Jeff poured over the atlas searching for the ideal route to get us in the vicinity of New York City. Terry had travel books for Red Roof Inns and Motel 6, but it looked like Motel 6 was the best price--they'd keep the light on for us...and the lid up...So, our target became Piscataway, New Jersey, about 45 minutes (theoretically) from the Terra Blues venue in Manhattan/Greenwich Village/Soho. Although not much was said about it, we all had at least some trepidation about boldly marching into the heart of America's destruction (both materially and emotionally). To add to the ambivalence, Terry was getting mixed signals from the booking agent and the club as to the solidity of the booking, which put him on edge. The ol' red flags were half-mast on yellow alert. Regardless, we had to get to the East Coast anyway for the large portion of the gigs, so it was onward and damn the terrorists.

I was actually looking forward to going to New York, having never been there. I knew I would not be seeing the Big Apple at its best, but there has always been an elevated glamour about the mega-opolis that intrigued me, not to mention all the great galactic-class music that has set world standards. My curiosity easily overrode any reticence, although that was soon to change, as you will see...

We didn't want to leave too early, trying to synchronize check-in times with our arrival without having to pay for an extra night. We had figured on a 12-hour drive, and with farting around at food and piss stops, maybe 14 hours. We made one last stop at the now worn Taiwan Buffet, where we'd practically become fixtures and on a first-name basis with the staff. We then picked up Kenny and were out on I-90 East by about 2 p.m.

By the time we were well into Ohio, it had gotten pretty windy. We stopped at a very clean and upscale Hardee's freeway stop and stretched out in the sun amongst the tractor-trailers. I had remembered from past trips that most of the freeways become "turnpikes," with frequent troll boxes to collect fees that supposedly went to the maintenance of the roads. I decided to throw in with Terry on the diversion of road funds theory. "We're payin' for the governor's new hot tub, most likely," he'd say. This conclusion easily arrived at by a quick observation of the sheer amount of cars paying tolls, and the deplorable state of the roads themselves. Many a front end has fallen prey to this incredible hypocrisy. But, it has become an ingrained way of life for Easterners, and apparently only questioned by us more enlightened Westerners...

The road ran quickly by Toledo, as we scampered into Pennsylvania with little fanfare. Terry took a five-hour break while Jeff took the helm, with Jesse riding shotgun. As we approached New Jersey, Terry took back over, and I ended up riding shotgun. Jeff briefed me on our proposed route to Piscataway via the atlas, and I settled into my first stint as navigator. Soon, it was apparent my gentle demeanor and newbie status began to work against me as Terry questioned each suggestion I made as to the appropriate route. I realized later that I should have been less suggestive and a whole lot more assertive, but I just didn't feel it my place due to my rookie status in the band. That being said, we ended up taking about five wrong turns, often requiring four turn-arounds to get back to the opposite return direction. At one point, Terry got so irked at the situation he blurted out, "Fuck this. Find a route to Boston. We're outta here." I thought he was kidding. He was not. "OK, who wants to go to New York?" Terry yelled out for everyone to vote. Jeff immediately barked, "Fuck New York!" Jesse and I, both witnessing a hundred-dollar bill flying out the window, voted meekly to continue to Ground Zero. Kenny rode the fence saying, "I'm with y'all." "Which 'y'all'?" We wanted to know. "Whichever," Kenny confirmed.

By this time it was about 3:30 a.m. and everyone was pretty tired. Terry was in a bad mood, and I was grumbling. We stopped for the second time to get directions to how to get to the road leading to the road that led to the road we needed, at a convenience store where a New Jersey state trooper was making a pit stop. While Terry conferred with the officer on route-age, I complained to Jeff about the loss of the hundred bucks. He had already decided against going, so it was a moot point with him. Terry, sensing our befuddlement and financial concern, got us to Motel 6 in Piscataway, when Jesse and I realized the proposed Boston trip was not forthcoming. We were relieved. For me it was money for the phone bill at home, for Terry it was the most expensive gig out of his pocket.

We arrived at Motel 6 at 4 a.m., hoping they'd let us just check in as if it were a new day. Although the desk clerk wanted to help, she was bound by corporate surveillance, and had to follow the rules. The rules were actually quite lenient. We could check in a 6 a.m. and wouldn't have to check out till noon the next day. So we tooled around Piscataway looking for somewhere to hang for a couple of hours. We were all hungry, and when we spied a Togo's-Dunkin' Donuts 24-hour joint, we swerved quickly into the parking lot.

There were about six students studying in there hepped up on coffee and donuts--looked like college kids cramming for exams, while CNN droned on incessantly with "America Fights Back." I had a cup of weak tea and a muffin, while Terry and Kenny did sandwiches. Jeff got something, too, but Jesse decided to just sleep in the van for the two hours. We all reminisced about European road trips, and I was impressed with how many places these guys had been and the characters they'd met and worked with.

The time went by pretty fast, and soon we were slumbering in generic sleeping rooms with opaque curtains as the sun rose in the East.