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It was in 1996
that I got the urge to get on the road and shlep my wares. That was
in the spring when I released the "Removals..., Other Isms"
EP. Having driven up to Chicago to work on the film "Rock and Roll
Punk," I figured I might as well play a few shows while I was at
it. I drove back up later in the summer for the Milwaukee Irish Festival
and to play a few more shows. Don't remember how many times I went out
that year. Next year I kept a little better track of it all.....
At
first, I didn't know if this was a tour diary or a spiel. It all started
back in the summer of '97 when I drove up to Chicago to play a few shows
and then continued to Milwaukee to work at the Irish Festival. At this
point in my life I had been actively playing acoustic and traditional
music for a helluva long time and had thrown my hat passionately into
the Irish and Celtic rings. Couldn't get enough of it. Altan, De Danaan,
Solas, Paddy O'Brian, Kevin Burke and Liz Carroll were the new heros—the
REAL shit! After the obligatory bouts with Bluegrass, Cajun, Country,
Klezmer (not to mention the Rock, Jazz, Trash, Punk, Junk, Noize and
Blooze), I had ended up sitting in on Irish tune sessions all over the
country at festivals and in pubs. When a group of folks in Austin decided
to start the Austin Celtic Association in early '97 it was only natural
that they "abducted" me onto the board of directors. They planned to
stage an outdoor festival in October and I had all this sound and concert
experience. Soooooo...
The festival date
came and so did the rain. Buckets and fields and lakes of rain. At the
last minute we pulled it indoors to an old cowboy dance hall and it
worked! Shortly thereafter I was set to drive up to Bellingham, WA to
attend the final "Garage Shock" but I didn't make it on account
of getting sick. All the stress of being a festival organizer ran me
down. Those things can really take a toll. Recovering in bed one day
I got a phone call from Joe Carducci (the guy who not only turned SST
Records into one of the most significant independent labels ever, but
also wrote the book Rock & the Pop Narcotic, and was currently
in the process of making his independent film company, Provisional,
a notable concern). He asked very directly, "Is your record ready
to be put out?" I answered, "Which one?" I had tons of stuff
in the can. He told me how he and Bill Stevenson and the rest of the
ALL/Descendents clan had decided to start their own independent label
(called O&O with a sister label called Upland). How could I resist?
Having DIY'd my Removals..., other isms EP the year before in
the face of some trademark conflict—some stupid band was using
my name!—I had lost enthusiasm for doing it myself yet again. A
man has to know his limitations. They talked me into trekking up to
their respective compounds—the Blasting Room in Ft. Collins, CO;
Provisional in Laramie, WY—and set up some coffeehouse gigs for
me in both places. Cool. And we would talk some serious face-to-face
bizness.
The first gig was
Friday night, Nov. 7 at the Subsonic Cafe in Ft. Collins. Yeah, my friends
all said my car wouldn't make it, just like they said all the other
times. Once again, the old Toyota, which now had over 200,000 miles
on the engine, made it with flying colors. The Subsonic Cafe is a neat,
house-style coffeehouse which also sells old vinyl and books. The downstairs
basement is the smoking section as well as gig room. Greg, the guy who
owns the place, is really friendly and accomodating and believes in
having junk munchies on the menu. None of this upscale quiche mentality!
I think that a good independent coffeehouse should be a place where
you can go to escape PSS (Post-Starbucks Syndrome). The gig itself was
really good. Nothing spectacular but a show that felt good with a good
listening audience. Y'know, no one committing the "joke" of requesting
songs by bands that I was never in. After the show I went back to Karl
Alvarez' apartment where we drank
brandy and complained about how "da music" and "da kids" suck these
days. Old punks become grumpy old men... at best.
The next day (Saturday,
Nov. 8) I drove up to Laramie, WY where the Carducci compound faces
the railroad tracks of a town with a population of 28,000. There are
fewer people in the
entire state of Wyoming than there are in the city of Austin but there
are still good reasons for oddball coffeehouses to exist. It's cold
up in the Rockies and you can't spend all your time on the ranch or
in a sports bar. The Provisional Cafe is a place where the owners, transplants
from Chicago, still care about the Bulls but you're not likely to find
the traditional Bulls fan hanging out there. The operating hours are
decidedly out of kilter—3 pm to 7 am—and the coffee choices
are magnificently limited—coffee or espresso... no lattes, no cappucino—but
there are good sandwiches and the clientele is not disposed to yuppishness.
If you want foo-foo you gotta go to the uppity place around the corner.
The gig that night was OK but not as good as the previous one. And it
was a kinda slow night. Oh well.
Monday morning
my car wouldn't start; it was about 15 degrees so I wasn't surprised.
Carducci drove us down to the Blasting Room. Let's face it, the ALL
clan have a great studio, the kind I never really had the chance to
work in, but it's definitely not something I covet these days—too
much water, too many bridges. We went to Bill and Sarah's house and
had a bizness meeting over a bonus breakfast (with jellybean dessert).
Yeah, we got a lot done. Back at the Provisional compound I de-iced
the Toyota and got it running (the plugs were fouled from a combination
of the high altitude and low-octane fuels). I hit the road that night
and late Wednesday I was home.
For most of the
trip I avoided the interstates and that's the way to travel if you have
the time. U. S. Highway 87 is a lot of fun and you never know what you'll
find. My favorite was the gorgeous Uniroyal Gal (sister to the legendary
Muffler Man) who stands in front of an automotive shop in La Mesa, TX
(damn! I didn't have a camera!). She's a real doll, all 25 feet of her.
And then there's the Underground Coffeehouse in Brady, TX. I saw it
on the way up and made a point to stop there on the way down. It's a
contradiction. An actual coffeehouse in a town of 6000—a stone
house covered in Xmas lights, decorated with knick-knacks and movie
posters from a Randy "Biscuit" Turner dream, with a full coffee bar,
serious desserts, sandwiches, more junk munchies, run by an older "kicker-style"
couple who know they're absolutely crazy for having such a business
in such a town—right on the main thoroughfare a few blocks south
of the town square. Wonderful. Not an ounce of yuppie sensibility here.
I happened to drop in just before the weekly karaoke contest; tonight
was the finals. I would have stayed for the performances but I was tired
and wanted to get home before their fine coffee brew lost its effect
on me. So there you have it, the Twilight Zone with karaoke! Gotta go
back!
Back in Austin
I played a few gigs with Crazy Jane & the Bishop, a band that does a
wide variety of Celtic styles including French, Breton, Galician, as
well as the usual Irish and Scottish stuff, and sat in with Mike Watt
on his "Engine Room" tour stop in town, but mostly I wrestled with my
own engine room by replacing both the heater core and the carburetor
on the Toyota. The heater core was by far the most difficult job; it
takes completely dismantling the interior and dashboard to get to it.
A total pain in the ass that almost made me miss one of my gigs, but
it had to be done.
--------
Less than a week
later I'm on the road to Nashville. My
first show was in Memphis. It sucked. The less said about it the better.
Nashville was cool, though. Played at the Bluebird Cafe. About a year
and a half ago I sent them a tape and they gave me a showcase on their
"Songwriters' Sunday." Needless to say, I wasn't too enthused about
it until a few local songwriting folks whom I respected set me straight
by confirming that it was NOT just another open mike. The Bluebird is
THE SONGWRITER VENUE! in Music City and Sunday night is when all the
writers, publishers and other such honchos come down to hear what's
new and hot. The place is usually packed and they take listening to
songs very, very seriously. This audience shuts up and really pays attention
to what you do. It's all professionals and promising amateurs and there
are no excuses for a bad performance or bad song. I
played immediately after the guy who wrote the old country classic "Red
Necks, White Socks, and Blue Ribbon Beer." The Nashville Songwriters
Association had been having a party celebrating their 30th Anniversary,
so in such company I was a bit nervous but I was ready and people genuinely
liked what I did. Later that night I met Roger Cook, the guy who not
only wrote one of my all-time fave 60s pop hits—"You've Got Your
Troubles" (1965, by The Fortunes)—but also wrote the infamous "I'd
like to teach the world to sing..." Coca-Cola song. You can relate
to that however you want. I'll forgive him for that one because he also
sang a song that no one in Nashville will record. A brilliantly vicious
croon called "Sliding Down the Razor Blade of Love". Ouch! It hurt!
Cool dude!
Next show was
in New Orleans at Checkpoint Charlie but I forgot that it was an open
mike. I was the host (turned out my agent had told me but I forgot).
Anyone who's ever hosted one of them knows how frustrating they usually
are. Making the best of the situation, this one at least turned out
to be lotsa fun, a lot of interesting characters, and when I finally
got a chance to play at about 3:00 am there was a strange old bearded
dude dancing around, beating on a bucket and howling. OK, so I was kinda
drunk by that time too. Checkpoint Charlie is a pretty cool place in
the French Quarter. It has a laundromat in the back room, a 24-hour
bar and grill, I got propositioned by a hooker outside and the bartender,
Andrea, who is totally cool, gave me a much needed couch to sleep on
that night.
Next night was
the last date of this leg of the tour—Houston at Rudyard's. Great
show, good audience, Thanksgiving eve. It turned out a friend of mine
(a member of a Celtic a cappella quartet called Nobody's Reel) lives
directly around the corner from the club. Easy accomodations tonight,
boyee! And home in time for 2 (count em! 2!) turkey din-dins! Life is
good... except for leaving my flashlight in New Orleans and my "hat
of acceptance" in Houston. Oh well, I'd get em back next trip which
came after wrestling with many friends' sensibilities about being crazy
to travel in December, and needing "to rent a 4-wheel drive"
in Wisconsin, and "you're gonna need snow tires and chains,"
and "that little car won't make it." Yeah, right. I'm going to
spend my life complaining about all the things I never did because I
was too worried about those things that hadn't happened. And then maybe
I'll get smart and drive an airbag utility tank... get a sellphone...
get a pager... spend lots of money on insurance and communications...
then I can do it... I can roll up the windows... turn on the oxygen
machine... crank Phillip Glass on the stereo... slip into a silent,
bloodless drive... pull out onto a genteel violence of a highway where
the chicken doesn't stand a chance to cross the road... and I'll be
free... free to see the world, protected, free of all blame, all responsibility
to anyone, anything outside of my frame of metal and liability! I don't
mind getting my hands dirty. If I have to walk a mile in the rain to
settle my own destiny, so be it. If I have to set foot on the deck of
the Titantic thinking that I might be able to make a difference... the
world is filled with fools and I don't want to miss any of them.
So early in December,
after replacing tie rod ends on the Toyota, I hit the bright morning
road for Chicago. When I arrived, after making the obligatory stop at
the Country Inn in Livingston, a good friend who used to work at one
of my fave restaurants in Austin put me up at her apartment in Bucktown.
The sad news was that Urbis Orbis, my fave Chi-town coffeehouse, would
be closing down at the end of the month. Urbis would always be my first
stop whenever arriving in town but, alas, that evil thing called gentrification
had been festering along North Ave. and had finally infected their building
as well. Sucks.
Next day it was
up to Milwaukee to play at the Why Not II where earlier in the summer
I had done a (believe it or not) poetry gig. This time I was playin'
music for a buncha real loud pool players. Some people never shut up
and when Geo the bartender gets on their case it only gets worse. At
least they were good-natured hecklers... whatever the hell that means.
Ironically, there was a guy there from the old punker days who swore
I crashed on his couch some 15 years ago. Hmmmm. And there was also
a guy I had met that August when I was up for Irish Fest. A really great
tin whistle player, we met during a tune session at the Park East Hotel—a
bunch of really hot players and this guy was pulling up tune after tune
after tune and it went on like that for hours, the kind of major musical
rush that I live for. Yeah! (And this was that silly night when members
of Cherish the Ladies began reenacting scenes from "Lord of the Dance"
in the hotel lobby to a howling audience who shared their irreverent
sentiments. Some truly hilarious guerilla theater!) Maybe next time
I played in Milwaukee he would join me in a few tunes! But the Why Not
II is a cool bar with some interesting drunks and Geo does a magnificent
job of insulting them back into reality.
The next night
I did a poetry gig at Thai Joe's where I was the featured reader. Those
things can be scary but fun. Sheila Spargur, whose apartment I was staying
at, set it up as she had some other gigs for me in the past. Aside from
being the "Poetry Godishka" she's a totally cool lounge singer
too. She did her debut show at a small jazz club, The Jazz Estate, the
next night with her pianist who played one of my favorite Gershwin tunes,
"Promenade", that I hadn't heard in years. The bartender there mixed
me some really different whiskey drinks, a nice change from "the usual".
But that's Milwaukee... so many bars, so little time. And this was proving
to be the whiskey tour but the best was yet to come.
Next night was
Green Bay at the Concert Cafe. Packer fuckin' country! It wasn't a big
show but it was one of those good ones with a great audience and some
Point beer. Tasty stuff and cheap too! I played a long time and thought
I played pretty damn good. An animated girl offered me her couch to
sleep on and I accepted. Of course she lived about 25 miles south of
town. Then it turned out it wasn't her house; she didn't even live in
that area of the state; but her friends Lisa and Lenny, whose house
it was, and who were also at the show, were very cool and didn't mind.
So we drove and I wondered if it was another snipe hunt like Memphis
was. No, thankfully it was real. But animated-girl kept me awake by
playing Enya over and over on the stereo and always finding something
to ask me right at that point when I was falling asleep. Cute kid, but...
oh well... I couldn't be angry. When I finally passed out at 6:00 am
I managed to get 2 hours of sleep before the phone rang and woke Lisa
to learn that she had a much needed job that day. Lenny, a farmer, had
already left the house and the rest of us would have to leave then as
well. Lisa apologized, "...sorry, but.I really can't leave you
all here." Oh well. At least she told me about Bublitz's, a classic
American style restaurant further down I-94.
Back in Milwaukee
I crashed for a few hours and then went on a car repair mission before
driving to Madison. It was a small problem with my carburetor linkage
that made the last night's drive a bit slow but it was something I easily
fixed on the road with a paper clip (the parts cost me a whopping $3.00
at Western Auto). On the road to the capitol city it hit me how this
kind of touring can numb at least one part of your sensibilities. Travelling
alone there is no one to talk to (I don't count talking to myself);
no foil to play your ideas, frustrations and dreams against. By this
time I was sick of all my tapes and the radio had precious few good
moments to offer—there is a point when the charm of all the cheesy
rock and country and bible stations wears off. And when it does you
find yourself travelling not in silence but within the mechanical roar
of a trusty old car that refuses to let you feel too lonely with the
romantic prospect of travelling around the country at Xmas time with
all the lights and the fantasies of how warm it must be in that bright
house way over there... or that one further in the distance in that
white field. OK, so sometimes romantic notions both fuel me and fail
me. It would be nice to tell someone how you don't really know how you
feel at that moment but the only chance you have to do such a thing
is onstage but you try not to because it's unlikely that noisy audience
will understand what you're trying to say. So you hope for the best;
you do your best; you trust that you've made a connection with someone;
you're playing not only your music, you're playing the odds as well.
With the Madison
show over—I headlined at Okayz Corral following two bands—I
got a cup of coffee from Nicole the bartender, then we stood outside
for a few minutes and talked about Mopars and Fords and our respective
project cars, then we each climbed into our respective Toyotas and drove
home. It was back to Milwaukee but I listened to the radio this time.
And, though I wasn't that fatigued after a good show, the Toyota's 208,000
miles were murmuring that it was tired and it would like to get home
soon. I could concur. This tour wasn't so bad, not so grueling, it was
the solo driving that was starting to wear on me. I never once worried
about the Toyota's road worthiness; it would go the distance. I was
afraid of too many days off with no place to be.
So from Milwaukee
I trekked south to a night off in Chicago and hit the city smack during
Friday rush hour with a gas gauge hard at E(mpty) but I made it to Mike
Wing's homestead in a perfectly timed arrival. One of his bands, Team
Satan, was playing at the Beat Kitchen that night and they were shortly
going to begin moving equipment over. I was invited to leave my keys
and car and baggage behind and forget my concerns and party! Sure! Twist
my arm! Mike works at the BK and I had played there back in August.
The band had concocted a drink special for the night—the Team Satan
Shot... a shot glass, drop in a cherry, stuff the rest of it with Jim
Beam. It worked. I had many, and many beers to chase it, I didn't have
to drive, I didn't even worry about missing the Mono Men at Empty Bottle.
After the show a few of us wandered up to the famous Green Mill up on
Broadway. In all my visits to the Windy City I had only driven past
the place that everyone recommended I go to. Tonight the Hawk was biting
hard and that was the coldest I had been on the whole trip. The GM is
exactly that kind of bar that epitomizes everything classic from the
Chicago gangster era—the style, the feel, the sleaze, the gilt
and mirrored ambience, the escape hatch in the event of a raid. Quite
a layout. Too bad it was an afterhours Friday clientele that we had
to elbow our way through. In a word, some cigar-smokin nouveau loungers
need to be shot. That would make the world sing in better harmony. Aw
hell, it really wasn't so bad, but a man can always find something to
complain about whether justified or not. We did, after all, get good
seats at the bar and I did meet a really cute woman who, like me, was
making her maiden voyage to the bar. And she offered me a ride home!
But, darn, I was kinda already spoken for... and what I really needed
was to go home and start sleeping off something I might regret in the
morning. Yeah, good call. When I woke up I sure didn't know where I
was til I recognized Mike's monkey art in the bathroom. Was I relieved!
Saturday I walked
over to Musicians' Network, a cool music store on Clark, where, lo and
behold!, the same Jazz Bass I wanted to buy in August was still hanging
on the wall and it was still whispering sweet nothings to me when I
played it. Hell, I whipped out the plastic cuz this time I knew I could
pay it off, we made a deal, I walked outta the store with a new friend.
That night I played what would prove to be my last show of the tour.
At Lounge Ax—one of the coolest clubs in town and directly across
the street from the Biograph, where John Dillenger was gunned down—I
opened for the Subsonics. They were fuckin' great! They dug my set and
I totally dug their's. Alex, the guitarist, was wearing tight glitter
pants that just wouldn't stay up; Buffy, the drummer, plays in a totally
oddball style that rocks and it turned out she's married to one of the
Woggles who at that time were one of my fave bands; and Christie is
an absolute cartoon character of a babe with matching sparkle P-Bass.
Damn, one of the cutest bands I've seen in a long time! They were eager
to hit the road but at least we bonded out on Lincoln Ave. A phone call
confirmed that my next night's gig in Louisville had fallen through
so I had another day off in Chi-town which would be a good thing.
So the Mono Men
were playing their last ever shows that weekend with two nights at the
Empty Bottle. I missed the Friday show but I sure wouldn't miss Saturday's.
The Subsonics and I had opened for... uh... gee, I forget. Someone who
used to be in Veruca Salt? Or was it... uh... someone else? Whoever
it was I bid farewell to Mark who booked me and got myself across town
to the Bottle where they had just quit taking cover at the door and
I got to see Dave and the M. Men's last 45 minutes. I felt damn privileged
and blessed. A coupla folks from my Madison show were there and one
of them told me the story of how he had been released from jail the
night I played there and he came directly to my show after being released
from 3 months in jail. Wow! I felt genuinely honored. Just goes ta show
ya something. But Mr. Crider was in magnificently drunken form and I
put myself to the task of catching up to his state. Of course, that
was a fun job.
After the show
we all went to the magnificent Lakeview Lounge on North Broadway where
they have hand-lettered signs on the wall warning "No Sleeping" and
on the bathroom door "Only One Man at a Time". Yeah. A classy joint
where one of the younger patrons immediately engaged me in a discussion
of racism. At that point I was there by myself waiting for the crew
from the E. Bottle to show up. But in the meantime there was the band
playing behind the bar. A trio playing oldies, the guitarist played
an old Jazzmaster that was entirely covered by rhinestones... on the
headstock was a battery pack that powered the Xmas lights that outlined
the body; the bassist looked a lot like Freddy Fender; the drummer was
Travis Bickel from "Taxi Driver" complete with mohawk. When the M. Men
entourage showed up we were treated to one of the coolest versions of
"Malaguena" I've ever heard. The rhinestone guitar slinger was a good
player, probably an ex-jazzer. And that's when the dancing started and
some of us ended up atop the bar shakin' that thang. And this was only
the beginning of the party. When closing time fell upon us and the band
refused to play any more we were given the boot into the cold night
and to the Diner Grille we went. Ahh, eggs, hashers, toast, coffee,
Jim Beam in a bag, et al! This way to an addictive revellers breakfast...
and sneaking sunrise... hehehehe.
And starting then
next day, the next day, the next day... with more breakfast. This time
with Mr. Wing and Laurie at Paulina's and then to a bar to play Cutthroat
(pool) and drink. Oh well, at this point it was no longer a tour, really,
it was a vacation. I found my way to the newly opened Fadó (a
fancy-shmancy chain of Irish "Pubs"; I played shows regularly at the
Fadó in Austin) where manager Michael Kenneally insisted I eat
and have a few drinks on his tab. Bless your heart, Michael! Needless
to say, the Irish music community takes care of its own. Fadó
is a bit on the expensive side with an overwhelmingly yuppish clientele
but, to their credit, the staff is usually salt-of-the-earth and worth
the tipping. At Delilah's the Mono Men were playing their post-final-show
show. A freebie. A great bar and whadda show! Go out in a blaze of,
well... lotta dancing and more drinking, had some party munchies on
the bar, and a cake. Yes, a cake whose candles were lit and blown out
in the afterglow of that last loud chord and cymbal crash (sniff), the
smoke spiralling into the air. And as things settled down and the cake
was being cut I was talking to a friend, felt a tap tap on my shoulder,
as I turned around I remember seeing Dave Crider's horn-rimmed glasses
and gleeful smile as he stuffed a slice, frosting first, into my face
and followed through with an expert smear-it-all-around motion. The
judges gave 7-8-7-8-8 but no one cared about the scores then. It was
swing, pass, smear, shake up the beer, get down tonight! and get down
we did! The floor became the mess you'd imagine, bodies slipped down,
James Brown was pumpin through the system, cake was in the hair, dancing
was in the air, some of us once again ended up atop the bar. And maybe
at this point I'm wise not to remember too much. When I drink, my "problem"
is that I remember everything—no memory lapses allowed. That's
either a blessing or a curse but I won't try to figure out which.
So I left Chicago
the next afternoon, a warm, sunny, beautiful mid-December day—such
an anachronism!—and headed down I-57 toward Mississippi. When I
arrived in Starkville the next day my gig wasn't happening. Louisville
had fallen through, I had decided to forego Nashville (which would have
only been a slot on an open mike at the Bluebird), and now Easy Street
had a problem which proved to be the downfall of the entire week. Simply,
Xmas season and school vacation. In a college town like Starkville it
translated into no business worth staying open for. Their whole week
had been like that and no amount of optimism could give the owners any
reason to stay open past 7:00 pm. They apologized profusely and fed
me. I wasn't upset since I had some Celtic music friends just down the
road in Jackson who had a gig that night and offered to let me sit in
on a tune or two. Don Penzien is a great guy and his band Legacy is
one of the best traditional Irish bands on the U.S. festival circuit,
though this night he would be playing with another band of locals. We
did whiskey, beer, Waffle House, and literally broke into the institution
where he held the title of "Doctor." We both laughed at how easy it
was on a supposedly high security complex. Needing only to get his e-mail
he called it "the place where I pretend to work." Gee, these
crazy, subversive Celtoids; let Sinn Fein win a few elections and they
become giddy midnight locksmiths!
I made it down
to New Orleans the next evening and heard my show included in the events
listing on the radio as I drove in. That made me feel better after the
previous non-gigs. So I pulled into the French Quarter and went directly
to Checkpoint Charlie with plenty of time to do my laundry and watch
South Park which, being the non-TV watcher I am, I had never seen before.
Never even had heard about the show but Mr. Hanky made me see the light.
One of the bar's regulars, a guy named Rob, remarked that I was living
out the old Simon & Garfunkel song "Homeward Bound". Hmm, that idea
seemed to hit home though I wasn't sitting in a railway station—a
Toyota was probably cheaper these days. Over at the Mermaid Lounge,
my last gig of the tour, it was very quiet and it stayed very quiet
and, well, no one showed up. Patrick, one of the owners, was certain
I hated them because of the non-attendance but I couldn't be upset about
that because I knew the club had promoted the show. These things happen.
The problem was widespread all over town; club owners were calling each
other to confirm that it was that way all over. So we sat there and
drank and told stories and solved either all of or none of the world's
problems. I was impressed with our insight into the human condition
and why that condition invented such things as whiskey, especially Jameson's.
We could've commisserated on that forever but instead I headed to Andrea's
apartment where I would once again make good use of the couch. Next
day I recovered my lost flashlight and saw my first electronic baby.
Later that
night in Houston I retrieved my hat... and it's simple things like that
for which I am grateful. Yep, things such as arriving home in the middle
of the night—even if there's no one there to greet me—and
sleeping in my own bed are big things in my book. At least I had a lunch
hour gig at Fadó in the morning. It meant that I had to set the
alarm and actually wake up but for once I was looking forward to it.
After 8,000 miles I couldn't afford to get lazy and I had plenty of
time to sleep later.
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