(3/16/96 - 5/4/96)

24 hours after Tax Day The Mermen swan dive into The D-Tour: roughly tracing a capital D throughout the western U.S., with Vancouver, BC, and San Diego, CA, as the opposite terminals of the vertical line and Denver, CO, the apogee of the convex bulge. We head north from San Francisco along Route 5 at 3 a.m. Jim tells us that Roy Bittan, the ex-keyboard player for Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band, bought him lunch today.

Eugene, OR. Wed., Apr. 17. John Henry's. I shave the sides of my head. 60 people spread about a room that fits 400. We play for over an hour. Honest applause and some CD signing signal that all is not lost. Jim is struggling with different amplifiers. He's listening for "the sound." It's a shakedown cruise. We are fed pasta next door and stay at The Timbers, down the block. It's sporadically rainy, cloudy, windy and cold but when the sun comes out it's beautiful in Eugene, OR.

I asked the price for the bright package of AA batteries on display behind the counter of a music store and was told that they were "not for sale." When I expressed my dismay the counterperson sat back on his stool, folded his arms across his chest and told me to relax and enjoy my stay in Eugene.

Ate at the Keystone, the best breakfast in town the next morning. Tofu scramble with spinach and garlic. The walls are covered with forty framed color 8x11 photos of one young woman, all charmingly candid and rather snapshot. I learn that the photographer is 50+ and a knife sharpener, a "real nice guy." Something about the display gives me the creeps. I ask the cook about it and he asks: "Does the word 'obsession' come to mind?" The food is wonderful.

Seattle, WA. Thurs., Apr. 18. The Crocodile.5 hrs north on Route 5 through pouring rain and high winds. Sun shining down through enormous banks of clouds of every variety. White against gray, high wisps and low ponderous pillows. Sheets of rain and waves of sunlight alternating, reflecting off green hillsides, green trees and far mountains. In the drivers' seat listening to Bob Wills and Brian Eno.

Entering the highway northbound at Chehalis, WA, the driver of an early '70s VW van is sporting a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, with nose and moustache. The bumper sticker reads: "Yes I am driving this way to piss you off."

We play to a full house with 2 members of REM and 2 famous custom amplifier manufacturers in attendance. Jon Luini, one of The Mermen's Guardian Angels from the First Circle, shows up with a group in tow. Great response in Seattle. The crowd stays close and noisy, and they listen.

Vancouver, BC. Fri., Apr. 19. The Hungry Eye.Early departure for Soldano Amp Works in Seattle. Jim orders two customized effects units and I buy a pair of hemp socks. The ride to Vancouver is green. At the border we are all asked if we have ever been arrested. I lie. Martyn, who is not a U.S. citizen, is asked for his passport, which he doesn't have. The young blond immigration officer lets him in with a warning. She then asks us each if we are married, single or divorced. This time I can tell the truth.

At The Hungry Eye, in Gastown, two herb outlaws (call them Nap and Reel) from the bush show up. They have driven and ferried over four hours to be here. They love the music and they help the crew. Then we drive to the waterfront to covertly remove every single item that the rampant criminal street element might be attracted to while gazing through the windows of our lonely parked van, and place it all in the trailer. The fear of God has been placed in me by everyone I meet in Vancouver that the van WILL be ransacked unless I take Certain Precautions. We return to the parking area near the club, back it up to a post to block in the trailer door. I lock, alarm and place a charm over it.

Nap and Reel told me that last week they were returning home from Vancouver to their homes in the bush. They had been to a 7 Year Bitch show. Traveling at high speed along the two-lane blacktop at night in Canada they watched in shock as a car in front of them hit a divider, spun crazily and flipped several times before coming to rest off the side of the road. They stopped and ran to the car, expecting to see something out of a Stephen King book but, instead, were greeted by a beautiful Japanese girl, barely conscious, looking at them with bleary eyes saying: "I'm sorry, excuse me please..." They got an ambulance and followed it back to a hospital. After waiting a little while they were amazed to see the girl walk through the doors into the waiting room. Realizing that she would survive, they prepared to leave but she entreated them saying that she did not want to be alone after the crash. They brought her back to Nap's house. One week later Reel and the woman spent a quiet weekend together at his h

We open for a popular local band, The Smugglers. They wear uniforms and Wellingtons, have a lot of energy, bouncing around the stage, and are not a surf band. Our set is enthusiastically received. Afterwards we load out fast into the cold Canada night. Wet and heavy, a bear still asleep, the sky smells like a thousand square miles of pine trees. The van and trailer are untouched. We leave immediately after load out for Portland, OR. Crossing into the U.S., we are told at customs that we can't use the bathrooms because they are locked in solidarity with, memory of and honour to those government employees who died on this day last year when a federal building in Oklahoma City was blown up.

Portland, OR. Sat., Apr. 20. Lewis & Clark College. Arrive at 9 a.m. after 7 hours on the road. Grey and rainy. Sleep-deprived, we are placed in the dorms for a nap. At 2 p.m. I wander up to the student union and commandeer hot water in the enormous institutional kitchen for coffee. My sister Cindy is there with her husband, John, and an old musician friend, relocated to the NW. We're preceded by the Hang Tens. Beautifully played, extremely tongue-in-cheek '70s arena rock, complete with body language. Covers and originals, I laugh in recognition. "My Angel is a Centerfold" by the J. Geils Band, among others. I learn from an enthusiastic fan of theirs that they broke up last week and that this is their reunion tour. I compliment Adam, the bassist. He says he's glad that I "get it." We play hacky-sack with a woman who explains that she's a teacher and sociologist. Adam explains back that this game is how their first drummer died. We play in a big open daylit room to a hundred college stud

Sun., Apr. 21. Day off, driving to Salt Lake City, UT.In Repo Man, the character played by Harry Dean Stanton tells Emilio Estevez that "the more you drive the stupider you get." Traveling in this manner is physically and psychically grueling. Sometimes we laugh together. Mostly we struggle to survive.

Heading out of Portland on the 18-hour drive to Salt Lake City. Route 84 East, raining hard, mid-afternoon. Up and out of the mighty gorge of the Columbia River.

By sunset we have left the river and scaled the first major ridges leading up to the high plains of Eastern Oregon. Attitude improves with altitude. Fields of snow shine from thickets of pine.

Between Pendleton & LaGrande, on Route 84, in east Oregon. At a rest stop. On a clean and orderly highway through the wilderness. The Umatilla Indian Reservation. Cold spring night. 4,200-foot pass. Thick empty forest of pine trees.

At 10 p.m., after dinner, we head out into the night of Route 84, east along the Oregon Trail. At his first turn at the wheel, Martyn Jones keeps the speed down and the comfort up. There was only one major argument (Roz and Jim at it like a couple of hyenas with a discarded sandwich over water spilled in the van) and one public humiliation (Jim telling Martyn that he'd have better luck with the blonde he invited to breakfast this morning if, after she had walked ten blocks to eat with him, he had paid for her breakfast as well as his own) at the Baker Truck Corral, our dinner stop. Jim just can't stay out of trouble. Tonight marks the fourth "Classic Waitress Quote" and that's two in one day. These are things waitresses say to and about Jim. Here they are, in chronological order, with place and restaurant included:

1.) "He can sure put away the groceries..." --60s, white hair, white uniform, Milton's, Albuquerque, NM.

2.) "I'd rather clothe him then feed him." -- 40s, brown hair, white uniform, unknown diner, downtown Portland, ME.

3.) "He's got a nice smile and a good head." -- 50s, red hair, blue pants, sleeveless pink collared shirt, My Father's Place, Portland, OR.

4.) "It's a blonde joke...just like you." --60s, brown hair, brown pants, brown and white shirt, Baker Truck Corral, Baker City, OR.

Salt Lake City, UT. Mon. Apr. 22. The Zephyr Club Driving through the night, across a range of mountains, everyone asleep. I'm listening to the first Peter Gabriel album. Low grey light breaking through clouds to the left. Snow-capped peaks to the right. Over Sweetzer Pass at 5,500 feet and down towards the Great Salt Lake. I hear a snap and a high-pitched whirring/rubbing sound. I check the mirrors and see blue smoke coming from the left trailer wheel. Quickly hitting the cruise-control and braking hard I swerve over to the shoulder and stop. I leave the engine running and slide out and around to the back. The trailer axle on the left side is resting about four inches behind the right. The leaf springs have broken off the underside of the box and the tire is rubbing a hole through the fiberglass wheel well. Roz unhitches to find a tow truck. The factory that built the trailer is 90 miles away. There are no phones for twenty miles around. I grab a blanket and some water to camp o

The van drives away. A semi roars past, shaking the ground. All around me, in the lightening day, are mountain ranges covered with snow. Their tops just beginning to reflect the sun's rays. We sit, the trailer full of band gear and I, in the exact middle of an enormous bowl between ranges of 7,000 foot mountains. Haggling Chinese vendor-voiced birdsong laces the air. Snowflurries drift pass my nose. The air is dry and cold. Full minutes of silence float between trucks. I've been awake for 24 hours so I start walking through the sagebrush and dust field. With the blanket over my head for warmth I'm the tallest object for miles around. In a gully I lay down out of the wind and fall asleep between creosote bush and tumbleweed. I wake to my name being yelled from far away. Three hours have passed. Roz brings me a cheese and egg sandwich and some hot water to make my coffee.

We follow the tow man to the factory. They fix it for 65 bucks but the towing was over 200. The trailer mechanic tells us in veiled terms that we are heavily overloaded. Undeterred, we crash at The Deseret Inn in Salt Lake City for a couple of hours and play a 45-minute headlining set to the ten people who stayed after the blues cover band left.