Egregious is the only word to describe my behavior.

I am sorry for not writing sooner...

This is awkward...

Mark Paulson and I started recording the new Physics record back in February. After a drummer from Texas, a singer from Chicago, an air-conditioning system that wouldn't shut off in an otherwise lovely auditorium, 200 takes of a 20-second glock part, the most beautiful harp-playing ever heard at 5217 Farrington Road, a six-piece string ensemble, a fifteen-person choir, and enough Lilly's Pizza to last a lifetime, we're about two-thirds done with the record. We're mostly happy with the results so far, but getting down to the toughest part: my vocals. Ugh...

I thought there might be time for us to visit you in your town and play some music for you this Spring, but I hadn't accounted for the complete over-ambitiousness of my brain, and the realities of trying to create an epic album. Hopefully we'll see you late in the summer, or in the Fall.

In the meantime, be well, be happy, be safe, and write a letter to someone.

-Daniel and Physics

Boy and Girls,

Back from India.

Sorry for the long break in communication which dates back far before I left the country 10 weeks ago.

I never finished the journal entries from our Fall tour. Someday. Stop pressuring me!

We did a Spring tour as well. I would call it a successful tour. We played some great shows, some crappy shows (mostly great shows). I gave one of my worst vocal performances ever in Richmond, the night after I gave my all in Chicago. Viswas and I both got sick after Pittsburgh. His stomach quit on him, my vocal chords and sinuses on me.

We made some new friends. We're doing a little tour with some of them in August. They're Radiant Darling and they're wonderful.

India was beautiful and dirty and hot and amazing.

I had the best food of my life, thanks to the supreme cooking skills of Shashi and Renu Gupta of Aligarh, Uttar Pradesh.

I saw the Taj Mahal and the waterfalls at Athirapalli and the supposed birthplace of Krishna and I went to Kanyakumari, the southernmost city of India which looks out on the meeting of the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean.

I bought a sarangi and took some lessons from the nephew of one of my favorite sarangi players in the world (which I only found out after we'd already started the lesson; it was the best surprise of the whole trip).

I stuck my feet in the Ganges near the foothills of the Himalayas.

I waded through a foot and a half of nasty drain water in a hotel lobby in Kerala during the monsoon, carrying 100 pounds of luggage to the front desk to try and check in; when they wouldn't give me a discount for my troubles I waded right back out.

I missed a connecting flight which stuck me unexpectedly in Mumbai for an extra 30 hours. I ended up riding the same suburban train line which was bombed just 24 hours before the bombs were set off.

I visited the Muslim ghettos in Amdavad where so many people were massacred in 2002 and I spoke to people who lived through it about what happened and about their lives now. It was very hard not to cry.

I almost died in near-head-on traffic accidents approximately 2,833 times on the roads of India, thanks to the constant efficiency/bravado/insanity of every bus driver I met, and a man I can only refer to as CrazyLegs McGoo.

I butchered me some Hindi trying to communicate with folks in the north, and butchered me some broken-English-hand-movement-language in the south. Most people were gracious and I will never be able to repay the hospitality of my hosts.

Thanks to Little Jenny, Palmer, Caleb, Ben, Jane, Scott, Dan and the rest, Nafisa and Rajoo and Kala and Ramesh, Deval and Kenari (sp?), John and Afroz, Moinuddin Khan, Raj Kumar, Chetan and Dinesh, Arun Mukherjee, Aruna and AP and Renu and Kedari, the Guptas and Rishub and Parul and Gurya, Kale, Vinny and Rajiv and Nivi and Shreya, Shirji and everyone at the Archaeological Museum of Kerala, Nizamuddin, Afifa, Binish, Tiger, Shamshar, Ganga and the rest, Nitin and Ritu, Daman and Jenny, Sally and Sunitha, Wilma and Sicily, and Asha, Gautham, Sujata, Vishal, Ranesh and Arundhati for making my time in India all the more wonderful for having met them and for being able to spend my time there with them.

I'll be blogging in a bit more detail about my India adventures on the Physics of Meaning myspace page.

See you soon.

~Daniel

Hello, everyone. We are now officially done with the first Physics of Meaning tour. We played thirty shows in thirty days. We made it from Chapel Hill up to Boston, down to Chapel Hill again and then out Texas and back. We played our last show a week ago, but I'm just now catching up on sleep. What an amazing, beautiful, and stressful thing a tour can be. I wouldn't have traded those thirty days for anything in the world (even the crappy days), but at the same time I'm glad to be back home so I can finally start painting my room and unpacking my boxes that have been waiting for me since August. Both Wendy and I kept fairly detailed journals throughout the tour (Wendy more diligent than I about writing daily entries), but because of a restricted amount of internet time during those thirty days, we're just now getting around to editing and posting that journal. Editing because some stuff I wrote is just plain boring, and other stuff...Well, you don't really want to know all the gooey things Wendy said to Jay on the phone, or which girls I have a crush on whom I haven't told yet, or who bugged the shit out of us in Jackson, or exactly how disgustingly dirty that Hattiesburg gas station bathroom was, do you? Maybe you do... I'll try to appease your enquiring minds with as many interesting stories as possible. But I swear, I really thought "Dockside Dolls" was a sailor's toy museum.

KLSU is one of my favorite radio stations, not because they play great music (I mean, they may play great music, but I never listen to them, because they're in Baton Rouge, and I'm in North Carolina, and I drive a bus for a living, so no online radio at work) but because they've been so welcoming to the Bu Hanan bands, ever since the go*machine days. So our first course of action upon arriving in Baton Rouge is to get lost on the LSU campus, and then eventually show up at KLSU to do an interview and plays some songs on the air.

Our next course of action is to head to the Red Star Bar, which I hold dear to my heart for the same reasons I think so highly of KLSU. The Red Star is like our home here, and Frank (the owner) is a true supporter of live music.

We get there too early to load in, so we wander around desolate downtown Baton Rouge, find some food, and then head to the banks of the Mississippi, which is only two blocks from the Red Star. Here I can relive one of my other favorite parts of coming to Baton Rouge: walking above, below, around and on the giant red letters stuck to the slanted cement wall which dives right into the river, letters which spell out the name of the city. Dusk falls, boats chug along slowly, the sound of cars moving down the closest bridge form a white noise background hum which melts into the sound of the river rolling by us, and I find a few moments of peace.

Phil and I have a brief conversation about the fact that I miss his songs in the Ticonderoga set. He explains that it's been an experiment, just to see if Ticonderoga can work this way, and that they could be putting his songs back into the set as early as tomorrow night's show in Austin.

Since Phil had decided to stop playing his songs as part of Ticonderoga, Mark had been increasingly frustrated, upset, and outwardly negative, feeling like the Ticonderoga sets were disorganized and disjointed. In an attempt to fix this problem, Mark made out a chart of all their possible songs before the Baton Rouge show, to minimize instrument changes between songs, and to maximize song compatibility throughout the set. Due to his planning, we end up playing by far the best post-Phil's-songs Ticonderoga set to date, full of energy and excitement. Both Wendy and I express this to the boys after their set. Mark and Wes seem pleased; Phil seems elusively pleasant as usual.

Necessary exposition: Wes has had a problem with drinking too many alcoholic beverages on previous tours. Wes played drums for the Rosebuds for a good while, until the drinking got to a point where they had to send him home in the middle of a tour. This fact has, of course, made Phil and Mark apprehensive about touring with Wes again. But Wes told me, before the tour started, that he had quit drinking alcohol altogether, in an effort to avoid doing more damage to himself and to his relationship with others. I was happy to hear it, and proud of Wes for recognizing a problem and taking steps to solve it. Unfortunately, as our tour together had worn on, and things within Ticonderoga started to feel a little more hopeless, Wes had taken to drinking a beer here and there. I noticed, but I didn't want to notice, and so I didn't say anything.

Whether it is in celebration, or in further wallowing, Wes is clearly heading towards drunk by the time we play the Physics of Meaning set, with a pint or two sitting by his side at the drum kit. It only shows a little in his playing, when he misses an occasional drum fill, but now I can't ignore it anymore.

However, the show is a real success otherwise: a good crowd, who likes our music, and buys our merch, as well as a good chunk of change from the door at the end of the night. This may explain why none of us seem to notice that Wes is not there anymore, that he has disappeared.

The night is winding down, so we pack the van; still no Wes. "He must have made some pot-smoking friends," reasons Mark. "He's probably found himself a woman to go home with," offers Frank. But now it's time to go to Frank's place, and we still do not have a Wes. I lose track of the number of times I call his cell phone with no answer. Phil and Mark decide to stay behind at the club and wait for Wes, who will otherwise not have a way to get to Frank's place. Frank leaves them directions, and Wendy and I leave with Frank.

I will spare you most of the scenarios that ran through my head as I tried to go to sleep on Frank's floor that night. But they all involved Wes being seriously injured, or dead. Now I know you're all saying, "Daniel, relax. You don't drink and you don't spend much time around drunk people. This kind of thing happens." But this night in Baton Rouge was not a normal night, and an ominous feeling creeps over me in my sleeping bag as I dial Wes' number again and again and again.

Finally, at around 3:30am, I hear a car pull up in front of the house. I greet Mark, Phil, and yes, WES, at the door. I want to tell them to be quiet since everyone else is already asleep, but there's no need. The three boys are silent, and though I can breathe again, the ominous feeling remains.

I have to take this time to thank Robbie, who, though he no longer lives in Mobile, and though he's never even met me before, set us up to stay in an apartment connected to a house, where he used to live. Our very own apartment, with the door unlocked and a nice bed and a carpeted floor and a trampoline in the backyard. Phil and Mark and I are jumping on the trampoline together at 2pm when the mother of the kid that was friends with Robbie, who lives in the house where we've been staying, pulls up in her car. I think we're in big trouble, or at least in for some very disapproving Southern motherly guilt, but no, she's as nice as can be, introduces herself, and walks inside.

Downtown Jackson is all but tumbleweeds rolling down the street when we arrive at The Joint. It's just Physics and Ticon on the bill tonight, and I don't really know anyone in Jackson. I must have asked ten different bands to play with us, but no one took me up on my amazing offer. The sound man looks surprisingly similar to the guy who non-greeted me at the club in Mobile last night. And as soon as he starts hooking up equipment, he turns on the most metal house music we've heard all tour. Metal after metal after metal. Someone does a cover of "Land of Confusion" that's decent, but otherwise, I'm just getting a headache.

In the end, it turns out that he's incredibly nice and an incredibly good sound man. I mean, he makes us sound awesome for the four people who come to see us play. Afterwards, the sound man turns on the metal again at full blast, even though there's no one in the room. Then he comes up to me on stage while I'm packing up and says, "Sorry, man, all I've got is metal."

Sorry, man, all I've got is metal.

This guy Matt has a house in Jackson that he uses as a recording studio, thanks to a kind lawyer/father of one of the guys in one of the bands he produces/manages. He very generously invites us to stay there. This house is just beautiful: old Victorian Southern style miniature mansion. The one drawback: Matt's dog lives there, and I'm pretty sure Matt's dog has not left the house since WWII, and I don't think Matt has quite gotten around to cleaning the place since that fateful day at Pearl Harbor. The Ticon boys stay up with Matt smoking and talking and listening to music. Wendy goes straight to bed, sad I think because she hasn't been able to get a hold of Jay lately. I ponder the amount of dog hair and dog smell that can possibly be left in one place before it starts to decompose, and then I begin to feel my nostrils decompose as I drift off to sleep...

Per Mark's recommendation, we eat at the Grit before leaving Athens. Have you ever eaten at the Grit? The Grit is the kind of place that reminds me why I'm alive, as in "oh yes, this is one of the things worth living for in the world". The best food, BEST food, all vegetarian, organic, healthy, served by the most indie rock girls you'll find anywhere, and pretty affordable.

This meal makes us late leaving for Mobile, but it's just as well, because Roy from Some Animal calls right before we're heading out of town to say we'd left a bag at his house. Turns out it was the oboe. Okay, Wendy, you can stop slapping your forehead and muttering "stupid, stupid stupid..."

Do you know how long it takes to drive from Athens to Mobile? A very long time. The whole drive, I'm silently freaking out (as I tend to do) about the fact that we're going to be about an hour late getting to Mobile, until I realize that Athens is on East Coast Time, and Mobile is on Central Standard Time. Thank you, world-time-telling-committee-of-ancient-oracles-who- decided-where-the-central-time-zone-starts. I also get a call from Bill Solleder on this drive. Bill lives in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and has found us a show there for our one day off on this tour. We will be playing at the Arkansas School for Science, Math and the Arts. Yes, 30 shows in 30 days. Woo-hoo!

Downtown Mobile, you are strangely desolate with beautiful architecture.

We arrive at Cell Block in time to load in and do a sound check. When we get there, the only person in the club is a giant white dude with a shaved head and tattoos going down both arms like crazy. I walk up to him and say, "Hey, man, we're one of the bands playing tonight." Without even looking at me or saying a word, he just walks away. Oh, boy.

We find a band from Austin, sitting in their van in the parking lot. Apparently, they were double-booked at Cell Block for tonight, so they're on the bill as well. I try to find out from the owner, the sound man and the local band (the lovely Zardous Argo) what the order is for the night, or really any kind of organizational information. No one wants to make any decisions. So after much deliberation, I ask the Austin band to go first, since Physics, Ticonderoga, and Zardous were the package we worked out for the night. They really don't want to go first, and ask to go in between our two bands. I explain that we share the same equipment and members, so it doesn't make any sense for us to be split up. They reluctantly agree to go first, and then continue to sit in the club, having not loaded in their equipment yet.

The sound man goes to get dinner around 10pm, and the owner has disappeared into a vortex. We sit on the opposite side of the room as the Austin band, squaring off, glancing at each other, wondering who will make the next move.

Finally, around 10:30pm, the Austin band starts loading their equipment into the club. First, they load a few amps onto the stage, then after a little conversation between the main guy and his bandmates, they take those amps offstage, and set them right next to the stage. That's right, we're playing a game of chicken.

After another ten minutes, I, wanting to avoid a stupid confrontation, tell Wendy and Wes and Phil and Mark to start putting our stuff on stage. The main guy from the Austin band comes over and says, "We'll do whatever anyone wants us to do, I just wish someone would tell us what to do and we'll do it." I'm thinking, "Listen, jerk, I just told you 30 minutes ago what to do, you just don't want to do it". But I don't say that. Instead, I say, "Hey man, it's cool, we'll go first and second, we don't mind. It's not that big a deal."

Which, by this point, is true. It's 11pm now, and there's a decent crowd at Cell Block. The sound man comes back in time to get us set up to play for the biggest crowd of the night. Granted, most of the crowd wants to dance and/or hear Slipknot and/or Dave Matthews covers, but a few of them clap for us in between songs, and I feel slightly, ever so slightly, redeemed from a couple nights of lonely shows.

By the time the Austin band goes on, it's 1am. Zardous Argo graciously drops off the bill to give more money to us. They have to work the next day, anyway, and who wants to go on at 2am on a Thursday night? We stay to watch the Austin band and get paid.

The Austin band builds a wall of amps on stage, behind which I can barely see the drummer and a guy with a laptop and a keyboard. At various points around the stage, they have also placed several boxes full of stage lamps (flood lights). As they begin to play, we realize that this band has brought their own light show. When they get to the disco beat, or the chorus, or whatever part of the song you're supposed to remember, the lights start flashing on and off in unison. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but only on and off, all in unison, on every time. Yes, I admit I thought it was cool for the first two minutes. But then it lost its meaning for me when the same thing kept happening over and over again.

Halfway through the set, a shorter guy pops out from behind one of the stacks of amps. I can only assume he was there the whole time, although I hadn't seen him since the band started playing. My eyes are drawn to his shoulder, because there's something strung across it. What is that? Is that a power strip? Yes, yes it is. What's he doing with a--

Then they get to the next disco part, and it all makes sense. Short guy reaches up and starts pushing the on/off button on the power strip. Yep, he's been controlling the lights the whole time. It's like when they reveal the Wizard of Oz, and he's just a little old man, controlling this giant monster to make himself seem important. Oh, Austin band...

The drive from Atlanta to Athens is short, maybe 70 minutes. Since Beau's father doesn't really want us in his house all day (understandably), we head to Athens around lunch time.

Thus begins the great Athens exploration. Except for Wes, none of us have spent much time in Athens before. What a cool college town. But, not knowing anyone, there's only so much to do before you start walking in circles, wondering if tonight's show will be as crappy as last night's show. Did we find that hip coffee shop with all the hip people? Yes. Did we find 100 ways to check our email? Yes. Did we walk the streets looking for the solution to loneliness? Perhaps I've said too much.

Phil has decided not to play his songs as part of Ticonderoga anymore. Apparently, this has been an ongoing debate, but according to Mark and Wes (all three boys share songwriting duties in the band), Phil doesn't think that their songs go well together. He's happy backing them up on their songs, and he'd be happy playing just his songs, but the combination rubs him the wrong way.

Another sparse crowd in Athens does little to bolster team morale, although the people there that night were very good to us, very enthusiastic and Some Animal and Television Buzz were great. Feeling more sick, and the voice, after almost three weeks of singing every night, is feeling weak. Who in their right minds would book a thirty day tour for their band with a show every night and NO breaks, except for that one day next week where I'm still trying to get a show to fill the empty space? Oh yeah, that was me.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to take this moment to introduce you to one of the most exciting franchise discoveries of my life: The Original Pancake House.

What, the "Original" Pancake House? It sounds like a museum, right? Or like, "How can they make that claim? How can they know they're the 'Original' Pancake House?"

Frankly, I don't care. What I know is that the Original Pancake House is a chain, and it is a chain which does not have a branch in Chapel Hill, and that may be one of the greatest crimes laid upon humanity in recent years.

The Original Pancake House does, however, have a branch in Columbia, South Carolina, where I have woken up this morning. They also have a menu item called "the Dutch Baby". Need I say more?

Breakfast has always been my favorite meal of the day, because breakfast = fun. But OPH takes it to new levels. And thank you, Wes, for ordering the 49er Flapjacks, and proving to us that when the menu says, "thin, chewy, gooey", the menu means "best pancakes ever".

Cheapest gas yet on the way to Atlanta: $1.99. Yes, gas below $2. "When I was a kid, gas was a nickel, and school always took place in a blizzard where children lost fingers and toes climbing up Mt. Everest to get there..."

Atlanta = worst show of the tour yet. Yes, Lenny's is kind for letting us have the show there. Yes, it's good to play for the three Lenny's regulars while they shoot a game of pool on a Tuesday night. Yes, that sound guy was nice enough to plug in some mics, but damnit if all our Atlanta friends couldn't come, and Lenny's is in Cabbagetown, right next to a crack house. Maybe all our Atlanta friends couldn't come because Lenny's is in Cabbagetown, right next to a crack house. Phil stops halfway through one of his songs during the Ticonderoga set, and begins to display what I've been warned is the "I need to believe strongly in what I'm doing every moment, and I don't believe strongly in this moment" moment. This is also the first night I start to play with Ticonderoga on a couple of their songs, one of my two-year-long (or however long ago it was that I first saw them play) dreams. This is also the first night I'm starting to feel the sickness which started with Phil and got passed to Wes and then Mark, and now me. My vocals sound awful, but I have to admit, it was nice to have half a night off, to not kill my vocal chords for people who are actually listening to us. Maybe Atlanta is just what we needed after all.

Crappy diner hanging out with old college friend Adam Fristoe = nice. Beau's hospitality, putting us up at his parent's house in rich suburban Atlanta = so so nice. Beau having to live at his parent's house in rich suburban Atlanta while his father drops hints that he doesn't really want Beau there = unfortunate and awkward.

Anne was supposed to come on the second half of our tour and play cello with us. But she realized last week that she couldn't afford to come. In her place, she gave us a care package.

Care packages, when prepared properly, can make life so much better than it was before you received them. Apparently, Anne knows this. But she also knows how to build suspense, by putting mouth-watering chocolate chip cookies on top of a note which explains that the cookies are made with fair trade chocolate (I gave up all other kinds of chocolate about a year ago). Imagine, if you will, the three minutes during which I woke up on the floor of Joe's apartment, got up out of my sleeping bag, went to the kitchen, opened up the care package, saw the cookies, got excited about my potential breakfast, realized they were chocolate chip cookies, cried on the inside because I couldn't eat them, found the note, decided it was worth reading right then even though I was mad at Anne for including chocolate chip cookies, realized they were made with fair trade chocolate, and decided that Anne must be one of the kindest people I know.

Imagine then, if you will, my total delight upon discovering, amongst Joe's various videos and DVDs, G.I. Joe: The Movie. I grew up on G.I. Joe. They were my favorite toy, it was my favorite cartoon. I mean, Snake Eyes, c'mon! Who, tell me, who in the world is cooler than Snake Eyes? No one!

Imagine then, if you will, my utter dismay upon discovering two things:

1. G. I. Joe, which I haven't really watched since I was a kid, is TERRIBLE.

2. G. I. Joe: The Movie, is not what I thought I was about to watch. I thought I was about to watch G. I. Joe: A Real American Hero, the miniseries which started the TV show. No, G. I. Joe: The Movie comes much later, when Cobra Commander returns to Cobra-La, the land of his people, and he gets tried as an incompetent buffoon, found guilty, and turned back into a snake, escapes, helps Roadblock find his way out of Cobra-La, and incessantly repeats the phrase "Once a man...was once a man..."

We head for Columbia in our separate vehicles. This is weird. What are those boys doing in that Audi? Are they talking badly about Wendy and I? Are they plotting our death behind the snack machines at the next rest area?

We get to Columbia, and I discover two more things:

1. I have a new favorite college radio station: WUSC

2. I have a new favorite friend in Columbia: Matt Kennedy

Matt Kennedy is the kind of person you wish you knew. If you already know him, then you know I'm right. If you don't, you're missing out. To keep you in suspense, that's all I'm going to say.

Columbia, I had given up on you, just like I had given up on Richmond. I gave up on you the night we played the New Brookland Tavern and the bartender said, "Thanks for the pussy rock, guys" as we were leaving.

Columbia, I was wrong. You are inhabited by some of the coolest people I've met in a long time. Another very pleasant tour surprise. Feeling a little better now.

Daniel over and out

I never thought much of Greensboro until two things happened:

1. I made my first visit to the Boba House.

2. I heard Mortar and Pestle for the first time.

Boba House has an all-vegetarian, asian fusion, fake meat menu. So you can get "chicken" pad thai, or you can get tofu pad thai, but they're really both just tofu pad thai. I'll admit that's a little confusing, but how many restaurants can a vegetarian go to and have to spend more than two minutes looking at the menu? It's a rare luxury, and, oh yes, Boba House has bubble tea. Heaven.

As for Mortar and Pestle, they're like Owls with a better singer. They're a great band, and they have built up a real musical community in Greensboro.

We arrive in town in time to do an on-air set at WUAG, one of my favorite college radio stations. Then we're off to the white house, where Joe (from M & P) is sitting on the porch, trying to construct a grill for the cookout portion of tonight's show.

The PA is crap, but the show is decent. First time with Mark, Wes, Wendy and I playing as The Physics of Meaning. This second half of the tour will be so different from the first. Mark, Wes and Phil (Ticonderoga) in Mark's little Audi; Wendy and I and all the gear in the van. I have a continually growing fondness for these Iowa boys, but we've never been close, so I'm a little apprehensive about two weeks on the road together.

Wendy has to say goodbye to Jay again tonight for another two weeks (Eyes to Space played the G'boro show as well, but now the boys are headed back home). I feel bad for taking Wendy away from someone that makes her so happy.

Sorry for the boring entry here, everyone, I'm feeling worn out.

The hometown CD release show. I have to admit that I'm nervous this show won't be as big as the Prayers and Tears CD release show last March. I hate to judge tonight's success in numbers, but this feeling of competitiveness is overwhelming.

When I was in high school, there were three of us in orchestra who could viably compete for first chair violinist: Rene Salazar, Heather Vassallo and I. Rene and Heather were fiercely hungry for that first chair. I, being a non-confrontational reactionary, decided that their hunger was uncool, and took an attitude (at least outwardly) of total apathy towards that first chair. "I could take it or leave it," I kept telling myself. "I don't mark my own value by whether or not I win this silly game." And I felt like I was better than Rene and Heather.

Looking back, I realize I've done this a lot in life: I've pulled out of any kind of emotional investment that doesn't seem noble to me, as a way of looking down on other people. But tonight, I can be a little more honest than that. I don't necessarily want to "beat" Prayers and Tears (perhaps only because I don't think I can), but if we have as many people there and sell as many CDs as Prayers and Tears did in March, then I will feel like the show was a success.

God, that sounds stupid to me. I guess I'm stupid, then. I know like you know that the real value of tonight's show lies in trying to create beautiful music, trying to perform to the best of our abilities, and trying to make a real connection with the audience, sharing something meaningful together.

To that end, I feel like our CD release show was successful. We didn't have as many people at the show as did Prayers and Tears, and we didn't sell anywhere near as many CDs as did Prayers and Tears, but I think we created beautiful music, and I think we made a real connection with the audience. Because I can't get rid of this desire to win, the success is bittersweet, but it is success nonetheless.

Richmond, I had almost given up on you. Richmond, I thought there weren't any more good shows to be played within your beautifully rundown city limits. Richmond, I was wrong.

Tonight not only marks the best show I've ever played in Richmond, tonight marks one of the best shows of the tour so far. It's First Friday, which means all the art galleries in town stay open late, and all the scenesters, hipsters, art lovers, artists and generally cool middle-classers are out on the town. We're playing at Gallery 5 tonight, one of said art galleries, and by the time we get there to set up, it's packed full of people.

But I digress. We're staying with the inimitable and infamous Prabir Mehta, of the Rachel Nevadas. He meets us for lunch at the inimitable and infamous Harrison Street Coffee (cafe?), where he proceeds to tell us his crazy story of old girlfriend that still wants to be with him and new girl he's pining for and can't read. I can't do the story justice here, but you should know that Prabir's life sounds like a really good episode of the OC, or 90210, or the Love Boat (minus the boat). He takes me through an extensive list of check pluses and check minuses by which he's trying to determine whether something's actually going to happen with this new girl.

Well, we end up walking around art galleries with Prabir and his friends before the show, and who do we bump into at the very first gallery? The new girl, of course. Who walks in immediately afterwards? The old girlfriend, of course. Oh, Prabir, you make my life seem so boring by comparison.

Prabir disappears with new girl for the rest of the night. He shows back up to play his set at Gallery 5. Who's standing right at the front of the stage? New girl on one side, and old girlfriend on the other.

Honestly, I feel bad for old girlfriend. I know her, and she's always been really nice to me. But I don't know the whole story, so I won't say anymore.

We give Carol the biggest goodbye hugs we can manage, and we all hit the road: Carol back to Arlington, and Dylan, Wendy, Jay, Andy and I (Eyes to Space played the Richmond show as well) back to Chapel Hill. Home sweet home.

The Smithsonian gems and stones collection says:

"Pure corundum, composed of aluminium and oxygen atoms, is colorless. Color variations come from light interacting with impurities that replaced atoms of aluminium in the growing crystals."

"Fluorite, with its palette of candy-colored pastels, may exhibit more color variations than any other mineral. Defects in the atomic structure, and impurities such as atoms of the elements yttrium and cerium, create the colors. Just a few missing or impurity atoms in a million are enough to tint a colorless crystal."

[from Wendy]

Carol is on stage now playing in Fredericksburg and she is so cute when she talks, and then so badass when she plays. She does this thing with her arms when she talks – pumping her arms up and down. So cute! Man, I'm really going to miss her, I wish she lived in Chapel Hill, but at least she'll be my livejournal friend so I'll know what she's up to.

[Wendy recollects]

We played in New York, last show with Annie, and I got to hang out with Cesar, old pal, who seems to be doing well for himself, with myriad projects and living in the Bronx with girlfriend…We stayed at his parents' house in Yonkers, then went to the South Bronx to eat a meal at a Dominican restaurant where I filled up on a huge plate of rice and beans, and wished I could eat and keep eating even more.

Coming into New Hope, PA, where all the trees along the Delaware were exploding in ochres, Daniel did his wild turkey impression, and then I did my mockingbird impression and almost killed Carol, who couldn't stop laughing. I like making people laugh – back in Charlottesville, in what seems like two eons ago now, Dylan was explaining how he wanted Eyes to Space to dress up as the A Team, explaining how each member would be each character, except that it would have to wind up me as Mr. T. I said, I would be Mr. T and Dylan said, really? And I said, I pity the fool who would think otherwise. Other jokes: Daniel's fantastic Robert Plant impression, and hanging out at the Whistlestop café somewhere in NJ where I got that potato soup that was enormous and Annie got an omelet so revolting she had to only eat her toast and try not to vomit it up...Carol and I making silly dick jokes in the van – she telling Dylan to pass her the cd case, and saying it's the long black one, and then she and I busting up and no one understanding why it was funny…With Daniel at Gerenser's Exotic Ice Cream Parlor, him saying these flavors don't seem very exotic, I said Swiss Chocolate and then even more hilariously, they had a sign next to the other flavor signs (chocolate, butter pecan, etc) that just said “HO”. The most exotic of all! At Cesar's apartment, his cat coming up to Daniel's hand and licking it, and then just going on a biting his knuckles, and just keeping on biting, and Cesar saying oh yeah, she bites, I recommend using this, and then he put on this blue glove with long fingers and bells on the ends…

[and Daniel adds]

Thank you, Cesar Alvarez. Thank you, wonderful women who fed us this morning at the Dominican restaurant in the Bronx. Thank you, guy whose name I can't remember who took us across the footbridge along the Delaware River from New Hope into Lambertville, NJ, where I saw a changing of leaves to rival the mountains of western North Carolina. Thanks to Dylan's cousins who drove to see us. Thanks to Pete and the other guys from Philly who drove to see us YET AGAIN. Now it's time to drive back to Arlington, so that Carol can work tomorrow. I feel this part of the tour coming to an end, and it makes me sadder still. Why are there so many Indian clothing stores in New Hope, PA?

Breakfast in Boston with Karen Dahl. Karen and I did AmeriCorps together in New York, back in 1999. We hit it off at a training conference near the beginning of our time there, and stayed good friends the rest of the year. We've lost touch a little since then, with the difficulty of maintaining a long-distance friendship. For a while I thought we might get together, I liked hanging out with her so much (she seemed to like it as well). But I was dating someone else at the time, and now she's married. I wish we lived closer to each other. She's one of the people in my life who makes me feel like I missed out on something whenever I see her, but in a way that somehow makes me want to know that I'm missing out with the hopes of learning from my mistakes, and eventually not missing out.

First stop in New York City is YSOP, the Youth Service Opportunities Project, where I did my stint in AmeriCorps. Jean and Paul and Ed are still there, plugging away at youth education and non-profit viability. Indeed this has quickly become a day of nostalgic thoughts. I wander around Manhattan by myself before the show. I stop at the Virgin Megastore at Union Square to use the bathroom. The bathroom doors are locked now, with a giant slotted metal box on the doorknob, and you have to ask for a "free" token from the snack counter in order to open them. What is this, prison?

I do not like this system that seems to have been adopted by all New York clubs: get paid based on how many people you brought to the show, and if you don't bring enough people you don't get paid at all. It's not that mind leaving a show without money, it's the lack of community inspired by this system, and the focus on numbers. I understand that there has to be some way of encouraging people to promote shows, but I feel so disconnected from the other bands this way, and you can't create a good bill this way. Honestly it doesn't encourage me to promote the shows any harder, it just encourages me to avoid playing in New York. Maybe that's part of the point after all, but if so, then I'm very, very sad.

This is Annie's last show with TPOM before she heads back to Dallas. Yep. I'm very, very sad.

[Wendy:]

In New York City, I am remembering for some reason, going with Daniel to St. John's cathedral which is Episcopalian, which is Daniel, and the peace there, and the quiet and the bizarre sculpture that looked like a giant Tim Burton evildoer:

Just hanging in the church, what the fff??

Time, silly mistress, passes slowly in this worst traffic yet, ever, in Boston, trying to leave it and so is everyone else apparently, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic for a good long time, no chance of getting to Gloucester (Gl-ow!-ster) on time, or yipes even one hour late. Last night at Boston U. we had another close call timewise, getting there, hauling in the equipment, setting it up, playing, man did I have to go to the bathroom right when we started to play, but time ran out for me, so I didn't, and waited until the end. Having some bad oboeplaying nights, but this is inherent to playing one oboe song in a set, when I don't have time to warm up, when I just stick the reed in and blow, don't even get to properly wet the reed. Some drama is transpiring beyond the cell phone attached to Annie's ear. Twinkling nighttime and it is only 5:26, pitch black Boston we leave you, should be 6:26 but the clocks turned back over the weekend, and now it is Halloween. We purchased fake moustaches awhile back at Target, so those we'll wear at the show, if we ever make it there. We stayed in a town called Newton last night, outside of Boston, with the friend of a friend, and I walked around the town this afternoon and it was lovely in its small town charms and used piano outlet ("only one of its kind in New England!") and I really should have taken a shower today but I couldn't, I just couldn't bring myself to do it, not that it was gross where we were staying, but because it's tedious to soap up and towel off and feel too much like I'm taking advantage of whoever's house we are in, and their money, money. Passed a sign that said "Christmas Festival – Boston's World Trade Center!" hmmm. God this traffic is a nightmare. And the coke I bought at the corner store of Newton is doing its bladderful damage. Halloween tonight! Annie and Carol are supposed to play solo sets before TPOM, but I have no idea about when we'll get there. Passing Square One mall on the left, going 13 miles an hour on a highway, outrageous sense of needing bladder emptied. I wonder which of my quirks are starting to bother the others? I wonder what they all think of me, in their private moments, I wonder if they think of me at all. Karl's Sausage Kitchen. Maybe the van's possessed, maybe US 1's possessed… Propane tank salesplaces, cars and cars, Lexington Furniture: "Dramatic Dining Rooms for the Holidays". I wonder what they think of me in their private moments, many a private moment in this van going, now a whopping 23 miles, out to the north shore, where there is ocean and rocks and teenagers in costumes waiting to be judged. Last night Daniel told the audience that the winner of the costume contest would get to be on Star Search, and then the otherwise completely comatose on stage lead singer of Picastro, got all excited about Star Search reminding her of Tiny Talent Time, which took me way back, and it was this show filmed in Southern Ontario and it was a low-budget Canadian version of Star Search with like two panels to hide the cameramen behind the scenes and some five-year-old girl in a glittery leotard would twirl a baton, and they'd be judged on technicality and performance (I think). Now we're finally on 128 North and moving so much faster than we were previously moving, and my inner ear is reeling a little bit from this new motion, this projectility. If we start at 7pm, we can be done by 9pm and be done with it, and then just enjoy the bonfires on the beach, which is what I am imagining Gloucester at night to be like on Halloween. But then I compare my instincts to what I know, and I think this might be a rocky beach, and not the sandy ones of the Old North State. We just passed the exit for Salem, Massachusetts, and there are frightening woods on either side of us. All these old England names, Manchester, Essex, Manchester by the Sea, where the Pilgrims landed, with their shoe buckles and religious fervor, their restrictive women's garments and division of labor, their rows of maize, the rows of maize that failed them…It smells a little odd in this city by the sea, but we are going, and here we are, now I have to be navigator, in Gloucester, and there are trick-or-treaters in the streets goodbye.

[Daniel:]

The Gloucester kids are awesome, and the show is so much fun. But there's hardly anyone there. Do you know why? Because it's Halloween night and we're 20 miles from Salem, Massachusetts. SALEM. Apparently, they're expecting 100,000 people in Salem tonight. The entire population of the city of Durham, North Carolina, in Salem tonight.

"We were going to go back to Boston after the show," I say to the Gloucester kids, "but I think we might head over and check out Salem". I mean how often will The Physics of Meaning be near Salem on Halloween?

And like Deus Ex Machina or the revelation of a biblical prophecy, our sound man, Leo Sharamitaro, says, "I live in Salem. You all can just follow me."

Traffic is terrible, becaues Leo lives right downtown. But parking is easy, because Leo lives right downtown! In the middle of all the action, and Leo feeds us (thank you, Leo). Then he takes us around. By this point, things have died down a bit, most people, screaming drunk in their crazy costumes, are leaving. That leaves us with the pure, simple beauty of Salem itself: cobblestone streets, churches built in the 18th century, a harbor full of patient sailboats and glowing stars in the night sky. I am left alone for a few minutes to gather my thoughts. I realize, if only for a moment, that I'm genuinely happy to be here.

[Daniel:]

Bob spoils us. His house is beautiful, his beds are heavenly, and he's up before anyone, ready to cook us breakfast. Omelettes, bacon, coffee (as well as fruit and cereal for me), the man's hospitality seems to know no end. AND he has a rhododendron garden (he and his wife Chris are members of the Rhododendron Society).

[Wendy:]

Now again time has passed. We are back in transit, in the vehicle that gets packed better and better so as to have more and more room to wiggle. Last night I sat bitch, meaning backseat middle seat and could not get comfortable and ‘twas truly the only time yet where I was really cranky, because I keep having two fewer hours of sleep than everyone else because, well, I wake up early and can't get back to sleep, can't force it like the others. Maybe if I were directly post-college like Annie, I would have the knack better, of sleeping into the afternoon, but I am used to my workaday world of rise and shine and park and ride and commute and answer questions in an office environment full of paperclips and color-coded folders. Oh those days when I could sleep in. We are on our way to Boston, on yet more interstates that jimmy up the eastern seaboard, that connect our Targets and Pottery Barns to one another, that inspire us, that give us hope and dread.

It is damn hot in this van, now why is that? Ah, I have found control of air, and have turned on it. We are passing the Linden Congeneration Plant, full of foul air and steel obelisks of chemical industry, knowing the state we are in by the plates on the cars that pass us, New Jersey, New Jersey, the garden state full of chemical industry rhododendrons. Azaleass-stink. Earlier in this van today, we passed through some other chemical industry stink, and Daniel asked if that was an inside or outside smell, and Dylan said yeah, I have a paper mill in my colon. Amusing! Now we pass a boulder of granite (?) by the highway where the teenage hooligans have spraypainted their sense of self onto it. A plane landed by the Newark airport and looked like I could have reached down and petted it, it was so near, the billboards, the highways, the bridges, the overpasses, the water towers, the life beyond the yellow lines, a blur of happy and unhappy people going about their Sunday business.

[Daniel:]

Yes, we're in Boston! We made it. We're late. But everyone else is late too. Who puts on rock shows that start at 6pm anyway?

Boston University, I want to stay with you, and I want to hang out with your cool college radio station kids, and I want to find that really really cute girl from Tufts med who answered my first email so charmingly and graciously, and then never responded to any other email I sent. Was it because in my first email I made it sound like I was friends with her friend, even though I'd just met him online a couple days before emailing her, and so only mentioned his name in my email, not directly stating that we were friends, but, YES, loosely implying it to gain trust, which she then fact-checked, discovered was not true, and felt used and betrayed? Please don't feel used and betrayed, I'm not a creepy guy, I just think you're really really cute and your Friendster profile is gracious and charming and I don't have any good lines to feed you and I'm sorry if I made it seem like I was friends with your friend when I'm really not. I am pathetic. Sigh.

Andrew's school buddy Josh hooks us up with a place to crash in Newton, MA. Oh my goodness, this may be the sweetest crash yet! A basement to ourselves, a U-shaped couch with a futon on the floor inside it, all facing a big-screen TV, and an episode of Law and Order: CVUPC to lull us to sleep. Thanks Josh.

[Wendy:]

Can I thank the following people for sponsorship? The Twisted Branch Tea Bazaar for letting us stay there overnight, the Carol Bui house of richness and wonderment, Alan and his five cats and one dog and nice roommates, the Americorps home of Daniel's friend replete with Dance Dance Revolution home system which we all played, eagerly, except for Annie – oh, and that neighborhood felt like a movie set with weirdness, remember that? – Cynthia and Theo and Nova in Brooklyn, Aaron and Peter MoDavis's mom, who cooked us a huge meal at four in the morning in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, with whom I talked for awhile about her cats, and we reminisced about cats we had had and loved and known, and her hospitality and kind heart, the type of person who nursed a squirrel who fell out of a tree, you can see the kind heart of Peter and Aaron that they got from her, those Teeth guys all got their kind hearts from Ma MoDavis, even if they are not her progeny, I wish they were all brothers, I wish we had had time to swing on the swings with them and gerberguggle over toddler MoDavis photos. I wish to continue thanking again the Carol Bui House of Rock for another night of couches, and Bob and Chris in Radnor, Daniel's second-cousins, for bacon and beds and delicious crispy-wafery-seedy crackery involvement. Beds! Crackery involvement! And a sense of unlimited kindness to strangers, which has been shown on this tour.

[Wendy says:]

Now it is Saturday, one full week of touring done, at Carol's house again, at the kitchen table which feels like someone's parents', Daniel in a yellow t-shirt is crunching something across from me, we will be leaving soon, I am tired of packing the van. It's always me and Dylan somehow, that wind up doing the bulk of that for some reason. I think it's that go-getter attitude, and I can hardly blame them, because I've been in situations where I am the non-packer, or non-doer, simply because others have taken it upon themselves first, and don't leave the opportunity open.

Ways I am turning into my mother:

1) go-getter attitude in packing, and then resenting always having to pack the van
2) holding the bag with my thumb through the straps like someone's about to steal it, someone's about to get me, the world is out to get me
3) correcting people's grammar
4) cutting my own hair (I just now did this in the bathroom at Carol's)
5) neuroses, endless endless neuroses
6) protective of my personal life details
7) cheap about everything, though yesterday I said yes, the Cambodian noodle soup is $2.50 more expensive than the egg drop but when will I be in Philadelphian Chinatown to experience it again? So I did, I went ahead and paid the extra money to have it and felt proud, and felt Cartwright-inspired. Richie Jen played on the flatscreen dvd in the restaurant, in a huge Chinese superstar production full of Madonna-esque faux arts dancing and majesty. The waitress was singing along to the tunes. We had bubble tea which is fruity frozen deliciousness with spheres of tapioca waiting to be suctioned up the large-diameter straw, so that one can drink and chew and drink and chew and become overwhelmed by the delicious splendor of simultaneous liquid and solid. I had a great time talking to Daniel last night in the van, in the marathon drive from Philly to Arlington, staying awake all night to keep him awake. But I am missing Jay terribly, here at the kitchen table, trying to ignore the overheard crappy movie that could almost be good.

[Daniel says:]

I am beginning to feel an affinity for Washington, D.C. I never came here on family vacations, I have had very little previous contact with the District, and honestly I've never thought much about this nation's capitol. But we've been here several days over the past week and I'm glad we're back again. DC has a distinctive feel, something which separates it from other big cities. I can't put my finger on it. Perhaps I am just living vicariously through Carol, but this all feels familiar in a warmly honest way.

Revolution Records is small, cramped, up a long flight of stairs to a room with a low ceiling and a crappy PA, but I love it. Again, there's this feeling of familiarity. And playing with Pattern Is Movement two nights in a row makes me happy. I can sing along with most of their songs now.

[back to Wendy:]

Revolution Records (oh delightful! Oh wordful cleverness! Revolution being what the people do the man, and how the record travels on its center spindle! Yea, travel little record! Vinyl for the people!)…with the full Carol Bui Rock Your Scrotum Off Experience, then the Slit-Your-Wrists-And-Enjoy-the-Seepage terse and tender musings of Picastro, then us with myriad technical difficulties, including the hey - it - is - thirty - seconds - before - we - are - to - play - Wendy - you - have - to - just - press - forward - on - this - ipod and I knew it I knew as soon as Daniel said it, I envisioned it, I knew it would not play, that I would be left holding the equipment in foolishness, in wretched foolish equipment-failing foolishness, and lo! Helloo! Hello prophecy coming true! Hello not even letting me make the prophecy out loud because I am holding a bass and a fingerful of ipod. No one believes the blind prophet Teresias-Spitzer until it is too late. But it's okay, we needed to practice the intro anyway, and the three extra times for the audience really let us lock it in. I am being facetious. Then Pattern is Movement is always a fun time of mathematical Mary Poppins destructo loveliness. Up she goes, up in her umbrella Mary Poppins Andrew singing, then BLAMMO, down she comes in a blaze of squedeedly-crunch-crunch-distorto-guitbox-wailing! Help us! Save us! Break those drumsticks. Just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down.

[back to Daniel:]

After the show, we are leaving (sigh) for Radnor, PA, where my cousin Bob Smetana lives, and is putting us up for the night on our way to Boston. I only met Bob a couple of years ago, he's a distant cousin on my father's side. He's a sweet man, and I expect that he'll spoil us.

There is a place in Philadelphia that makes the best bubble tea I've ever had in my life. I have dreamt of this day, I have pondered it in my heart, I have craved it, I have talked about it incessantly to anyone who will listen, "I'm going to Philadelphia on this tour, where they make the BEST BUBBLE TEA I'VE EVER HAD IN MY LIFE!"

So first things first: Chinatown. I don't remember exactly where this place is, Andrew took me there in June, but it can't be that hard to find, right? Chinatown is small, right? Oh no, it's not. Several blocks in several directions. Crap! Well, best to just park, and hope my memory kicks in. We're walking, we're walking, I don't remember any of this, I don't know what street or even what area--oh. Wait. Here it is right in front of me. Aqua blue awning, big window in front, yes! That was lucky.

You see, I would never have thought of putting black sesame seeds into a drink to make it taste good, because I didn't even really acknowledge the existence of black sesame seeds until I had this drink back in June. Oh, God, it's so good. My life is complete. At least until the next time I have a chance to come to Philly.

Our performance at the Pattern Is Movement CD release show is the best of the tour so far. We are finally coming together as a band. And such a great crowd; thank you thank you thank you, fine people of Philadelphia. I love Pattern Is Movement.

[and now from Wendy's journal:]

Of course, now time has passed again. We find ourselves in transit. I am in the front for the first time, as I have been a clever bird, and have saved up my turns up front to facilitate the keyboard tapping, keyboard tapping being impossible in the backseat, due to lack of privacy. It is 2:34, excuse me, 2:33 in the morning, having just played a lucrative – musically and fiduciarily – show in the city of brotherly love, with Pattern is Movement, who are playing on the cd player for Annie's benefit. Now time again has passed, and Daniel requests silence for this drive home. Home to Carol's house again, so we can get from Philly to DC without the rush of everyone going about his or her business in our nation's capital, clogging the asphalt corridors, passed the buildings so tall and reflecty, the birds, they ram themselves into them in flight. We are high above oh crap, we are on a bridge over water, my only true fear in the world, to go plunging off it, the car a bird shot down and plummeting. There are the lights of a big city on so late at night, sleeping city with a thousand nightlights on, to guide us away from it, reflecting in the water that we've now crossed, and of course we did not die, because we're young and except for me, we don't think all the time about our own death, the instant it will happen, the moment of fear equal to one hundred thousand crossed bridges over water, in my terror heart.

Now I want to recount the story of Carl Borax, not his real name, lived his life in a prison town in Ohio, the town in which the Shawshank Redemption was filmed, he moved from the prison Ohio town to take this "dream job" teaching chess to highschoolers, forty grand a year, but he hates it because his wife wouldn't come with him, because his wife's mother helps her out with their five-year-old daughter, Carl is 26, and his daughter's name is Veda, Veda Borax, he approached me at the club to tell me his heart hurt but we made him better, and then later in Chris the Pattern is Movement drummer with the philosophy degree and table made out of an old card catalog – Chris's after-party, Carl told me his difficulties, by announcing he was seventy-five percent drunk, alone in the city, just moved there, wife back home, only seen his daughter once in the last two months, prison Ohio town six-and-one-half hours away, but he has a plan! But he has a plan he told me all about it, he will own a concession stand at the fair, he loves the fair, don't you think, he asked me, don't you think the fair is great? That it exists as an escape? I said, if you work at the fair, you'd have to escape the fair to feel escape. He said no, his wife likes the idea, he wants to see his kid. What I really wanted to do, he said, was just play chess, professionally. I said, okay so why aren't you playing chess professionally then? He said, it requires diligence, patience, practice, not getting a girl pregnant at 21 and marrying her. I said, oh. He said, yeah, you adapt, you adapt. I said good luck, I bet your daughter's really cute, he said yeah, he said I told you earlier, my heart's hurting, it's because of all this shit. I said good luck, he said same to you.

I said this: "I find myself exhausting, so if you want me to shut up I will." (trying to keep Daniel awake on the nighttime drive to Arlington)

Despite the slight crappiness of last night's show and the 90 minutes I drove around looking for parking this morning, I'm very, very happy to be back in the city. We only have a couple hours drive to Bethlehem, so Wendy and I bum around Manhattan all day together: Joe's Pizza, Washington Square, Strand Books, Union Square, Central Park, and, YES, we have enough time for the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, and that divine sculpture garden outside the building, and those divine pastries from the Hungarian pastry shop across the street. Visits to NYC like this one give me peace.

Which is perfect, because I need every single bit of peace I've gained today getting through the traffic heading out of the city. I would say it's like a parking lot, but parking lots are more fun than this, because you're not trying to get anywhere else: YOU'RE PARKING.

Bethlehem, sweet Bethlehem. Bethlehem, Pennsylvania is where Aaron and Peter MoDavis (of The Teeth) grew up. It is a college town of sorts, but not a Chapel Hill. There was industry here at one point that has dried up; mining, maybe? This gives Bethlehem, from my outside perspective, a sad forgotten feeling about it.

The Funhouse is part of that sad forgotten feeling, with its share of townies and a dirty glow about it. More importantly, the Funhouse has no ventilation. No ventilation + smoky bar = smelly Physics of Meaning, and more importantly, smelly Physics of Meaning van. Mmmmmmmm...smelly van...

But none of this makes any difference to the pure pleasure of NOT ONLY watching The Teeth play (one of my favorite bands in the world) AND seeing old friends (dearest Mark Reisinger) AND making cool new friends (superman Pete Beefalo) BUT then showing up at the MoDavis home at 3am to find a GIANT feast awaiting us. True, we can barely keep our eyelids open to see the food, but salad, cheese, pasta...Mrs. MoDavis, you have outdone yourself.

When I finished college, I moved to New York for a year, to do AmeriCorps and be an Episcopal missionary. An Episco-what? Ameri-who? My first two months in New York, I stayed on the couch of Cynthia Anne Krempetz and Theo Stanley, two of my favorite people in the world. Looking back, I can't believe they actually let me stay that long. It is a testament to their kindness and their patience.

Since then, Theo and Cynthia have gotten married, had a baby, moved back to Dallas, and moved back to New York again, where they have just bought a townhome in Fort Greene. Having not seen them in a couple years, my first action upon arriving in NYC is to hang out with Cynthia and Theo and Nova, their beautiful 2-year-old daughter. We are staying with Cynthia and Theo tonight, christening the second floor of their townhome, which 9-month-long squatters have just left the day before.

The air is crisp and Fort Greene is for me a fairly unexplored part of Brooklyn, but one that reminds me of everything I remember and love about New York: great parks, great pizza, and pedestrians everywhere.

We get to Bar Sputnik around 8pm, in order to load in and set up for our 10pm show (which starts with another lovely solo set from Annie). But little did we know beforehand that there is a weekly standup comedy showcase which happens at Bar Sputnik FROM 8:30pm, RIGHT UP UNTIL 10pm. The emcee, Dawn, is just getting started when we realize that we are her only audience. "Come on over, band," she says. "Come on over and have a seat. Comedy night at Sputnik. Who's in the band?"

Wendy, Carol, Annie, Dylan and I make ourselves known.

"How many girls?"

"Three."

"How many guys?"

"Two."

"Okay, so who's sleeping with who?"

Oh boy.

"What do you mean, no one's sleeping with each other? You like sex, right?"

Thus commences a night of mostly unfunny, almost all sex-related jokes.

"What's the name of the band?"

I hesitate to answer, because I know I'm being set up. I think one of the girls (probably Wendy) even tells me not to answer.

"The Physics of Meaning."

"The what?"

"The Physics of Meaning."

"The Physics of what? The Physics of law? The Chemistry of Who?"

Thus commences a night of mostly funny butcherings of our name. Every comic has one:

"Tonight we got the Science of Water playing..."

"The Periodic Table is coming up next..."

"Girls, you like giving blowjobs, right?"

Cynthia and Theo, thank you for being so warm and generous and hospitable. Jess, thank you for being such an awesome bartender. Al, thanks for being a first-rate sound man. Jesse, thank you for coming to see us play. And thank you all for not being standup comedians.

Monday night, we stay with my friend Will Dalton in Perryville, Maryland. He heads off to work early, so we're left to ourselves in his lovely old house for Tuesday afternoon. The house is mostly empty, as Will lives here by himself, and doesn't have much money. But amongst the cracking walls, stark rooms and dirty dishes, there is one very un-austere amenity: an X-Box. Next to the X-Box? Two plastic pads that accompany one of the best video games k\nown to humankind: Dance Dance Revolution!

I didn't even know they made a home version of Dance Dane Revolution! but they do. Dylan and I break out the pads, turn on the TV, and hook up the X-Box. We dance and we dance and we revolution and we dance some more in fierce competition (for the unintiated, the player who hits the right part of the dance pad in rhythm with the music most wins). Carol and Wendy come downstairs and they give it a shot. At this point, I realize that half the fun of Dance Dance Revolution! lies in watching two other people try to move their legs, so very awkwardly, in time with "I Wanna 2 Luv U Forever" by Kiki DeVille and the Beat Squad. Oh, Dance Dance Revolution, you're stealing my heart.

Our show in Williamstown is fun. We play at Alan Dodd's 1619 house with Tea Club, and solo sets from Annie and a very (too) apologetic Carol. Why do you apologize for the rock, Carol? The rock does not ask to be apologized for. Tea Club tells their friends that the show will be a costume contest, and so we have a couple kids brave enough to dance in costume in front of everyone there, with only a Physics of Meaning CD as their reward. And the Williamstown kids are not only brave, but they are a great audience, very willing to listen, very gracious, and very generous with their donations.

Tuesday night house show in small New Jersey town = done by 10pm, and our first taste of the true joy in doing early shows. It means time to relax and hang out with Alan and his roommates, who are, like the rest of the people I now know from Williamstown, very gracious and very generous, and also a little dirty. Classic line from Alan, standing in front of the sink which is full of plates and cups, while handing me a plastic fork, "Yeah, man, the guy who did the dishes moved out."

I'm walking through the National Gallery at the Smithsonian, looking at portraits of rich white people from the 1700's. I'm bored by these portraits, so I'm moving fairly quickly from room to room. All of a sudden, I find myself facing a giant painting of Napoleon Bonaparte, looming over me, imposing. He's standing in what looks like an 18th-century French drawing room, with book spines glowing behind him and thick, regal chairs on either side. For this portrait, he has struck his traditional pose, right hand tucked in between two buttons in the middle of his vest, as if reaching for some papers, or warming his cold fingers. As I get closer, I look down from the wall to see a guard standing underneath Napoleon, staring at me directly. He is tall, thin, black, with glasses. He is standing very still, with his right hand tucked in between two buttons on his navy blazer.

Wait a minute, is that right? Yes, in fact this guard is standing there, staring at me, in the exact same pose as Napoleon, who is standing directly behind him on the wall. I walk closer and the guard is still standing there, staring right at me, the most serious look on his face, the most serious right hand still tucked into his blazer. Eventually I have to break the stare, as I'm about to laugh. I turn to the left and walk past him. Only at this point does the guard slowly turn and walk away.

Yes, this is what one guard at the Smithsonian does to entertain himself amongst portraits of 18-century rich white people.

No one comes to the show in Baltimore. Not a single audience member. The one local band on the bill has dropped off, and our few Baltimore friends can't make it. We are playing with Shame Club and The Decibators, two very HARD rock bands on tour from the midwest. Because we are the closest thing to a local band, we agree to play last. After they go through their screams and guitar riffs and double Marshall stacks, I'm a little scared to play for them. "They're going to hate us," I think. "Worse, they're going to politely clap for us in between songs." The sound man has been playing Sabbath all night as the house music, and so I think, "He's going to hate us. Worse, he's going to politely ignore channels 1-8 on the sound board."

But they love us. They clap and clap. We play our set and they want more. The lead singer from the Decibators gives us all Decibators t-shirts. The sound man comes up afterwards and tells me that he almost cried it meant so much to him. He gives me his contact info and tells me to get in touch with him if we ever come back to Baltimore, because he can hook us up with good bands who bring out people to shows. We leave the club and head out into the wet, cold, dreary, desolate streets of Baltimore, but I feel, if only for a little while, warm, content and victorious.

I wake up to sunlight and the sounds of people walking by. I look at my cell phone: 9am. 9am! Damnit! I have to get more sleep than this, or I'll sound like Harvey Fierstein on coke tonight.

I force myself back to sleep. I wake up and look at my cell phone: 9:30am. I force myself back to sleep again. And again. And again.

Finally Dylan comes in. I get up and look at my cell phone: 10:40am. Damnit!

"Dylan, it's only 10:40 and I can't sleep anymore, but I need to rest my voice."
"Daniel it's 1 o'clock."
"What?"

Dylan checks his watch and confirms. I turn off my cell phone and turn it back on again. 1:03pm. Why was my cell phone 2 hours and 40 minutes behind? I want to believe that some cosmic force actually wanted me to rest my voice as much as possible. Or my phone is dying.

The drive from Charlottesville to Arlington is easy, less than 3 hours. However, the drive from accidentally past Arlington into DC and trying desperately to make a left turn, one little left turn so I can get back onto 50-W and back into Arlington made the trip just over 4 hours long. I thought it ironically fitting that going to the left was so hard to do in Washington, D.C.

The Arlington show is kind of awkward. I don't really feel like we're prepared enough for the performance, and I feel like people are clapping politely. This really throws me off my game. I can't connect with these people. Where are all my DC friends? But a great crowd for a Sunday night at the Galaxy Hut, which used to be free and now charges a cover. Carol is great.

Staying at Carol's house--yes! Annie and Dylan watch "The Family Guy Movie". I send and reply to two billion emails. Sweet, warm couch, comfort is thy name.

Late start on rehearsal. First time with all of us (Wendy, Dylan, Carol, Annie and I) playing the music together. I've got two billion things on my mind but it sounds good. God Bless Carol and Annie for rehearsing stuff on their own before coming to town. Car ride to Charlottesville (with Andy from Eyes to Space replacing Wendy in the van, and no Carol because she would be meeting up with us in Arlington on Sunday) is quiet and somewhat awkward at first. People are tired and pensive. Will the whole tour be like this? Apparently not. Once we discover that Annie has her Ipod with her, we all bond over Soundgarden's Superunknown. Possibly the first discussion of my many-part tour diatribe upon the ridiculousness of Robert Plant's lyrics, combined with Led Zeppelin's profound musical influence on rock'n'roll, exemplified in the flange effect used on the vocals for "Black Hole Sun" (see Houses of the Holy's "No Quarter"). Oh yeah, also exemplified IN EVERY OTHER PART OF EVERY OTHER SONG ON SUPERUNKNOWN. Just kidding. But not really. The Twisted Branch Tea Bazaar in Charlottesville remains one of my favorite venues in the world. Jor is still working there, Matteus is hanging out as well as some cool new people (Jonny, Michelle) and old people (Erica, Noel). Atmosphere: 10. Sound: Crap. Food: Must be what they serve in heaven. Annie's solo set is pretty, she's nervous and doesn't even introduce herself. Jay's keytar dies right before Eyes To Space is about to play. They rework a set with Jay playing the Yamaha keyboard and if I hadn't seen the keytar before, I wouldn't have known anything was missing. POM's first performance with this lineup (Dylan, Wendy, Annie and I) goes off with only a few small hitches; "Bigger Cities" and "Columbia and Cameron" really hit and I feel alive. After the show, I take a midnight walk down the Main Mall in Charlottesville. It's quiet and a little chilly, perfect for thinking. But I can't remember what I thought about; I remember feeling happy and anxious and unable to stop and relax. We sleep at the Twisted Branch tonight, on their many couches and futons amidst the warmth of antique lamps and posters of Ganesh and Siva lining the walls.