Alright, so the bus is in the hospital back in Buffalo, and we’re in Illinois. We’ve hatched a crazy plan to make it all work. We’re not gonna miss any shows, goddammit, and that’s what it is - come what may.

The old clutchplates on the transmission shred to bits and infected the tranny fluid. Okay, not such a cataclysmic thing on the level of truly-horrible tranny problems. I mean, we don’t have to ship an entire, obsolete transmission system from across the country that may or may not work, and then pay some rustbelt jobber to install it, but, still, it takes time and, of course, money.

We missed a show in Pittsburgh, which feels awful, but if we were gonna miss a show in that area of the country, that would be the one. The promoter is a widely-renowned maniac who was actually named by Blender magazine or some such thing as a “Top Ten Reason Not to Tour America.” No shit. We’ve had dealings with this motherfucker; last time we played there, he locked the door from the inside, post-show, and freaked the fuck out about a two-dollar mic clip that snapped in twain. So, no real sweat on missing that one, though it would’ve been capital-A ace compared to camping in a dusty gray parkinglot in Buffalo for two days -- which is what we did.

Bright side: got some real QT with my little-seen Northern Family, as they shuttled me around that sad-assed city running errands. My Uncle Tom, former professional southpaw pitcher, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Deputy and South Buffalo Fireman, told me some crazy stories about my kin there: about my Great Grandfather, who was the first captain of the South Buffalo Number 5 Fire Engine, and my Grandad, who worked in a prison hospital. He tells me I’m in my right place today, as I come from a long line of life-riskers and maniacs.

We rented vans to make the Cleveland show, which is always a good place to play. Ayler’s hometown, but we couldn’t do any of our Ayler jams – we did a whole set last time we were here – because sax-playing Al had to be shipped home a week ago, sick. From stage, I quoted that X line about “playing in Cleveland on a Wednesday night,” cuz we were. And then we got to hang with our old comrades Steve Decay and William Schwartz, who gave us some more of his brilliant collages. Anyone who’s visited our merch-suitcase in the past year surely has seen his “Dirty Donut,” and the three we got this time are some doozies: owls eating humans, bare shining breasts, monkeys with mops, shaggy dogs with slippers. Just our style.

Left the show to load our gear up six flights of stairs into a warehouse space where some blaring-ass pop-punk band was bashing away. I craved a cyanide pill. We “slept” there on the gnarly floor alongside their cockeyed songs and clunky Devo covers.

Early that morning, with a heaping three hours of sleep massaging our skulls, a contingency of us drove both rentals back to Buffalo, and half the band loaded our marooned gear into a long-term rental cargo van from Cleveland. Those of us back in Buffalo, rented a one-way mini to Denver. Plan is now, if you can believe it, to fly Bernard, our tour-manager and former long-haul trucker, to Buffalo from Omaha in a few days, and he’ll drive the bus to meet us in Denver. Al and Sarah J will be flying into Denver to meet back up with us, and once we’re all together in the bus again, Curtis is gonna drive the other rental back to Cleveland, and then fly to meet us in Seattle. UGGGH.

Yeah, a house of cards. And until it comes together in a few days, we’re traveling like we’re packed-for-mailing: crammed around our shit and each other, hunched and suffocating. But, like I said, we’re not missing any more shows. This is priority.

Show last night was sub-par. Urbana, Illinois, home of our booking agent Seth Fein, who seemed justifiably stressed by our predicament. Our money is his money.

Those of us who went back to Buffalo spent 14 hours on the road crammed in the van. The chumpy’s a piece, but the soundsystem’s alright, and we made the best of it. Peace through commiseration.

The show last night was grinding. Half the band seemed disinterested, and half on fire – generally the two poles you can expect after a day like yesterday. I was burning with frustration. If I had the money, my gear would’ve been in splinters. Instead, I just made horrible noise with my guitar where just-some-song should’ve been. It was a big old hall, so it sounded pretty good out in the galleys, I hear. And we sold tons of merch, which we’ve been good about all tour. People seemed to really like it. Makes sense: this is the repressed, frustrated Midwest.

Afterward, I settled into the bar to get half-cut on my exhausted bandmates’ abandoned drink-tickets. I’m listening to old friends: Leonard Cohen and the Minutemen and Rahsaan Roland Kirk. And reading a postapocalyptic British novel written in a thousand-years-hence postnuclear Iron Age vernacular that sells like a queasy cross tween Chaucer , Brendan Behan and Shakespeare. Books called Riddley Walker. That’s where I’m at.

Today, we go to any early cookout, and then only an hour drive - thank God. Then Chicago, which is another nothing-haul and I get to hang with old friends and have a for-real good-one.

Jim McHugh