Woo-wee! Thunderstorms! After a picture-perfect, clear, warm afternoon, the grey thunderheads rolled into Southern Michigan in about 90 minutes after 6:30. By 8 o'clock, heavy rain was whipping across the parking lot of the Red Roof, and cloud-to-cloud lightening was crackling and booming a half-dozen times a minute. Big gusts of wind bent the trees outside my room at steep angles swooshing the fallen autumn leaves together with the horizontal rain like the inside of a giant Mixmaster. This went on for about 30 minutes. Local TV ran a bug on the top right-hand of the screen showing the severe T-Storm watch counties, and those under tornado watch. Warren seemed to be a bit west of most of the action, which CNN reported to be in Northern Indiana and Ohio where tornados did touch down. Yes, Dorothy, this is NOT Oregon. It was energizing, nonetheless, as I found myself taking big breaths of ionized air and relishing to ozone-laden scent of electrified rain. Felt good.

The rest of my day was less eventful, however. I got up around noon to a call from housekeeping wanting to know if I wanted my room cleaned. I gave the go ahead to get some clean towels and sheets, plus it gave me an excuse to re-organize my stuff after laundry day, and get ready for the 9 a.m. departure tomorrow. Terry decided to arrange our contract comp rooms to take effect for Thursday and Friday instead of Friday and Saturday, preferring to simply drive back up here after the gig Saturday, since we'd be answering a dinner invitation back to Kenny's place, and since we'd be going this way anyway on our way to New York.

As I was waiting outside my room basking in the sunlight, Terry came out of his room, and we commented on the nice weather. "I'm gonna get some serious walking in today, I'm needing the exercise," I told him. Terry then announced he was going to take us all out for dinner on him, taking some of pressure off my meager savings. The front desk was out of coffee, so there was a whole reason in itself to go in search of. I simply grabbed my hat and camera, having decided to be a tourist for awhile with a sub-target of acquiring a loaf of bread, the maligned raisins, water, and hopefully some peanut butter. Little did I know that I would be missing a free lunch and band practice. Blissfully ignorant of the plans made without me, I strolled onward, deciding to take a left today instead of just walking back and forth. I headed south down Dequindre to Mile Ten, hung the left, and keep a keen eye out for coffee. It became obvious that I was heading out of mall country and into heavy metal industrial area. I remembered the Warren, Michigan, welcome sign: "Industry, Technology, Family." And what I was seeing was all that. Block upon block of machine shops, metal die-casting companies, tooling storefronts, rhythmically interspersed with tracts of "mobile court" housing and small, neat, brick ranch-styles for those families working in that industry.

After about two miles of this, I got to Ryan Drive, a significant intersection with, of course, a large mall surrounded by a gas station, Wendy's, Burger King, and McDonalds--the grand trine of the crossroads. A Farmer Jack grocery store was my ultimate target, although my coffee jones was actually doing the driving. I considered the caffeine possibilities of the big three, and just couldn't bring myself to submit to that half-assed coffee-flavored styrofoam thing. I truly am a snob when it comes to a good cup of coffee, and totally spoiled by Pete's Coffee on Broadway in Portland--the strongest coffee IN ZA VIRLD! I then spied a little greasy spoon next to a video store called Hillbilly Heaven, which I mistook for some sort of ethnic costume store at first for all the Kentucky-centric paraphernalia adorning the windows to the place. I decided to stop in there if ol' Farmer Jack didn't have an in-store cafe with "gourmet" coffee on tap.

I had exactly $7.29 on hand, and was already way-overspending it. I went for the loaf of bread first, since it's good for carbo-loading and the volume per dime was high. I considered Jif peanut butter, but at $1.99 (without the Farmer Jack card) and considering the hydrogenated mess o'fat, I passed, but not after carrying it with me, as I checked out bread prices and water, and, of course, the treasured raisins. The bread was $1.39 (without card), and the raisins were $2.19 (again, without card). But as I searched for the raisins, I heard a low din way over in the produce section. The front-end of the aisle to the section was blocked off by a Western Union office, so I had to go all the way around to the end of the row to get there. Lo and behold there were about 200 people milling around and chatting in a white-noise murmur. I then figured out--after seeing three nurses stationed at a folding table with certain pointed medical instruments (I hate those)--that it was flu shot day at ol' Farmer Jack's. Now why they chose the produce section, I'll never know. Why not the personal hygiene section, or maybe the front of the store. I mean, even if I had wanted to get some veggies, and even if I could shoulder through the crowd to get to them, would I? The thought of needles shooting senior citizens with bacteria and viruses amongst the apples and oranges has a certain nauseating effect. I pulled out the digi-cam, clicked a couple of shots, and hurried to the checkout lane. Ugh.

No gourmet coffee station from Mr. Jack, but in stark contrast to the Kroger time warp Sloth Man, "Tammy" was quick and efficient, although she yawned four times before I got to her. The inevitable query, "Got yer card?" I said, proudly, "Nope, just visitin'!" "Jest visitin', eh? Well, I just saved you a dollar-ten," Tammy said, as she extended, at last, some fine Warren hospitality. I smiled and said, "You guys are better than Kroger's. Thanks!" She laughed, "You have a good day now, honey." And I was on my way to Hillbilly Heaven with some coffee and tip money.

This was a classic greasy spoon with the counter and red swivel chairs. I ordered "just a cup a coffee," sat and sipped the brew (luckily, it was good and strong from the bottom of pot), while Daffy Duck and Elmer Fudd cavorted on the Cartoon Network blinking overhead. I deduced it was mainly for the 4-year old boy playing with his plastic dinos, obviously the son of one of the divorced waitresses, who, as it turned out was waiting for her mom to come by and pick him up. Mom came in with a fresh coif, newly lighted cigarette hanging from red lips on a thin 60-year old face that looked like at one time had been quite strikingly handsome, but now was strikingly weathered, worn, and been-there-done-that-a-million-times. Whoa.

I left a buck and a half, leaving myself $1.25, for probable water purchase tomorrow. I decided to attempt a roundabout route, heading east down Ryan, which theoretically should cross I-696, where I could, theoretically, simply head West on Mile 11, ending up at Red Roof. I figured even if I miscalculated, it was nice weather out and I had plenty of time, so backtracking wouldn't take that long. Besides, I was in tourist mode, and this was an adventure.

Evidence of the "technology" facet of "Welcome to Warren" was evident on the rickety telephone poles practically bent to breaking with heavily strung digital cabling--probably T-1 and T-3 lines, running into the numerous office buildings and machine shops along the street. Ryan Drive in Warren is also home to one of the largest Ukranian communities in the Midwest. A large acreage of what is called a "Catholic Community" spread across one side, while housing tracts and nice, big homes shared the other side with a Ukranian bank and, of course, strip mall--both in English and Ukranian. I laughed when arriving at I-696 as I had projected. There it was: Chicken Shack--named after the T-Bone Walker instrumental that we do as the first song of the night, and is a staple of many R&B bands. Chicken, ribs... Classic.

I then headed west on Mile 11, crossing the freeway on a high pedestrian bridge, built as the bronze plaque said, in 1972 by the Michigan Dept. of Transportation. It was cracked and in need of some repairs, but I judged it to be safe enough to support one 200-pound drummer carrying three pounds of groceries. It was, and I was shortly back at the Red Roof.

Jeff was standing outside the room smoking, "There you are!" Oh-oh, I guess they must have been looking for me. Turns out Terry took everyone out for LUNCH, not dinner, and he remembered I had said I was going walking. They went out looking for me on the way to the $10.99 all-you-can-eat Thai buffet, but that was in the other direction. Drats. Plus they'd been doing rehearsal since they'd returned, which I also knew nothing about. The drummer's always the last to know. It's a rule. Anyway, no big deal. I pulled my snare, hi-hat and throne out of the van, set up and we ran through the material for the 3-60's we'd be doing Friday and Saturday, meanwhile, watching the clouds roll in.

Terry, being the sweetheart he is, made sure that I was going to get a free meal, handing me ten bucks and offering to take me to a restaurant of my choice. I chose Bob Evans Restaurant, about 100 yards away, commenting, "Just some good ol' American food this time." Not that I didn't like "rice," just that I like variety, too. I ordered the sirloin tips and noodles. I haven't eaten beef for over a year, but I was feeling a bit protein weak, and it was delicious, I must admit.

I got home just in time for the storm, West Wing, Law & Order and a dessert of bread and raisins. Ah yes, life on the road...