Arrive in St. Louis, MO, after dark, in the sweltering 72 degree, 90% humidity of the Mississippi Valley, the American Bottomlands. Our hotel, The Cheshire, is a shrine to Britain, complete with double-decker buses, uniforms, art objects and the inevitable faux tudor exterior. Even the message boxes behind reception are of some dark, polished wood, with a little Canterbury arch on every one. Martyn is enthused. We walk around in shirtsleeves and sleep with the window open.

In the night the air temperature drops 35 degrees. On a whim I search our snailmail database for people in St. Louis. I find seven names and, consulting the phone book, see them all listed. I get a surprisingly enthusiastic response. An art history teacher, a professor of eastern religions, a published author and acknowledged global authority on Jewish Mysticism and the Kabbalah, a tattoo artist, a student nurse, and a massage therapist. Shyly apologetic that a traveling rock band would show genuine interest in their city, I am practically bombarded with suggestions and ideas of things to do in the area. Everybody promises to show up on Wednesday. We hit bookstores, shoe repair, photodevelopers, food markets, local restaurants, like The Broadway Oyster Bar. In the shadow of an enormous Anheuser-Busch brewery just south of the city we have a couple of beers at The Cat's Meow, a blue-collar neighborhood corner bar. The choices are all "Busch products". Kitschy cat art covers all the walls and some of the ceiling, fighting for space with the beer advertising paraphernalia. Since we are approaching St. Patrick's Day, dozens of handsize green-glitter shamrocks are taped to the mirror behind the bar, each one with a name and dollar amount to show donations to the local muscular dystrophy charity. In the middle of the grumble and clink of the bar's progress through a Tuesday night a man suddenly appears in the middle of the room, armed with two remotes. He points them at opposite ends of the bar, firing upwards into the corners and the televisions agree on a channel. Their volume, once muted, becomes practically deafening. Conversation stops, an announced voice states that Wayne Gretzsky, the master professional hockey center has been traded to the St. Louis Blues team and will be "in blue" in two nights. The bar erupts. Cries of "YES!" accompanied by a swung fist pop up around us. Another beer? No, that's enough. We head for home in the cold Missouri night.

every night Roz begs for Ritalin, and every night Allen decides if he's been good and, if so, he gives it to him (Hi: Pointe, St. Louis, MO: 2/28/96)

True to it's name, it's up a flight of skinny stairs. Good show, cool people. Beatle Bob who, true to his nickname, wears blazers and has a Beatle haircut, blesses us with his presence. He's a minor celebrity out on the town in St. Louis. People say that the event was "Beatle Bob approved." Regardless of the tempo of the song he does the same silly dance alone. About halfway through the show the scenetypes leave and we're left with people that really listen. At 4 a.m. we go to The Courtesy Diner, way out of town on Kings Highway. White tiled walls, lots of flourescent lights and grease. What'll ya have, hon?

Once in a while we walk in to a club and instantly feel welcome. This little bar, owned by Cathy and co-managed with her husband, Jerry, is an oasis. Leslie asks the doorman if they are approaching fire safety maximum occupance a half hour before we go on and he tells her that they reached it half an hour before she asked. They keep coming in. Mark is feeling claustrophic. We hide out downstairs until it's time, talking with Jerry about the club and the Madison scene. It seems the promoters for this show, First Artists, have monopolized the touring bands coming through this city of 200,000 people. He tells us that to get good bands, local clubs must go through their organization. First Artists pay the Mermen $300.00, give the two opening bands $50 apiece, charge $6.00 at the door and see to it that 240 paying people get crammed in to space meant for 140. You do the math. On top of that, First Artists demands 20% of the bands' merchandise sales. That really stings. Then, in front of Jerry and Cathy, at the end of a very succesful night, the First Artist guys say to me that they are "sorry" about the show but "let's build" for the next time when they "increase the ticket price and move to a larger hall." I tell them what I think about their practices. They continue to dissemble. I can't hear them. They get the picture and wander off. We take Jerry and Cathy's numbers so that, when we return, we can skip the gouging and unnecessary promotional men.

In spite of that, the show is a complete success. We play over two hours. One 20-year-old fan, Todd, waited two hours outside of the club in 20-degree weather for us to show up for soundcheck. We put him to work right away helping us load in and that gets him in to the show.

Reading Farewell My Lovely, by Raymond Chandler. I suppose that his style and content is an archetype by now but, having never actually read one of his books, I am moved. His writing is compelling, funny and breathtakingly poetic. I keep seeing pockets of haiku scattered in his prose.

Bouncing, weaving south on Route 39 to Chicago. Through 30 mph winds, clouds of occasional snow and the diffuse, bleak, dry winter sunlight. I am pissing into a glass bottle in the back of the van. Radio is playing: "Now You're Messing with a Sonofabitch" by Nazareth.

The windows and doors of Lounge Ax are opaque with frozen condensation. Duct-taped t-shirts are stuck to the glass, like your lips on the front of the sled, the cold brown metal gently tearing off the top layers of soft skin. Lips heal fast, but every moment is painfully reminding you. This show is arguably the best of the tour. I felt like I was back in San Francisco. We played for over two hours to a noisy and appreciative bunch. One guy tells me it's the "best show I've seen here in years." Another fellow flies out from Boston, where he saw us at TT Bear's. He howls like a monkey and bounces up and down. Leon (40-something) brought his son, Zach (14), and his daughter, Marisa (13), to soundcheck from their home in the suburbs about 40 minutes north of Chicago. Leon had heard of The Mermen while listening to an NPR Morning Edition interview with Jim from early January. He went out and bought Glorious Lethal Euphoria, Zach picked up on it, and they all decided to troop down to this loud rock club in the afternoon. They stay after and we all go out for dinner. The kids and Dad stay all night. They stay for the entire show. Marisa falls asleep on top of the subwoofer cabinets in front of Jim, her father's hand resting on her hip, her head pillowed on snow jackets. Zach, leaning on his elbows next to her, stares up at Jim and nods his head, smiling. Dad grins from ear to ear. The crowd yells and the band roars.

Dad, the kids and The Mermen (backstage, Lounge AX, Chicago, IL - 3/2/96)

-2 degrees fahrenheit last night. I wake at 10 a.m. and jump into the shower. At 10:30 a.m. I crawl back into bed. It's just not time yet. I dream of a black girl. We embrace, easily familiar. I ask her: "what's your name?" She says: "Ruby." 1 p.m. I leave, alone, for the Art Institute of Chicago. Lakeside, of grey granite and huge columns, the sign says "recommended donation." That's not "admittance fee." I barter my way in for a few bob. I'm an artist, right? Inside I catch my breath so much I have extra to give away. Rooms and more rooms stuffed with incredible paintings. Manet, Monet, El Greco, Renoir, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, no end, no end. Practically in tears I sit, stand, stretch and develop an aching neck from amazement. Staring at a still-life, a young woman, also looking intently at the same piece, asks me what is it about the work that catches my eye, and is it "like a photograph" and what was the painter "trying to say." She's 20, a classically trained cellist and pianist. Her name is Jennifer. A music major in Chicago, Jennifer is on an assignment at the Institute working up a critical analysis of this particular painting because she "likes it." She is going to make a point about this painting and then, in two pages of text, back up her argument. She points out to me the symmetrical arrangement of the objects on the table. I tell her it's a beautiful painting, and I like the light reflected in the glass, pitcher and bowl. And the tablecloth, that's really amazing. I have no critical faculty, only emotional resonance.

Downtown Chicagoland is enormous, ponderous, cold. Wearing the most clothing at one time since I lived through a Montana winter, I make my slow touristy way back to the train and the hotel, singing songs.

7 a.m., 18 degrees, and sunny. Toweling off after a morning shower I hear the "all-stops, no smoking, food or radios" announcements from the Red line, downtown, southbound-elevated train, through the window. I hear the slow rising rush of the wheels and heavy cars. I wonder how I would feel about that sound if I was working in an office in Chicago.

Kansas. There was a band named after this state at one time and, at a truck stop, I was tempted to buy a cassette copy of "Leftoverture" for five bucks. I resisted the urge and we fell in to a city in the heartland. It was 60 degress fahrenheit and walking into this classic club I felt like I was walking into the real Rock and Roll hall Of Fame. I even said so from the stage and got a yell from the crowd. We opened for two bands. By the end of the set the audience was listening and applauding. After driving for 11 hours we pulled up in front of the club, unloaded, checked levels and played a set in front of several hundred people in less time it takes than to do laundry. I felt instantly reckless and fey. Anything I said, whether to the other bands (Michael McDermott, The Bottle Rockets) or the audience was going to be alright. We spent the night on the floor of the promoter's house. It reeked of dogshit and had a cold water tub. At least she was polite and gracious...Roz assured us.