douche bag” used on The Sopranos, but I’ve yet to come across a more fitting definition. At the time though, I was crushed. And so was that critically-acclaimed Dime Store Prophets CD of mine, immediately after I got home.

2. The second memory is a little less toxic. And it actually fits the context of this trip away from Houston (remember?). The band everyone was talking about at the festival in 1996 belonged to this crazy ex-heroin addict named David Bazan. Barely anyone at the festival had ever sampled beer, let alone heroin. Our closest brush with the drug was either vicariously through Kurt Cobain or that Everclear song about that girl named Esther. But it was definitely cool, and if you were a recently-converted Christian who had actually drank the stuff (or put it on your tongue in the form of a postage stamp, or however the heck you ingested it) in a former lifetime, you were extra cool.

Bazan’s band was called Pedro The Lion, a name which I naturally assumed was modeled after the acronym for “Praise The Lord.” They were too edgy for me at the time, probably because they weren’t ska or punk or funky in some faux-stoned way. Unlike any other band at the festival, they weren’t easy to pin to a secular doppelganger. Every other band (mine included) rarely had their name displayed without a “Recommended if you like ________ (insert Pearl Jam, NOFX, Weezer, Nirvana or The Mighty Mighty Bosstones here).” It’s really the only reason any kid would buy a Christian CD. It sounds like everything else their sinner friends listen to, but it’s Mom/Jesus-approved.

A year or so later, in the spiritual heat of yet another moment of holy conscience clarity, I sold all of my non-Christian CD’s for the second time in my life, only scrambling to re-buy them several months later (I’ve now purchased, sold and re-purchased Rage Against The Machine’s self titled debut four times in my life…I can’t believe they don’t thank me in their liner notes). Around this time, Pedro The Lion released an album called “It’s Hard To Find A Friend.” I bought it because SPIN reviewed it (I was obviously backsliding by this point). The album was unlike anything I had ever heard—casually paced, sloppy, and definitely not produced by Flood or Bob Rock. It pretty much changed my life.

The Christian band that Justin and I were in opened for Pedro The Lion twice after that point. I was so in awe of Mr. Bazan that I couldn’t muster the courage to tell him how much his album had impacted me. Or that I had begun this dorky side project called “Lackthereof” that was directly influenced by his bare-bones recording techniques. At one point after his show, I actually had my album—in all it’s home-burned CDR glory—in my hand, ready to give to him along with a shower of well-rehearsed praise and thank yous. As I approached him though, I heard Masaki’s words echoing in my skull from two years earlier, “I’ll spin it twice… I’ll spin it twice… I’ll spin it twice…” I shook David’s hand and mumbled something about being honored to play with him and quickly carried my stupid CD back out of there.

I met David again backstage at Neumo’s in Seattle after we played there to kick off this tour. He was really nice, hardly the recovering junkie that I imagined him as a decade ago. It turns out he’s never actually tried heroin. Hard drug metaphors don’t translate well with Christian kids, it seems. Apparently, he’s also friends with Jim Fairchild of All Smiles. Jared tells me the pair used to work together at a music store during Jim’s pre-Grandaddy days in Modesto, California. It’s a tiny world. And now Bazan’s signed to Barsuk. Maybe someday I’ll work up the courage to give him a Dime Store Prophets CD. And then we can snort coke off of it together.


That was quite a detour. Back to Menomena stuff. Dallas was really great last night. The Granada theater is possibly the nicest venue we’ve ever played. It’s a huge place—way out of our league, but the people running the place still made us feel like we had every equal right to be there as the Polyphonic Spree or the Pete Best Band (yes, the ex-Beatles’ Pete Best. Both bands had future shows advertised on the marquee out front along with lowly lil’ us). A local band called “Mom” opened the night, and they were joined onstage by the one and only C.J. Davis, rocking the melodica. Jared’s father was also present, along with Jared’s two cute little nephews and niece, who introduced herself to everyone by exclaiming loudly, “My name is Harmony! That means a combination of peace and love!”


Ah! Speaking of people’s fathers, I almost forgot that we spent a night on the ranch of Mr. John Harris in San Antonio again on this trip! Fishin’! Steak eatin’! Military uniform posin’! Cigar smokin’! Four wheelin! Story tellin’! Ok, back to the regularly-scheduled tour boredom…

Now we’re driving to Kansas. I need to sleep. It was a late night last night. They brought in awesomely fragrant, professionally catered food last night for us backstage at the Granada that I didn’t eat. I have a very small pre-show window fit for food consumption. If I eat too early in the day, I feel like I’m going to pass out onstage. If I eat too soon before the show, I feel like I can’t move my arms beyond a weak flapping. Jeez, I’m such a diva. There was a giant flat-screened TV directly behind the merchandise booth that had Pink Floyd’s “Live at Pompeii” DVD on loop. I chose to forgo dinner for the unique, oddly beautiful face of a young Roger Waters and the oddly loose pocketbooks of the nice Dallas residents.

After coming as close to spontaneous unconsciousness onstage as I have since passing out in front of my church as a pimple-faced teenage acolyte, I was completely famished. Justin and I dropped Brent and Jared at the plush Doubletree (Yay Priceline.com!) and headed back out to find some food. We went to a sushi restaurant and found a group of people that recognized us from the show and proceeded to forcibly order for us, offer us weed, and then get into a heated battle of profanity with the busboy. We paid the bill and left without the marijuana, unfortunately. At that point, I could have used it. It was 3:30 am when we finally hit the sack, totally psyched to wake up in four measly hours and leave for Kansas. It’s gonna be a rock show tonight.

We’re listening to the new Helio Sequence album right now while heading north on I-35. I’m instantly homesick. This album is so good. It should have come out four months ago, but that’s beyond the band’s control. Now it’s coming out next year. They deserve better. But that doesn’t change the timeless quality of these songs. I’d totally give it a “10 out of 10″ in my Family Fun review. I’d say something brilliant like:

“These two bad boys from Beaverton have really done it this time! They really know how to showcase their God-given talents through a wide variety of influences, past and present! There’s a chance they’re unsaved, but we should never underestimate the impact of prayer in these troubled times! Highly recommended if you like really cool tunes by Smashing Pumpkins, Veruca Salt, and Save Ferris!”

Halfway through Brandon’s beautiful modern-folk masterpiece, “Shed Your Love,” (or at least I think that’s what the song is called…Benjamin didn’t include track names with this burned copy), Brent began telling Jared the story of how he got shot in Austin a few days ago. Did I already mention somewhere back there that Justin brought his bicycle along on this tour? Well, he did. It’s up there on our roof right now (I hope) like a giant dorsal fin. Thanks to it, we can’t go through McDonald’s drive throughs, which I guess is fine enough. So Brent was borrowing the bike, pedaling happily through one of our country’s most charmingly progressive cities when a white Chevy Suburban pulled up alongside him, blasting nu-metal. Brent kind of rocked out with the passengers for a little bit at a stop sign and then rode off without incident. Several moments later, the vehicle re-appeared. A window lowered, and three quick shots were fired. The first two missed the mark, but the third was a direct hit in our fearless keyboardist’s lower back. Thankfully, it was merely a paint gun. Good ol’ Texas.


If you’re in a band and you’ve traveled through Lawrence, Kansas, there’s a good chance you’ve played at a venue called the Bottleneck. It’s been there since 1987, and judging from the posters, photos, and graffiti on the walls, the last two decades have taken a sizable Rock & Roll toll on the place. Last night, we joined the esteemed ranks of Helmet, Superchunk, the Flaming Lips, and Lucinda Williams with a set on the raggedy, beer-soaked stage.

However, the highlight of the night came before us. Dave, the All Smiles bassist, came down with nasty stomach virus on the ride up from Dallas, and he sadly had to miss the show. Justin volunteered his ample four string talent to fill the void, and soon enough he and Jim were onstage surrounded by a paper sea of handwritten chord progressions for each song. They stayed up there together rehearsing right until the starting time, when they both stood up and suddenly started rocking. It was a grand moment on this tour, one of the many that have made this trip so enjoyable.

Another “grand moment” for me was a more personal one that happened after our set later on in the evening. I was sitting onstage packing up my drums; hair, shirt, and pants soaked to the skin in my own disgusting sweat, when a guy approached me and congratulated us on our performance. “Thank you”, he said sincerely, “It was like Fugazi meets Pink Floyd up there”. I know it was just an offhand compliment from a perfect stranger who, for all I know, could own and operate the Official Linkin Park Fan Club, Kansas Chapter. But somehow, it still served to make me feel validated in all of my musical pursuits, from the first song I ever taught myself on a musical instrument (worthless trivia: it was a bass guitar, and it was “Cannonball”, by The Breeders), to the present state of things (driving toward Omaha, trying not to believe I’m catching Dave’s stomach virus, trying not to think that we only have one more show left with Jared and the wonderful people of All Smiles, trying not to think of how scared I am to be flying overseas to London in two short days, trying not to think about how much I miss Holly and Geddy Lee and Portland). So thank you, anonymous Lawrence resident. Thank you for summing up our music with an intelligent, flattering comparison without using the dreaded words; “On”, “Radio”, “The”, or “TV”. You made my night. And possibly my career as a starving, self-infatuated artist.

It’s Sunday, June 24, 2007. I just talked to Holly, and she’s making pancakes for herself and her friend Gina. Both ladies traveled with us on the first week of this tour, and I was a complete jerk to both of them the entire time. My throat was starting to feel sore right after we played the Independent in San Francisco, and I had a full-blown sinus infection by the time we hit Los Angeles. I shouldn’t be making excuses for my behavior, though. I was a miserable person to be around. I feel really bad about it, especially now that we’re about to board a plane in exactly 24 hours, en route to Europe.

I’ve always promised Holly that if something monumentally magical happened with my musical career, and I was somehow able to play a concert or two overseas, she would be guaranteed a spot on the plane alongside me. At the time though, we were in high school, and I was in a band that considered blindly handing crappy cassette demos to total d-bags in totally derivative Christian bands (that would be totally obsolete in a matter of months) a “good career move.” I never thought I would actually be crossing the ocean, so I didn’t properly examine the logistics of bringing her along (apparently, it requires money). I figured it would always be one of those ridiculously far-fetched deals yuppie couples make with each other like, “If you ever meet Brad Pitt, I’ll let you sleep with him without considering it cheating.” But I didn’t actually expect to cross paths with Bradley in this lifetime. And now I’m expecting my wife to forgive me for sleeping with him. In London. I love you, Holly.

We’re driving away from Nebraska now, north through Iowa. Omaha was a bittersweet show, considering it was our last tour stop with All Smiles. Such incredibly wonderful people in that band: Jim, Nik, Dave, Alance, and John, we love you. Thank you for making the last three weeks of our lives so completely worth living. It was also our last night with Jared. He had to be at the airport by five am, so Justin and I opted to stay out all night after the show, rather than try to wake after an hour of sleeping.

Jared set our handy new GPS unit (did I mention we splurged and bought one of those gadgets for this trip? Possibly the best $350 we’ve ever spent…well, other than the total recording budget of our first three albums combined) to “Omaha Airport” and we were off. Except something seemed a little strange several miles later. The city lights in the distance seemed to be getting dimmer. Suddenly, the road was closed in front of us. I followed the detour signs while the sterile “Fitter, Happier”-style female GPS voice scolded me and told me she was recalculating. I finally made it back to the main road, only to find more “road closed” signs ahead of us. Jared was getting worried in the back of the van. His hour-long buffer at the airport had been cut to 30 minutes.

Instead of following yet another detour, I plowed ahead between the roadblocks and onto a bumpy dirt road. The van shuddered in protest. Ahead of us, a family of deer strolled across the dirt between two big tractors and steamrollers. Something was definitely wrong, yet the GPS woman kept urging us to continue. At last, a large darkened airplane hangar appeared on our right. I pulled over and flipped on the high beams. A grassy field appeared in front of us with a few tiny planes scattered around. A large hand-painted sign said something like “Thanks for flying at Omaha Airport!” in happy block letters. Justin grabbed the GPS and found another location called “Eppley Airfield.” I floored it and got Jared there with fifteen minutes to spare. We hugged and promised to reunite soon, hopefully in a less sleep-deprived, stressful situation.

Only two hours left until we reach Chicago. Then it will be time for a quick load of laundry, a restless sleep, and a final countdown to our flight boarding. I’m already nervous. As usual.

Links:
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