Boise, Idaho (well, Meridian, actually); Moab, Utah

Tuesday morning I groaned myself awake, after staying up until almost three finishing up stuff for the Song Walk (how did I manage to put it off until then? Oh yeah - my car had a minor seizure just five days before I left down, and ate up two days. Wunderbar!) I quietly packed my crap, and was on the road by 11 or so, bidding Jeff and Emmy a sleepy goodbye, and scratching Dinah on the head through the top of her cage.

The drive was one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. Starting with the Columbia river gorge, a canyon festooned with spring green, and working its way into the high desert, volcanic mountains in central Oregon, it was one spectacular view after another. I took many pictures through the windows of the car, which might give some indication of how awesome it was. When did I get transported to Middle Earth? I hit some pretty crazy, intense rain and wind, but managed to make pretty good time. My gig in Meridian started at 7, so it would be a bit tight; as it was, I drove like hell, made one stop for gas, and got there just 15 minutes before I was due to go on (having lost an hour traversing the border.)

Corkscrews proved to be a homey little joint, set underground (you descend a stairway to get there), with a friendly, low-key atmostphere and... no damn tvs! Almost always a good sign. (The lack of TVs is one of the first things I cite when describing how cool Mia's Lounge in Flagstaff is). And there, awaiting my arrival, was one Shawn Surber - one of my best friends in high school, who I hadn't seen in like twenty years. He and I spent hours and hours playing Dungeons and Dragons and the like together, but had lost touch after graduation. You never know when you see somebody after so long if you'll have a connection with them, or what form that connection will take; Shawn and I were able to pick up as if very little time had gone by, and were pretty soon trading gibes with one another as if we were still seated around a table littered with pencils, papers, and polyhedral dice. I gave him the twenty minute thumbnail sketch of the last twenty years of my life, and then he did the same. There too was another Gettysburgian, Scott, who I hadn't known well at all, but remembered hanging out with with Shawn back in the day, as well.

The crowd at Corkscrews proved to be a bunch of excellent listeners; very much into the music. Molly and Von (the proprietors, who were working there that night) have gone out of their way to make a place that's comfortable to go to, and a great environment for performers and audience members. I was pretty dazed after they day's drive, and hungry for having not stopped to eat along the way at all (clif bars and coffee whilst behind the wheel). At one point while I was playing a song I got dizzy and almost fell over; but it passed, I got some food in me from Corkscrews (which proved to be a rather pathetic excuse for a hummus plate - Strictly Organic Coffee in Bend had spoiled me, truly).

I got a late start the next day, choosing to get some food before leaving town (I slept til something like 10:30, after going to bed at something like 1). While looking for a promising restaurant, I happened upon a thrift store where I bought a decent little guitar amp and a pretty damned nice clarinet for $80 - score! I didn't end up getting on the road until around 3:15; which proved to be an unfortunate circumstance.

The drive until Salt Lake City was all cross-country driving could ever hope to be; I averaged about 85 mph, and made it to Ogden in about 3 1/2 hours - fantastic, if I do say so myself. The next 250 proved to be a completely different story, with rain and traffic all along the way past Salt Lake City; then I turned onto the 6, which took me over the pass toward Moab. That portion of the drive proved to be harrowing and difficult, as the road climbed, the rain turned to snow, and I was cursing myself for getting such a late start. I was driving at about 30 - 40 mph for like two hours, grinding through slush and snow, wondering when the road would level out and then finally descend; but descend it did, eventually, and I found myself once again pounding the highway at 60 mph, through the relatively open southeastern Utah desert. The moon came out as I finished the drive on the 6, just before it hit the 70 and I turned east for the final 50 miles to Moab, lighting up the escarpment along the highway in an unearthly, eerie glow. It's one of the reasons I live in the desert, y'all.

Moab was windy, cloudy, and cold for the time of year. I had envisioned 75 degree days and sunshine, and planned to hike while I was there; as it was, I stayed the fuck indoors, and slept late. I did manage to weasel my way onto the local radio station - well, I made a phone call, and they were cool enough to have me on to play a few tunes, and blather a bit about being on the road.

I had two gigs that night: dinnertime at the Slickrock Cafe, and an evening gig at Frankie D's. These two places couldn't have been more different, and there was some undescribed bad blood between their two proprietors - each had asked me not to tell the other that I would be playing at their place, too funny. As it happened, they were both really cool; who knows what went down?

The Slickrock was right downtown, on Main Street; had the weather not been apocalyptically bad for that time of year, there would have been scads of people out on the street. As it was I managed to lure about one in four in off the street, via a powered speaker set up outside which must have echoed for a couple blocks. At the end of the night the owner said I had "earned my keep", which was a cool thing. Next time: sunshine. The regular guy who plays on weekends turned up to scope me out, an irresistable urge among musicians to compare and contrast and soothe their inward dialogue that yes, I'm better than he is. Amusingly, he came up to ask about my guitar, and when I asked his name, and put it together that he was the regular guy, he seemed a trifle embarassed to have been positively identified. (note: why doesn't spell-check on this dumb website recognize "embarassed" as a correctly spelled word? Someone should be.)

Frankie's was a local bar in all the senses of the word you could imagine; vaguely divey, with several guys playing pool, and a handful there for dinner. There was one table who had heard me on the radio that day, and come to check it out; they were the only ones who consistently clapped and paid attention, everyone else being fairly wrapped up in their drinks and the TV. There were a few people at the bar who were listening, one of whom was a retired Marine with an oxygen tank on; we talked for a while, and he tried to convince me that I should go out on the USO tour. I filed it away under "future reference/desperation moves".

It was slow, and it was cold out; and, being as how this was the third gig i had played that day (if you count the radio show) I was pretty slagged. Made it through until around 11:40, then packed it in. Made a small, but respectable amount off the door and the percentage of the bar; I could imagine that, on a busier night, it might well go better. Overall Moab had treated me pretty well, considering the abominable weather for that time of year; off to Grand Junction the next day, to see what could be seen there.