I See Hawks in L.A.

July 30, 2004

WAKING UP IN THE BRONX, DRIVING TO VT PRISON

The alarm, if there was one, came much too early. But the Hawks were on time and on schedule. PM and SN checked out of the Al Qaeda Holiday Inn, drove over the George Washington Bridge, picked up PL and RW and got us on the road headed for Marble Valley Regional Correctional Facility. Traffic was light and the Hawks made it to the prison nearly on time. And we would’ve made it to if it wasn’t for a blatant error in our Mapquest directions. DO NOT TRUST MAPQUEST. Their directions are often not the shortest route, rely too much on freeways, and, in rare cases, lead you in exactly the wrong direction.

The MVRCF experience offered much more than we expected. We had prepared ourselves for a romantic, classic country prison gig. Well, maybe romantic is the wrong word. But prison is just scary. Damn scary. We were lead through several heavy doors that locked behind us. The first thing to hit you is the smell. Prisons, like high school locker rooms, smell like sweaty men. They smell bad. The jacked up guards at the central console confiscated our cell phones, cigarettes, nail clippers, and made jokes about how they were not going to let us out now that they had us locked in. These jokes were not funny. These guys know how to intimidate people.

We were soon to learn why intimidation skills are important. The marched us out onto the exercise yard right there with the general population. Some shirtless men playing volley ball. Some shirtless men playing basketball. One very heavily tattooed shirtless man and his small posse strutting around the perimeter bad-vibing everyone, looking for a fight.

But it’s not the prisoners that are scary. In fact, the prisoners who came to our show were quite nice. The listened closely, clapped and cheered. They particularly liked our tunes with overt drug references. “40 pounds in the back of my van,” got the loudest hoots. It is the prison culture which is scary. It strips away the dignity from both the prisoners and the guards. These kinds of hardened power imbalances diminish us all, I’m afraid. The folks in Attica had some solid demands. I don’t think things have improved too much since the early 70s.

The show ended, we shook hands with many of the inmates, packed up, took some photos and headed for the warm home of Carter and Chani. Quite an experience.

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July 29, 2004

HAWKS PRESIDENTIAL POLL

If the election were held today, and the national demographic reflected the four members of I See Hawks In L.A. exactly:

John Kerry would get 50% of the vote.
Ralph Nader would get 25%.
Michael Badenarik would get 25%

Who? You might be asking. Who the hell is--John Kerry?
Someday we might find out.

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NEW YORK – A SECOND ASSAULT

July 29, The Bronx.

Okay, so last night the Big Apple kind of kicked our ass, in the same way L.A. tromps on sensitive out of town bands—through jaded, cell phone augmented chatter in the back of the club,

Was that whooping for a particularly hot solo? Nope, someone took a funny cell phone shot of his pals doing shots of Captain Morgan.

That’s cool. The big cities of this nation will eventually crouch in fear and awe before the mighty roots music caravans going forth from Los Angeles, like a fifth Crusade to the corrupt Infidel, firing RPGs at Clear Channel billboards polluting the I-10s and I-70s and frontage roads of the other 49 states, those unfortunate vast citizenries as yet not touched by the light of Americana California.

Anyway. The other Hawks assure this writer (PL) that it was a fine show at the Rodeo Bar, and we prevailed. I yield to their clear-headed judgement.

Today, a long subway ride, Paul L. gets off the D line at 59th St/Columbus Circle, Rob stays on to 4th Street in the Village. Paul L. was treated to a salmon based feast from the Polkaman, Tony Patellis, from the late great Rotondi, who is now an irregular on the Sopranos and touring the world with a revival of West Side Story. Tony and Paul reminisced on their seven years as polka purveyors, with the usual bitter complaining about the failure of polka to break through to a mainstream audience.

At that very moment, Rob, Paul M, Shawn, Shawn’s brother in law Mark, and friend Jim were touring Washington Square on foot. They encountered a young Caucasian, shirtless, spot diagnosed as insane by Paul M. The Caucasian told them that white men were terrified of their own orgasm. He then blessed the group with a Superball, and announced that “the hexagram is now complete.”

Band twilight rendezvous outside the Bitter End on Bleecker St., a Village institution christened by Woody Allen, Dylan, and every famous folk rocker who ever practiced his Maybelle Carter licks. The Hawks and Christina and Tom did acoustic sets, sounded great, tip o the hat to the soundman and system. Our fine Coles friends returned, this time relatively sober, some Didyks, and Rob’s large NYC posse, all contributing to a full house that felt like home. The Hawks were followed by Yowza ( www.yowza.com ), a pair of NYC rockers doing their debut on acoustic guitar. Both pointed out that you’re really naked when you play acoustic. Might be related to getting exposure in the clubs.

Many sad farewells and embraces outside the Bitter End, local posses, Ortega band, Hawks going separate ways, Paul M. and Shawn driving back to the Ft. Lee 9/11 Holiday Inn for the thankless task of compiling Paul L. and Rob’s festering piles of miscellanea and shoving them into the Yukon. The guitarist and singer grabbed a last minute Ray’s pizza and got on the D train for that endless ride uptown.

The near-saintly Charles and Gina were still up, catching a History Channel special on torture and execution, which Rob and Paul L. eagerly fell into. We switched to the recap of the Democratic Convention, made it through the Spielberg promo film on Kerry the mad dog Cong killer/loving father, fell asleep as the Kerry daughters gushed on and on. Good thing we missed the Kerry speech, as we didn’t need electrifying at that late hour.

Not to get all political, but isn’t it a little scary that the Convention hoopla gave Kerry a one point negative bounce in the polls? The Democrats are busy denying Nader admission to the convention and hiring a hit team to lure away his voters (good luck with the old hippies), making sure they don’t have to actually propose something new. Not very presidential.

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July 28, 2004

A RAINY NIGHT IN JERSEY

Paul L. foolishly volunteered to take the wheel
somewhere north of the Mason Dixon line, and the sky
proceeded to darken up, and the rain fell hard on the
Jersey Turnpike, the hardest rain people can
remember, we found out later. Got off I-95 in
Teaneck, and drove through flooded streets to WFDU,
where the gracious and sophisticated Lynn Crystal fed
us some great questions and we played some songs.
Lynn steered us to Veggie Heaven, an all vegan pan-
Asian restaurant in a funky Teaneck neighborhood. It
was delicious, an antidote to a few too many trips to
Waffle House. A BIG 4 THUMBS UP from the HAWKS NON
CORPORATE FOOD RATING SYSTEM. The Hawks wolfed down
the tofu as if their lives depended on it.

Then we walked across the street to Borschardt's
(sp?) ice cream parlor, stepped across the threshold
into an air conditioned 50's palace, not retro
because it hasn't changed since the 50's. Great home
made ice cream at an old formica counter, young soda
jerks in bow ties and white shirts, Jersey girls and
their dates a few seats away.

We drove through the steamy night to Fort Lee,
checked into the very Holiday Inn where four of the
9/11 hijackers stayed the night before their
cataclysmic deed. Not only that, but they had high
speed internet. The pool was closed. The Hawks
jammed on some Burrito Bros. tunes, which we've never
done before, Paul M. knows all the words and chords.

Next day we dined at Red's Diner in outer Ft. Lee,
another NON CORPORATE RECOMMENDATION, good solid
breakfast in a Sopranos on location setting.

Then Rob allowed his New York taxi driver spirit to
take over his body, and we raced over the George
Washington Bridge and along the East River into
Manhattan. It's Paul Marshall's first visit to New
York. We passed stately Yankee Stadium across the
river in the Bronx, pointed it out to Paul, who
said, "Great! I hate the Yankees." We pulled up at
the Rodeo Bar, at 28th and 3rd Avenue, found a
miraculous parking spot which we were to assuage with
quarters until 10 p.m. The Rodeo Bar has powerful
air conditioning and a very activist interior
designer, retro road signs and cowboy gear plucked
from Texas junk stores and a stuffed Bison that
appears to come crashing through a brick wall. We
hung out and rehearsed with Christina Ortega and Tom
Corbett, raised the spirit of east side L.A. and
Cole's P.E. Buffet, 118 E. Sixth Street, Los Angeles,
California.

The Rodeo Bar serves what might be called a tribute
to Mexican food. Christina ordered a mole dish, and
the waiter asked her if she'd ever tried mole before,
it might be a little spicy. We leave to your
imagination Christina's reaction. Good margaritas,
though.

The combined Christina Ortega/Hawks orchestra sounded
damn good. . Several
good friends from Coles P.E. Buffet, 6th & Main, Los Angeles,
showed up, called out requests, and one even passed out on a prominent table near the stage.
The Hawks banged out a well received set,
did a long and self-incriminating video interview
with Ritt Henn. Seven people piled into the Yukon,
Rob once again summoned the NY taxi spirit and raced
through Washington Heights and the Bronx, delivering
passengers to various apartment building destinations
on moody late night wet streets. Paul M. and Shawn
drove off into the Bronx night toward Ft. Lee, and
Rob and Paul L. stayed in the always kind Charles and
Gina's elegant 4th floor pad.

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July 26, 2004

NORTH TO NEW JERSEY

We are racing the clock once again, for a radio performance on WFDU, the big folk station on the east coast. We’ve decided to stay at the Fort Lee Holiday Inn. Morbidly, it's where four of the 9/11 hijackers stayed on September 10th. It has the best rates and it’s closest to public transportation.

We are curiously observing the Democratic National Convention from our place here in the Yukon and from television screens in the motels where we stop. Last night they had the big guns: Carter and The Clintons. They got things off to an exciting, optimistic start. That energy will likely drain out of the room right around the time John Kerry climbs onto the stage (though the DNC wisely put Lieberman on just before the nominee, the only Democrat who could possibly be considered more boring than Kerry). I know I can’t possible tolerate another four years of Bush and yet John Kerry does absolutely nothing for me. I also fear that the decision to alienate and isolate Ralph Nadar from the convention and the party will again drive votes to Nadar, siphoning off precisely the 5% Kerry needs to win. The Democrats are making the same mistakes they did in 2000 – locking out the far left and nominating a boring, cautious candidate who will nobly lose.

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RALEIGH, NC TO RICHMOND, VA.

Waffle House visit number 3, 4, or 5, opinions vary, then we hit the road north on I-95, which Rob pointed out is both the heavy drug trafficking route (we’re pleased to make our modest contribution) and where Michael Jordan’s father was killed in a rest stop. Better a rest stop than a rest home, Mr. Jordan. We hit some heavy rain, Ford Exploder over the side in a ditch, then another vehicle. They’ve got ditches here. Paul talked to Judge Hinson in Texas today, who said just mail in the check, no personal checks, please. Wachovia Bank won’t do money orders or cashiers checks, even if you give them cash, unless you have an account (only then do they Wachovia you).

Pulled into Richmond, great old city, Confederate capital with old brick Lucky Strike factory and a very tall column with a Confederate General gazing out on a hill behind the club, Poe’s Pub. We had the privilege of setting up the P.A. and sound checking ourselves, so now we have no one to blame but Paul Marshall for how it sounds, which is good. A drive through decaying/gentrifying downtown Richmond to the Radisson, at bargain Southern prices.

Then something sad happened. Shawn drove the Yukon with its unusually high Sears SV-20 roof rack luggage compartment down into the Radisson parking lot, shearing off the SV-20. We took our bags out of the SV-20, tossed the crippled unit behind the Radisson dumpster, drove to the gig at Poe’s Pub. About 20 enthusiastic fans, including some old hippies who knew all our songs. One 60’s vet is a geologist, says that there’s a maverick theory that subterranean bacteria is actually the source of oil, not fossil animal and sea life as the conventional theory says. This triggered a long oil supply crisis discussion among Paul L. and the geologist that the rest of the band widely avoided.
The show was pretty good, very enthusiastic audience, talking afterwards it was gratifying to see how dialed in people are to the music and lyrics.

Shawn and Paul L. walked up the hill to a Civil War Soldiers And Sailors monument, the mysterious column overlooking Poe’s Pub. 20,000 Confederate troops were housed in tents in what was the world’s largest temporary hospital. We didn’t see ghosts, but eerie shadows of the Confederate soldier floated in the fog high above, lit by the monument lights. Beautiful old brick houses and cobblestone streets. Packed up, back to the Radisson.

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CHARLOTTE, NC TO RALEIGH, NC

After our first good night's sleep of the journey we got up and ate at the Cracker Barrel. We're Crackers afterall. Or maybe that was the day before. It's all blending together now.

We played with a fine band in Charlotte called the 2$ Pistols at The Evening Muse, a cool brick walled bar with a bartender who wore a bikini top under her overalls. Classic southern look. It was a full house and the crowd was enthusiastic. We sold a pile of CDs and pulled well at the door. Best dough yet and it was much needed to defray the costs of getting all the way across the damn country.

Next day was Raleigh. We played at the Pour House. Friendliest crowd yet. Marianne at the Pour House put together a nice afternoon show. Great sound man and system. Two great sets of music. The band is gelling into a loose, tight country rock machine. And that’s not an oxymoron.

It was also our good friend Mona’s welcome to town party. Mona recently moved from LA back to Raleigh. She is a Cole’s regular and a fine, long time friend of the Hawks. It was fantastic to have her at our first shows on the the road. One special treat: her seven year old nephew, Tristan Mackie, got up and sang “Papa Stopped The Wagon.” No kidding. Every word. It was amazing. Look for video of this event up on the website soon. Afterwards, Mona cooked us a fine meal of vegetarian lasagna and garlic bread at her new home. She also served cantaloupe, grapes, cucumbers, green peppers, carrots. We needed the fruits and vegetables badly after so many meals at the Waffle House.

North Carloina was good to us. Hope the rest of the tour goes half as well.

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July 23, 2004

CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA:

a look back from the high speed internet comfort of the Best Value Inn, just off I 85. Rob’s just got back from a shopping spree: air freshener, almonds, Wild Turkey101 (try it folks, you won’t regret it). The Yukon’s got a mysterious odor, and we’re going to kill it.

July 23, what day of the week was it, we do not know still.

It did indeed get a little tweaked as we raced the clock to our Carolina goal. We pushed through Arkansas and Tennessee, our Yukon feeling a bit like a cave with a wide screen TV in front, showing us I-40 and its nearby off road temptations. As we passed through Nashville, Rob freaked out: the cruel modern buildings, the sleek Opryland compound, this place is big and perhaps unbreachable. A deep quiet spread through the Yukon, passing as we left the last suburban spread of Music City. It sunk in what a major effort and commitment our drive is, and we felt detached from our music and our mission—how would our regionally referencing music go down in these strange lands. A late night moment of existential angst.

Somehow got to a Motel 6 east of Knoxville at 5 a.m., got up 3.6 hours later, most like Friday, July 23, stumbled into the vehicle and drove to Charlotte through mellow Carolina woods and dales, pulled up at Gastonia College. The radio interview, with the kind and enlightened Randy Walker of WSGE, went just great, we played three songs on acoustic, dobro, bass, felt like we had a place in the southeast.

Back in the Yukon, searching for lodging, everything is shimmering and we’re sweating, humidity and lack of sleep. Rob and Paul M. dug deep for some serious intuition, found a nesting spot just off highway 85, near a Waffle House and a Cracker Barrel: Best Value Inn, getting a strong Hawks recommendation. That night, drove to Winston Salem, played the funky funky Garage, an army of window fans humming like a plague of locusts, dim soothing light, kind soundman and audience, blue grass duo 2/5 of Kicking Grass opened, Paul L. sat in on dobro, they can sing, the mandolin player’s family has made moonshine for generations, but no one had samples.

We had a very good show, felt like the Cowboy Junkies, electric guitar but no Shawn on drums yet (playing this night with James Intveltd in Nashville, flying in tomorrow), felt good vibes from the audience, floated out into the night and drove back to Charlotte, south on our new friend highway 85.

Next day, Saturday, July 24, highway by the airport, Charlotte, NC. Rob and the two Pauls recovered in the frigid darkness of Best Value Inn, waking late and emerging disoriented from their cave. Got some stony directions to food and coffee district from DJ Randy, involving a meander through downtown Charlotte, left on Central, cross the tracks and drive “till it feels right.” Damn if it didn’t work, and we got high quality caffienated beverages worthy of Peet’s in Pasadena (well, not quite) at , corner of Pecan and Central. Which segues into a Hawks NON CORPORATE ROAD RECOMMENDATION:

Get to Pecan and Central in Charlotte and you’ll find very cool antique stores with shockingly low prices, a cool cappucino place, John’s Country Kitchen, and the site of our amazing late afternoon meal, Mama’s Caribbean Grill (704) 375 8414. Paul Marshall had a strong instinct and led us in, and plates loaded with jerk chicken, greens, yams, peas and rice, and macaroni and cheese arrived in leisurely fashion. Food doesn’t get better than this.

Stepped out of the AC into the always steaming Charlotte air, drove to the airport and after many wrong turns got in and picked up Shawn, straight off the plane from Nashville, where he played the night before with James Intveld at an Opryland outdoor event. It was cool to see our talented and kind drummer, as we knew we would now rock. Back to the Best Value to crash some more.

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July 22, 2004

HAWKS NON CORPORATE ROADSIDE DINING REVIEWS AND WANDERING RANT:

Lilo’s Westside Café, Seligman, Arizona (west’gt of Flagstaff)

Your regular diner, old time celebrity posters, old kitchen utensils nailed to the walls, photo of old Seligman main street with lights poked through the paper. Good food, the waitress makes fun of their new vegie burgers. Don’t get the crinkle fries, they cost more and they’re frozen from the bag, whereas the unnamed regular fries are robust, thick sliced into the grease skin and all.

Cherokee Diner, Oklahoma, Wednesday night 7/21; late night, we’re cashed, stumble into the large truckstop eatery, lured by the promise of Navajo Tacos and the fact that it’s open. Disappointing Navajo tacos, prepared by white folks who stole the Cherokee name once again for their diner. Then the world’s noisiest vacuum cleaner kicked in, circling our table. Paul L.’s childhood vacuum cleaner trauma kicked in, but he retreated into his inner mind and eventually the vacuuming stopped. We sought shelter for the night, down I-40, us and the big rigs, reading the signs and portents.

Thursday morning, July 22, Well, we kept driving and driving, and by Thurday morning we knew we were in a bit of trouble, our ambitious plan to cross the country in three days a bit optimistic. We have to be in Charlotte noon tomorrow, and we’re only still in Oklahoma.

Checked out of the very funky Motel 6 in Shawnee, jumped on I-40, conveniently close to Motel 6. Drove and drove, trying to figure out how to deal with the looming sleep deprivation.

Crossing into Arkansas, and leaving the Cherokee Nation. A mysterious tower climbs from dense hilly woods. It’s probably a cell phone tower. The building of the cell phone tower network is an unheralded giant construction project, the goal being to pick up cell phone signals from the remotest valley in this great land. The Cingular map shows vast stretches of America, mostly the western states, where your cell phone will not work. Red blotches of in service zones cling to the interstates in the still wild west, and the east coast is a solid sea of microwave communication red

WAFFLE HOUSE SIGHTING, JUST OVER THE ARKANSAS BORDER!!! How fast it all turns around. If only the Donner Party had stuck to the Interstate. GAS IS $1.36 A GALLON?!! Oops, no, old sign on a shut down station. That’s all right, cause we’re in the Waffle House Parking lot. Paul M. is so excited that he’s circling twice.

Everyone in the Waffle House is looking at us as we circle for the third time. It’s not easy parking this beast. Remind us to tell the tale of the urine bottle.

Waffle House was good. Very good. If they ever broke out in California, they’d spread like kudzu. Starbucks and Waffle House. Green and black and red and yellow, the new national colors.

2 hours later: Arkansas is looking good. More variety in the vertical dimension, and green, green, green, trees, fields, medians. Waffle house was very good, very secure in the top spot of the Hawks Corporate Eating chart. Good coffee n breakfast.

Rob Waller’s plan for privatizing the War on Terror: oh, never mind.

The radio is cutting in and out:

“John Edwards and I
Have the vision
to literally rebuild”

“Kerry and his entourage spent the evening in a suburban hotel outside of
Detroit”

“I believe we have to do more to give young people hope and a . . .
Let me tell you now, ladies and gentlemen, we need now, more than ever
To stand up and listen to every voice that speaks truth to power”

Time to switch to the CD library.

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HAWKS CORPORATE ROAD FOOD EVALUATION

(must be visible from the Interstate, ranking doesn’t reflect any endorsement other than relative quality)

Paul Marshall:

1. Subway
2. Taco Bell
3. Waffle House

Rob Waller:

1. Waffle House’
2. Subway
3. McDonalds
4. Taco Bell
5. Arby’s
6. KFC
7. Burger King

Paul Lacques:

1. Waffle House
2. Taco Bell

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CROSS BIG RIVER, OKLAHOMA, EARLY AFTERNOON, EASTBOUND

We have 22 hours to get to a radio station in Charlotte, NC. We’re a little behind schedule, but we’re not sleep deprived. Tomorrow could be a different story.

We’ve crossed over into Humid America, where your clothes never quite dry out and you wonder how people lived without AC.

What river was that? We’re in green, green Oklahoma, contented cows in green fields, silos, woods, not forests. Crossed a big river on a big bridge, could have been the South Canadian River, driver Paul M says we’re low on gas, should make it to Ft. Smith, Arkansas, 38 miles away. It was the Arkansas River. Big river.

We have seen many combo names on our trip, a la Texarkanada: Arkhola Cement Co on a big truck, towns of Texoma, and, uh, the others.

We’re really hungry, but holding out for a Waffle House. Smothered potatoes, raisin toast, simple, honest architecture, a tall sign reaching out like a beacon in a green Oklahoma sea. I have a serious aversion to grits, always have, but I’m going to try Rob’s heavy dousing with Tabasco.

Eastern Oklahoma I-40 is devoid of food stops. We are so hungry that we’re going to write about food:

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WHEN DOES IT BECOME NIGHT?

Our first run-in with the law is behind us. We were pulled over doing 81 in a 70 zone. Pretty lame ticket. PL was at the wheel. The cop was pretty cool though. He wasn’t condescending or power tripping. He called PL “sir”, PL called him “sir,” the ticket was written, PL was told to telephone Judge Hinton in the morning. Here’s his phone and address if you’d like to contact him for any reason:
Hon. W. B. Hinson
Pct. 1 (806) 248- 7444
P.O. Box 43
Groom, TX
79039

Then off we went. It was very civilized. Thank God, no shakedown.

The sun is about to set here in Texas just east of Amarillo. The night speed limit is 65. PL winds it down to 74. We all agree that less than 10 mph above the limit is cool. Hope we’re right.

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PISS BOTTLE EPISODE

Yesterday afternoon, running a little behind, heading east on I-40 between Gallup and Albuquerque: an overturned big rig miles up the road shut down the interstate, and traffic was stopped. Curses! Now we’re really behind schedule. We’d been sitting parked among big rigs and fellow civilian travelers for an hour, scrub Indian reservation land and thunderheads to the horizon, when Katie’s longtime theory about median strip piss bottles came up as a conversation topic. Briefly, Katie has been observing plastic bottles resting in grassy Interstate median strips for years, and is convinced they are bottles that (male) drivers piss in and toss out the window to avoid stopping to use roadside facilities.

Rob is convinced of the solidity of his wife’s theory, Paul M agreed, and Paul L. of course was duty bound to object. Almost immediately Rob spotted what he considered a prime piss bottle suspect glinting in the New Mexico sun. After some negotiation, Rob agreed to confirm the identity of any fluid in the container, and Paul L. leapt out of the idling Yukon, snatched the brown liquid filled bottle from the median detritus, raced back to the Yukon, passed the bottle to driver Paul M., who handed it to Rob.

As Paul L. scrambled into the back seat, annoyed truckers looking down from their rigs, Rob took a strong whiff from the median strip bottle, began screaming, “Oh, god! Oh, god! Take it away!” Paul jumped out, tossed the now verified piss bottle back into the median strip, jumped back in the car. Rob continued his anguished wail. Apparently the water evaporates in the hot sun, leaving a very acidic liquid behind.

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GLOBAL RADIO BLUES

This XM radio has a pretty good jazz station and a decent classic country station but most of the others totally suck. It’s just weird, the whole satellite radio thing. It’s cold, and global, and detached. I miss the regional flavor of good AM and FM radio. That feeling of good fortune you get when you find a great station on the dial in a town you don’t know well. That doesn’t happen on the space radio.

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STRIKE!

“Spare”
“STRIKE!”
“Nasty split.”
“Oh, shit.”
PM is bowling on his cell phone now. PL wonders if they have x-rated cell phones. PM thinks probably in Japan. I think he’s right.

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43 MILES FROM FLAGSTAFF

Paul Marshall is trying out the rings on his new phone. He’s really running them through the paces, letting the whole melody play out, waiting until the groove kicks in. They’re almost all disco tunes these days. I hope he picks a good disco ring. That’d be great. Not the circusy shit. Those freak me out. The next ring is called “Creole.” It sounds like the digital representation of a swamp. Then “Exhilaration” ,“Holiday” , and “In the Groove.” He starts calling the names out fast and I can’t keep up. Time to take another sip off the whiskey jar.

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SWITCHING DRIVERS IN KINGMAN

Tank One
408 miles
25.2 Gallons of Regular Unleaded Gas

We just made our first stop. Can’t believe no one had to pee until Kingman. I just turned the wheel over to Paul Lacques. In general, I trust Paul very much. He’s responsible, solid. But of the three other Hawk drivers, he makes me the most nervous. It’s a mild nervous but a nervous nonetheless. (let’s compare driving records, accidents, etc. – PL) I’m not sure if it’s his eyesight or his tendency to turn around and talk with me while I’m in back seat.
RW

See, I’m in the back seat now. I love it back here. Somehow the seats are more comfortable. Still, it’s difficult for me to relax all the way as PL keeps turning around, telling me about the end of oil. I know that if I smoke, it will help. But I’m staying away from that, trying to keep my voice strong and clear for the many shows ahead.

It’s strange but no one seems hungry. We thought about stopping at the Cracker Barrel but we decided not to support those assholes and their racial slurs. Right now the two Pauls are discussing the merits of Subway. They believe it’s a cut above the rest of the highway food. I think I agree and yet, somehow, I think we’re all being suckered.

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A SIMPLE DEVICE

A wooden handle at one end.
A hard blue ball at the other.
A flexible metal strip in the middle.

While driving, Rob begins beating his shoulder with it. “What’cha doin’ there Rob? I ask. “It’s a donger” he says by way of reply. It relaxes tight muscles.
PM

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GOODBYE CALIFORNIA

HAWKS ROAD DIARY 7:03 PDT or is it 8:03 in Arizona? July 20, year of ‘04

Needles to Kingman
107F, headed NE

A discussion of what to title the Hawks diary:
Arizona border crossing. It seemed different, Arizona. A last palm tree,
And off to the right, deep blue Colorado, a water skier marring or enhancing the blue surface depending on your point of view, and in the distance, red tinged pinnacle mountains, jumbled and spiky. “Further east.

Rest Area 12
Kingman 41
Flagstaff a bit further

Rob offers string cheese to the two Pauls, asks, is this string cheese?
Rob prods Paul M. for road game ideas. So far our only game is bluegrass marathon—who can listen to bluegrass the longest. Paul L. and Rob both boat that they can listen the longest. Paul L. mentions the Quiet Game, played by him and his 8 siblings on family trips? Who can not talk the longest? Rob suggests combining the Quiet Game and the Bluegrass Marathon. One would certainly raise the stakes of the other.

Rob says he wants to put the GMC Yukon into Low4 and see what she does out on a rocky desert road. The Yukon is a sturdy beast, and we have loaded the entire contents of our little four piece unit (Rob, Paul, Paul, Shawn, nice symmetry) into the Yukon, with an aerodynamically sophisticated luggage rack atop. It’s feeling good.
PL

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July 19, 2004

CLEARED FOR TAKE OFF

There's no turning back now. Bags are packed, guitars are racked, truck is filled with gas. Tomorrow we depart for America at noon. Wish us luck, wish us speed, wish us no run-ins with the law.

A hearty farewell and a see you on the road to: Katie, Victoria, Sherri,Colleen, Mom and Mitch, Vic Koler, Paul Dugre, Pete Rosenzweig, Chris Landen, Dave Trumfio, Mark Follman, Gabriel Shephard, Andy Takajian, Carter Stowell and Chani, Lecie Williams, Cody Bryant, Marcus Watkins and Double Naught Spy Car, Richie Lawrence, M. B. Gordy, Rick Shea, Patti Booker, Bubba Hernandez, Bliss, Robert Dean, Ronnie Mack, The Bellyachers, The Believers,
Nearly Beloved, the Lacques clan, Scott, Stefanie, P.J., Dave Alvin, Mike Stinson and Band, Randy Weeks, Gabe and Naano, JLB and Walkie Talkie, Kara and Daniel and all at Amoeba, Kip Boardman and friends, Ben Vaughn, Idaho Falls, Sid Hillman, Gwendolyn, Corrie Gregory and MOM, King Kukulele, Mitch Marine, Sin City, Mars Arizona, Riz, Bill Tapia, Rebekah Florence, Lisa Finnie, Art Fein, Groovy Rednecks, SuperBroke, Dave Royer, The L.A. Weekly, Jonny Whiteside, Gwynne Garfinkle, Dan Janisch, Ed Barguiarena, Michael Simmons, Greg Burk, Ukefink, Sea Level Records, Slobberbone, Lisa Marr, Kaz Murphy, Emory Gordy Jr., Carl Radle, Woody Guthrie, Julian Henslee, Larry Brown, Henry Schipper, Tom Nixon, Barry Smolin, Hollow Log, Alyssa Archambault, Alan Archambault, Ray Doyle, Azalia Snail, Fred and Demolisten, Toe Tappin'Music, Kingsize Maybe, Ben Quinones, Jeff
Miller, The Derailers, Music Without Borders, Zachariah and ESPN, Stew and Heidi, David Gans, Johnny Fargo and Taix, Ali, Alan, and the Cole's regulars, Ladytown, F.A.R., Dave Rubin, Dave Zirbel, Otono and Los Pochos,Amy Farris, Kathy Orlando, Joe Paquin, Udana Power, Joel Rane, Matt and High or Hellwater, Lisa Richardson, Mike Rings, Stuart Rapaport, Diana Rogers, Jeanna Steele, Handsome Family, Keith Miles, John Palmer, Jeff Winter, Ronnie Mack, Koko and High Tech Auto, Sara Baumann and the Ivy Room, Sweetwater, House Of Blues, Carlos Guitarlos, Scot Ray, Molly Malone's, Tracy and the Hindenburg Ground Crew, Charlotte and the Tip Jar, Dave Stewart and Zoey's, Liz Garo, Knitting Factory NYC/LA, Galapagos, Spaceland, Charlie and Beantown, Bob Stane and Coffee Gallery, SXSW, NXNW, NRDC, UCLA, ACLU, Christina Ortega and her band, David and Patrick at Ethic, Ghost Town, Brian Sebastian, Seemore and His Country Paw, Speedboat, Captain Pete, Seppi
the Bird, Ippes, the Crows, Karen and Gregg and Humboldt Green, Rick Cunha, Mother Truckers, Dan Tures, Julie D'Angelo, Claire Chandler, Lucinda Williams, Weba Garretson, Steve Gregoropolis and W.A.C.O., Noam Chomsky, Diane Griggs, Scott and the Fold, Karla and King King, Border Radio, Lowen & Navarro, Chuck Taggart, Mona and Randall, Greg Goad, Peter Kessler, Juliana Parr, Bryson Jones and Sweethearts of the Rodeo, Charles and Angie, The Wedding's Off, Tony Gilkyson, Some Party, Morley Bartnoff, Kristen Mooney, Richard Cromelin, Paul Kulak, Todd Meehan and Tower, Maxine Waters, Sara Osmer, Eric Gotthelf, The People Of Wonder Valley, Jeff Levy, Jack Blum and the USC Writing Program, Rosie Flores, Ron Goudie, Richard Gehr, the number 43, Claire Holley, Listing Ship, Spain, France, Interstate 5, Highway 162,
Folk Music Center, Village Voice, Michael Berrick and Country Standard Time, LeFrost, Richard Fereirra, Gary Calamar and Open Road, Leigh Ann Hahn,Actuality Productions, certain episodes of Modern Marvels, Campus Circle, early models of the Ford Taurus station wagon, Answer Coalition, Country Bear, Dave Raven, Darrell Larson, Boulevard Music, Greg Daponte, the editorial board of the Logger Post-Intelligencer, Joe Teresa (aka Mr. T), The Gutter Café, Tom Tomorrow, KPFK, KPFA, Amy Goodman, Val Kilmer for his dead on performance as Jim Morrison in Oliver Stone's The Doors, Cindy Chyr, the Stanley
Brothers, The Louvin Brothers, Jean Bertrand Aristide, Lisa Haley, and David Jackson. See you out there.

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