Tour Journal – 2005 – Vol. 2 – Issue. 5 – Special Compare/Contrast Issue!

5341 miles traveled

The extra special compare/contrast issue!

In this issue I will induce great comedy by unfairly comparing disparate events at different shows, pretending that they are equal for comedic effect. The format for this journal will go as follows:

_Category of event being compared:_

Two or more things being compared: With funny text explaining why they are different.

The journal will continue in this format till I get bored with it.

So, to compare:

——————————————

_First ten minutes in new town:_

Reno F-ing Nevada: J and I walk through the smoke, garish colors, and flashing lights of the casino that is the lobby of our Reno hotel, J promptly bursts into tears. [J note: You think He’s exaggerating. He’s not.]

Laramie, Wyoming: We walk across the hotel parking lot to stand in a field and feed baby carrots to some friendly horses. [J note: You think He’s flat-out lying. He’s not. They were sweet horses, almost took our hands off in enthusiasm.]

——————————————

_Mexican Fast Food:_

Taco Bell:
Pros: Cheap vegetarian food and uh, other cheap food.
Cons: By buying taco bell we are contributing to a giant evil multinational corporation, and are therefore personally responsible for the destruction of the ozone layer and the rainforest.

Taco Johns:
Pros: Much smaller evil corporation.
Cons: Actually listed in the dictionary as the definition for ghetto food. Offers a burrito that contains not only Tater-Tots™, but also Velveeta™. Charged us extra to get a burrito that didn’t have meat in it.

Taco Time:
Pros: Multiple salsa offerings, groovy vegetarian burritos that contain sunflower seeds. Is technically a local business since they’re headquarters are in Eugene.
Cons: We can’t find one on this entire goddamn tour.

——————————————

_Driving from show to show:_

Wyoming: We pass a dignified elk feeding by the side of the road. We see small groups of cows and horses cavorting the plateaued countryside. Landscape vaguely resembles heaven, but arid, and with fewer clouds.

Texas: We pass a hundred thousand cows packed tightly together. We see American flags on every possible surface. Landscape vaguely resembles the desolate barren wasteland that Mad Max wanders in.

Florida: We pass a hundred thousand strip malls linked together by anti abortion billboards. Landscape vaguely resembles the wetlands, if you bulldozed every living thing and replaced it with animatronic cartoon characters.

——————————————

_What we do after the shows:_

Other bands: Run to the bar and drink enough alcohol to kill a baby elephant. Get to bed sometime before tomorrow’s show.

Us: Run to the nearest Thai restaurant. Head back to the hotel for a night of writing, knitting, and abstract philosophy. Get to bed sometime before dusk.

——————————————

_Reasons to never ever tour again:_

Florida: Chased out of state by hurricanes. Heat index slightly less than the surface of the sun. People generally mean. George Bush’s brother, Jeb, governor. [J note: Which meant that every time we walked into an elevator, we had to stare at a placard with his g-d d-mn name on it.]

Texas: Everything smells like cow poop. Guns everywhere. Home state to Bush family.

Northwest: Realization that touring has all the travel elements of an extended vacation, without any of the fun. Overwhelming evidence that doing tour is very similar to a low budget sea cruise through hell.

Next time: uh…

Tour Journal – 2005 – Vol. 2 – Issue. 4

4430 miles traveled – writing from Hell, uh, I mean Nevada.

The sweet allure of the tour has begun to wear off.

We are escaping Reno (expletive starting with F and ending in ING) Nevada. I want to start this off by saying that J and I are not Reno kind of people. We don’t gamble, we don’t smoke, and we don’t eat meat. All of which seem to be requirements for being in R-F-N.

Actually, we’ve met some pretty nice folks in Reno. It’s not my intention to dis the beautiful people here. I just have a lot of trouble in places like Reno because of my overly political uptight moral philosophical social cultural obsession. Come on, everything in Nevada, and I mean everything, is a casino. The gas stations, hotels, restaurants, the post office, everything! It’s creepy; we’re getting the hell out of here.

As I write this we are speeding along the arrow straight Interstate 80. J and I have managed to stave off driving insanity through a series of mental exercises, mostly involving 80s music. As we drive forever through the same (expletive starting with F and ending in ING) desert for hours on end, we’ve been singing 80’s music at the top of our lungs. I’ll try to keep you appraised of what we’re singing as I write.

“Who wants to be a millionaire? I do! I don’t!”
(The big ABC hit from the late 80s. We take turns with who sings “I do!” or “I don’t!”

Last night we decided to get a jump on our huge drive to Laramie, Wyoming. After our hellacious load out of U of N, we decided to drive the two hours to Winnemucca Nevada. As we pulled out of the student union, the warm colors of sunset smiled down on us, but as we drove out of Reno, inky darkness descended, the merciless blackness of the desert night. A few miles down the highway the winds began to shake the truck, followed by vicious dust storms. [J note: “vicious” may be a bit of an overstatement, as may “storms,” but is airborne dust ever really a fun thing? No.] It was like the dark evil hand of Reno was clawing at our truck, “not so fast hippies, oh no, you can’t get away.”

It was after a few miles of intense driving that J uttered the incantation to complete the terrible spell Reno had cast on us, “Well, at least it’s not raining.”

After three and a half hours of snail-speed driving, we arrived at the (of course) casino that was to be our hotel. We parked our soggy truck in the back parking lot, dragged ourselves past the gauntlet of slot machines to the counter. While I checked in J checked out the tricked out four-wheeler filling up most of the lobby, the in-hotel Taco Bell, and the drunken men in cowboy hats. I wondered at the magnificently obscure song playing on the hotel sound system (Private Life by Oingo Boingo), nearly drowning out the gambling a hundred feet away. I hope the surrealness of this is not lost on you. A cheesy casino in the middle of nowhere Nevada was piping in obscure 80s post punk music while I checked in. Mildly happier, we went to bed.

“Tainted love, I’ve got to [clap clap] get away. I’ve got to [clap clap] run away.”
(A cover by Soft Cell, it’s a scientific fact that almost every good 80s song was made by gay English men.)

Driving the next day: I must say the land is still pretty. Golden arid plants stretch for miles with large volcanic rocks poking out every mile or two. It’s enclosed in every direction by soft mountains. The thing that doesn’t fit is the towns. As long as we’re in the desert every town looks alien, out of place. The harsh conditions make everything look run down, and in every town the architecture sticks out like neon against the flat dry surroundings. It’s like the landscape is saying, “Ya’know, people don’t really belong here.”

“Word up, it’s the code word, no matter where you say it, you know that you’ll be heard.”
(Cameo’s “Word Up”, possibly the funkiest song ever made. And the best use of the word “Yow”)

You ever seen those signs that say ‘Speed Limit Enforced By Aircraft’? What is with that? Do you know anyone who has been pulled over by aircraft enforcement? My theory is that it’s a scare tactic. I’m testing the theory by driving 90 while J is sleeping.

“I am human and I want to be loved, just like everybody else does.”
(The smiths, “How Soon Is Now?” One can only sing this song while making a mopey face.)

Oh, I should also mention that someone shot our truck the other day.

Ok ok calm down, it was only with a paint gun. Someone shot our windshield, WHILE WE WERE DRIVING, with a paint gun. Having experienced it, I must say it’s a mild shock to be navigating treacherous mountain roads and suddenly have the windshield go opaque bright pink. After we stopped screaming, J and I downgraded to not amused. I peered around the pink spot until I was able to drive to a gas station and get it cleaned off properly. When we stopped we discovered that whoever shot us had really gone after us, there were 4 or 5 [J note: 2 or 3, but still…''''.] hits on the front of the truck alone. To defend poor maligned Nevada I should mention that this happened in the mountains of Idaho after we went white-water rafting.

“So much drama in the LBC it’s kinda hard being Snoop D O double G. Some how some way I keep coming up with funky ass shit nearly every single day.”
(“Gin and Juice”, originally by Snoop Dogg, we like to sing along to the equally offensive bluegrass cover by the Gourds.)

During the show in Reno, I booked us in the Atlantis Casino Hotel and Spa. I figured that we might as well stay somewhere nice for the week we were there.

The casino itself is roughly twenty-two square miles. We had to park our truck across the street and twice a day, before and after every show, we would walk across the parking lot, up a two story staircase, through a bridge that contained two restaurants and four hundred slot machines, down another two story stair, through another giant hall of slot machines, past five more restaurants, the poker floor, gift shops, even more slot machines, and the fake indoor waterfall to reach the center of the hotel where the elevators were.

And here’s a little tip about hotels in Reno; they charge for EVERYTHING. They charged us one dollar per local call. They charged us twelve dollars a day for internet service. They snuck all these fees onto the bill as we checked out.

“People are people, so why should it be, you and I should get along so awfully.”
(Depeche Mode, this song has a great sentiment, but I can’t help but sing it in a funny English accent.)

There were some unusual people staying at the casino. One night I went downstairs to get us a fruit tart from the overpriced pastry counter. As the doors of the elevator opened I was met by a fellow casino dweller, “A gambler!” I didn’t bother to correct her, but just smiled instead. “Have to get down to the gambling, eh?” My smile was getting mildly strained, but I gave it a try. Luckily at that moment she shifted her attention away from me to yell, “Another gambler!” to the man who entered the elevator. As the doors opened on the first floor I walked out to the strains of, “Enjoy the gambling, ha ha!” fading away behind me.

“It’s a, it’s a, it’s a, it’s a sin.”
(Pet Shop Boys, further proof that only English gay men can make good techno-pop. To do this song justice, you must sing it like Axel Rose.)

The single biggest perk of the casino experience was that they had an arcade a short elevator ride down from our room, with a Dance Dance Revolution video game (for only 25 cents per play!) We started and ended every day with DDR.

“The air was flowing and she was right there with it, and she was.”
(Talking Heads, “And She Was.” It’s mandatory to sing the really fun part, “Hey hey hey-hey heeeeeeeey. Hey hey hey-hey heeeeeeeey”)

On our last night we decided to eat in the casino. J called around asking which was the best restaurant in the casino if one were a vegetarian? She was transferred four times and the general response was, “Uh.”

One nice lady finally admitted, “The Atlantis is not really safe for vegetarians.” We finally decided to eat at “Caf? Alfresco” which I can describe in one dramatic image. Imagine a Denny’s. Got it? Ok, now imagine someone has overtaken the Denny’s, they’ve dressed the entire Denny’s staff in suits, they’ve wrapped the menus in cloth, given every Denny’s dish a fancy French name, and then added ten dollars to every price. Oh, and add fake palm trees.

“Priests and cannibals, prehistoric animals, everybody happy as the dead come home. Big black nemesis, parthenogenesis, no one move a muscle as the dead come home.”
(“Nemesis” by Shiekback. If anyone knows what the HELL this song is about, please email us. Oh extra points to any song that rhymes the word “Nemesis” with “Parthenogenesis”)

The outrageously expensive Denny’s did have very good Gelato though.

more later…

Tour Journal – 2005 – Vol. 2 – Issue. 3

3680 miles traveled – Crossing the 45th parallel

My war with auto flush toilets continues.

I freakin’ hate those things. I haven’t decided which is more abhorrent to me, the amount of water they waste, or the fact that they rob us of individual choice. I come from the “if it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down” school of thought, and I don’t appreciate some soulless machine undoing my environmental do-gooding. My enemy, the largest producer of autoflush toilets, is Zurn Corporation.

ZURN.

Kinda sounds like Zurg, the evil overlord from Toy Story 2. Maybe it’s his little brother who decided to do his evil work through manipulation of the plumbing industry. Every time I use one of those stupid things I stick chewed-up toilet paper over the sensor.

Take that ZURN!

I want to print up stickers; I have them all laid out in my head. There will be three styles to fit the three different kinds of sensors. There’ll be a hole cut out for the flush button and a friendly arrow that says, “push button to flush!” And then in small print, maybe with parentheses around it, it will say, “autoflush toilets waste water, tell the people!”

For her part, J is still educating school food servers everywhere on why they shouldn’t be serving their food on Styrofoam. (If you’re wondering why they shouldn’t, it’s because it’s bad. Very bad.) We carry Tupperware around with us everywhere and it’s still a struggle to get some folks to put our food on it. Though it’s a lot easier than it was in Florida. We were actually eating in an Indian restaurant the other night and the server asked us if we wanted a box. J politely said no and pulled out our Tupperware. He looked confused, so I told that we just hate to waste resources. He said, “From now on I tell everyone, ‘bring your own’, otherwise five dollars per box!”

Anyway, like I said we’re in Idaho. I want to describe how pretty everything is here, but I’m having trouble coming up with images. “The landscape is like a big porcupine with fuzzy brown quills and lush greenish yellow skin, except then sometimes all the quills go away like they’ve been shaved by and even bigger razor…'' uh…''”

Anyway it’s pretty. We’ve driven through at least four different ecologies between Boise and Moscow. Oh, and Moscow. Moscow, Idaho is this cool college town up north. I thought it was a little sketchy at first, but it’s really very nice. A friend of ours used to live here, so we went around town a bit to see what it was like. It has a farmers market, TWO food co-ops, friendly people and a decent presence of politically minded folks. My favorite tee-shirt here reads, “Idaho? No, Udaho”

As we drive I notice the signs in Idaho are friendly, albeit a little wacky. The anti-litter signs say, “Idaho is too great to litter.” These are amazingly refreshing compared to the signs of Washington state, a mere 30 miles west, theirs say, “If you litter, you will pay! We’ll kill you! You’ll go down!”

Every two miles in Idaho is a sign that says, “Watch for Rock.” Is this one big rock, or plural rock, or is it just the concept of rock? I keep expecting Ronnie James Dio or Bon Jovi to jump out in front of the car.

Every four miles there is a sign that says, “Avoid Windshield Damage.” Hey, thanks! I wasn’t going to avoid windshield damage, but now I will…'' just as soon as I figure out how to avoid windshield damage. Actually as I write this, we just passed another sign that said, and I quote, “Trust in Jesus. Organic Produce. Bunnies.” The meaning here is so profound and obvious that I won’t sully it with an interpretation.

J has been complaining that I’m scaring her while I drive. It has something to do with my saying, “Oh shit” every twenty minutes while driving. On my end, I’m just remembering something I forgot to do earlier. For her, she’ll be asleep and wake up screaming, “What? What!?” We’ve made a new agreement, she’ll ignore everything I say, unless I scream, “Awake, and stare into the oncoming face of death!”

The word of the day is Knitting. J is crazy about knitting, I mean crazy. She’s knitting sweaters and hats and a nice cozy for the truck. [J note: What he fails to mention is the SEVEN balls of yarn he has also purchased. He is going for the most-scarves-knitted-in-one-month trophy. He has decided to knit a scarf for every member of his family, and mine, with backups in case they don’t like his design choices.] [I am not knitting a cozy for the truck. It is 16 ft long and 12 ft high. And I can’t decide which color would look best.]

She’s doing this in addition to writing a story every week. [J note: In addition to giving up on one story every week.]

[Actually, this morning I went for a walk in Moscow, and saw many fine and interesting things, the most interesting of this was a big firing range board complete with silhouette nailed to someone’s garage door with the word “kill” painted on it about a hundred times. I am not kidding.]

Did you know I’m writing a novel in November?

November is “National Novel Writing Month” Seriously; check out www.nanowrimo.com Every November hundreds of people trying write an entire 50,000 word novel in 30 days.

I will be one of these people. (Yes, yes, applaud if you must.)

Now, I want to make a few things clear: I am NOT writing a novel because I am jealous of J, who is a genius writer, and who has finished TWO novels [J note: One and a third. First drafts.]. I am NOT writing a novel to avoid finishing my latest album, which is supposed to have (gasp) melodies and, (cringe) vocals. I am NOT writing a novel to reassure myself that I have accomplished something by the time I am 35 and am still a virile, capable, sexy guy, even though I have some grey hair.

Well hell, why am I writing a novel?

Why did that one blind guy climb mount-whatever-it-was? Why did Amelia Airheart fly over whatever she flew over. Why did…'' oh hell I don’t know. It just seemed like a good idea back when I started bragging to the whole world that I was going to writing a whole freaking novel in 30 freaking days. But I have figured out what the first line of my book will be;

Ahem…''

“Oh shit! I’m trying to write a novel in a month. What was I thinking? What the hell am I doing!?”

Anyway, more later. Today is our day off and we’re going white water rafting.

Tour Journal – 2005 – Vol. 2 – Issue. 2

1689 miles traveled

People have accents just like in the movie “Fargo”! People have accents just like in “Fargo”!!! It’s so adorable! I just want to hug everybody. [insert offensive inaccurate fargo accent here] “Oh, Comere yoo adorable leettle northerner you.”

I’m writing this from the student union at North Dakota State University. We just met a student we both have a huge crush on. Honestly, this is a pretty cool school. Friendly, laid back, and fairly diverse. Although, I’m reminded of one thing while here. I’m writing this next part as an open letter to all college students everywhere;

Alcohol is not a defining characteristic.

Wearing a tee shirt that proclaims your undying devotion to beer is not a statement. It doesn’t make you different. It doesn’t make you more adult. It’s so pervasive as to be the opposite of edgy, and it doesn’t
tell us anything about you.

Jeeze. Come on.

Oh, and sex. We know you like sex, you’re college students. Honestly, we get it. I love sex too; it’s in my list of top 3 favorite things ever.

But tee shirts that invite women to have sex with you…'' well,

A.) They’re not really all that funny
B.) They’re not clever, seriously, they’re not
C.) They don’t work.

As a matter of fact, I think they decrease your chances of getting laid by 67% (and frankly the chances
are already dangerously low, given your personality.)

Admit it. You’re really wearing that, “Got Lei’d in Hawaii” shirt to impress other guys, right? To prove your heterosexuality. Make sure no one thinks you’re, gasp! gay.

Come here, you need a big hug too. Yes, there there, you’re going to grow up to be a big strong man.

Sorry. Went on a bit of a rant there.

Anyway, after this we’re heading over to Jamestown, which means more driving. I don’t love driving, but
at least there’s stuff to look at out here. There’s really only one word to describe the landscape.

Pretty.

It’s the major reason we're doing this again. Although it’s hard to stay focused while driving. The major highway in North Dakota is arrow straight and flat flat flat. The road is a perfect line going endlessly into the horizon. Since the truck has cruise control. Since there is very little traffic. Since there are no curves, there really isn’t much effort to driving. Our job as we drive is to

A.) Stay awake.
B.) Keep the truck between the two white lines.
C.) Continue to stay awake.

It feels surreal, like we’re keeping the truck balanced on a fence for two hours. It’s our current form of meditation, while having the stressful excitement of having the potential to kill us.

Here are some typical exits we’ve passed in North Dakota (I swear I’m not lying):

Anaconda Opportunity
No Services
Bad Route Road
Buffalo Alice
No Services
Home on the Range
No Services

Driving along, we’ve learned that the state motto for North Dakota is “North Dakota: The Roughrider State”, which is all right I guess.

Trying to find places to get food and fuel, we’ve come up with a few better ones:

North Dakota: No Services.
North Dakota: Vega-what?
North Dakota: Organic food is for Commies!

As we drive J and I have taken to reading anything we see out loud in funny voices.

“Blinsky! Hello, I am a truck. My name is Blinsky!”

This is how we pass our time. We’ve decided that fighting over the speed of the truck was beneath us. So we’ve moved on to fighting about the temperature inside to truck.

Me: “Can we turn on the air conditioning?”
J: “I’m freezing!”
Me: “What are you talking about? It’s like a thousand degrees in here!”
J: “Negative one thousand maybe.”
Me: “How did you get so crazy?”
J: “Jerkface.”

[a note to our more sensitive viewers: In reality J and I have NEVER called each other “jerkface.”

I’m making up half of this stuff, and exaggerating the other half. Just pretend you’re reading about two fake
people.]

Still, J’s also having issue with my humor these days. I dunno. It’s got something to do with my use of the phrase, “your mother.”

J: “How far is it till Fargo.”
Me: “Your mother.”
J: “What? That doesn’t even make sense.”
Me: “Your mother doesn’t even make sense.”
J: “Ahhhhhhh!”

I think J just doesn’t have my refined sense of humor.

(note to J’s mom: This is not about you. I meant it as more of an archetypal “mother,” like “The Mother Of Us All”, or “The Great Earth Mother”)

(note to “The Great Earth Mother”: please do not smite me for the “your mother” jokes, I’m just being silly. No offense.)

When we’re not driving the truck, staging mock fights, or begging the locals for vegetarian food, J and I have been writing. I’ve been writing fiction lately (apparently I’m either trying to be like J, or I’m procrastinating from writing my next album.)

Of course for J writing is the easiest thing in the world. Each day she effortlessly spins off a novel or two of ghosts who cry rainbow tears, alien races who communicate through smell, and extra dimensional creatures who highest aspiration is to merge into an eternal uni-mind.

Meanwhile, I struggle just to make my prepositions talk to my participles, whatever they are.

I don’t know why I’m even trying to write, I can barely talk. I was reading a book on dialog, and I’ve
started to observe how I, and others, talk. I’ve noticed something extremely disturbing about how I speak. I have this weird habit of ending all of my sentences with a trailing conjunction.

For example:
“I getting pretty hungry, maybe we could stop to get some food and…''
“and what?”
“What”
“You said, ‘and’”
“and what?”
“Ahhhhhhh!”

More later…

Tour Journal – 2005 – Vol. 2 – Issue. 1

From the cab of a white moving truck – 699 miles traveled

The cab smells like cigarette smoke. We’ve sprinkled lavender leaves all over the cab. J and I are currently zipping through the forested mountains of the panhandle Idaho, in about 70 minutes we’ll be in Missoula, Montana buying hippie food. Then we go further east.

We both spent the last 4 days desperately trying to get ready for this trip. I kept myself busy primarily with packing and fretting. I like to get in a good fret or two before we hit the road. Part of the desperation was due to my long-standing policy of never preparing for any trip till the very absolute possible last minute. J ascribes to the same life philosophy. [ J note: This is a lie, plain and simple.] She has this clever technique. Every time she finishes an item on her to-do list, she adds two more items. [J note: This, however, is not a lie. It is, in fact, the cornerstone of our relationship.] These kinds of dysfunctions are the cornerstone of our relationship.

In my defense I also had to take care of lots of other stuff too. I had lots of Coop work to finish, two web clients and, oh yeah, I threw a dance party / concert out at Lost Valley Educational center.

The concert didn’t start the way I envisioned it at all. I was thinking that at the strike of 8 pm EVERY person I invited would appear at the lodge, cheering, and virtually begging for my music. I would dazzle them with my dazzling introduction, start the first track, and bask in the pulsing vibe of getting-downidness. Maybe occasionally pausing to give in to the demands of zealous groupies.

Instead, the strike of 8 pm was followed by the strike of 8:15 pm, and the deafening silence of 8:30 pm. Then my opening band started playing. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d have an opening band, but I did. It was a sort of improvisational group, which consisted of every child at lost valley. Most of their songs consisted of them beating arhythmically, as loud as they possibly could, on the drums lying around the lodge. Meanwhile one of them would run in circles screaming, “Stop playing! Stop! Stop!” It was all very edgy.

The only audience for this performance was the screaming children themselves, and of coarse, me. As delightful as this was, by 9 pm I told the kids that it was time to start my concert, the grown-up concert, the featured event, me. By 9:00 pm I was rocking the house, slamming my compositions of eclectic techno music into the audience of small screaming children.

Well, ok, eventually a bunch of adult type people did show up, the kids all went to bed, and I managed to keep the dance floor mostly full for the next 2 and a half hours. Wow, people dancing, to MY music, wow.

Anyway, back to now. Like I said, J an’ I are crossing Montana heading towards North Dakota. We bought some natural hippie enzyme stuff that is going to eat all the cigarette smell all bio-warfare style.

I think the truck is trying to kill us. J scolded it earlier in the trip, and it’s getting back at us by self adjusting its mirrors in un-useful ways. Within minutes of setting the side mirrors, I’ll look to see if a big semi is barreling down on us, only to see nothing but my own terrified face. Thanks truck. Yet even amongst all this stress and drama, J and I are managing to stay emotionally connected. Knock on plastic. We’ll have to see how we’re doing in a month and a half. I’m feeling confident because our communication has improved greatly since the last trip (Texas).

A typical interaction on the Texas tour (a dramatization),

J: “Ninety! You are going ninety miles per hour!”
Me: “I am not! I’m only, um, going like 88 tops.”
J: “You’re going to kill us!”
Me: “We’re in a desert! There’s nothing to even run into out here!”
J: [crying] “I should just drive for the rest of the tour”
Me: “Shut up, jerkface”

The new updated enlightened us,

J: “I am uncomfortable with the speed you are driving”
Me: “I hear you. I notice that we’re going 5 miles under the speed limit.”
J: “And yet, still I feel uncomfortable”
Me: “Ah ha! Well then let me remedy that situation with great haste.”
J: “Thank you”
Me: “You’re welcome…' …'jerkface.” [Jai note: This is the mildest dramatization you will ever read on these pages.]

We just stopped at a “Discount Food Store”. Maybe it should have been called the Ghetto Food Store. It had a bunch of beat up looking food that was at least a year old. It’s essentially like dumpster diving, except that you pay for it. I was mocking J because she said that she was “ravenous” and would “eat anything”, yet one bite into the ghetto cereal we bought, she turned up her nose and is now searching for food that is less than a year old. Wimp.

Anyway, we’re doing pretty well. That’s it for now. In two days we’ll be in Fargo North Dakota (yes, where the movie was made)

More later…'.