Think of Charlie Christian and Lionel Hampton with Bennie Goodman live at Carnegie Hall back in'39 as a soundtrack to this extraordinary visual by Christopher Pappas. Or maybe its because we had so much fun out west that Bill and Dinty almost missed the plane. Well that's another story; but we did book ten gigs in two weeks out on the coast. So what did we do? We borrowed a van and a bass player too. We took the miracle parade past the everyday visuals, which led us to some pretty interesting places most nights. Pappas was turning the choir book to Los Feliz spiritual #41, and preaching a Fable of Times Square some nights. We were banging on anything handy while the comet was falling and it was alright.
  I bought an umbrella and some duct tape, but the van held together and the Bellingham skies stayed blue. Michael Hurley was playing at the Laurel Thirst in Laurelhurst. What was that about old mother Hubbard and that dog's bone? Hot Dog? His bass player even didn't think we were just another Portland douchebag or two. So thank you for your wine California, and the Sinskeys of Napa for the gigging and that sweet and bitter fruit. They treated us like prodigal sons and a daughter when we played that set just up the hill from the vinyard, they even roasted a pig. Yeah Laura Cortese was singing and playing, and her mom was putting us up by the Excelsior park. She sang perfect harmony every night and played like the devil: Greasy Coat and all that, Pine and a Song for You.
  Someone sneezed a time or two, and we coughed a lot, but we laughed so hard on the 101 and even harder on I-5. When the van's back bumper needed a hammer James the grilled cheese man of the Green Frog brought it, and when the police came because of the noise guess who tweeted and twat it. That's the way it was. When he set a bottle of Bulliet bourbon on the floor in Bellingham, we knew he meant it. That guy Steve couldn't finish one of his songs, they sounded so great too. But he would stop in the middle of a chorus after a verse or two "Shit James..." Some nights you can't fake it, but I'll take it. Robert Sarazin Blake gave us a ride and a place to crash and played a pretty cool song too. And the next day when we took the ferry south over the blue sound past the mountains crowned so high and white; we poured the Pinot Noir in a paper cup and toasted luck. And the fair breezes smiled. We met Shasta Ray at Charlie's Barbecue. Wondering why it's so crowded? It's the early bird special, fool! They say every distance is not near but way out west I almost wore out my cowboy boots. Down at the Redwood Bar in LA where you could hope to meet an industry pirate, or for just enough gas money to get out of town, because that city sho'nuff can chug 'em on down. We got the Mercurey blues at a bar so perfectly poised and retro on the main drag in Goleta. But who knew but an island few...he heh.
  So many folks were kind to put us up in bedrooms and couches. From Matthew and Jan in Seattle to Ashleigh Lynne in that big old house in Portlandia. Ann Cummings put us up too and threw a big old birthday bash at the Throckmorton theater. The tequila whisperer showed up backstage, and Dr. Unk bought a round of Jamesons or two. We thank them all. And we can't forget the MTC in Seattle. The dude's dining room becomes a web broadcast studio, with a living room and front hall that seat 42, and a ...stage. You can imagine us squeezed in at the emptyseastudio.com. But the cameras couldn't catch the end of the night, when we were singing Ain't No More Cane on the front porch for an encore. It was almost like the olden days, reunited with Kyle's van and our voices floating out into the evening on one we knew from Levon and the boys. Looking back and looking forward to flying home, feeling like we brought a little bit of Toad out with us, and maybe even left some too. Ah shucks, but it was alright.