Garry Davis—Guitar, Vocals
Michelle Slater—Bass
Adam Willard—Drums

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Friday, May 27, 1994—Encinitas, California. Michelle and I are up all night at my house engaged in frantic preparation (H) for lift-off. We pack my 1991 Nissan pickup (outfitted with a sketchy tin foil camper shell and heavy-ass wooden luggage compartment that I built on top) full (of fudge) and finally leave, an hour late, to pick up Adam in LA. Adam packs his fudge in with ours and the truck is full to bursting and sagging down in the rear big-time. The leaf springs (metal slats bowed slightly upward at each end which support each side of the rear axle) are actually bowed downward now. It looks so sketchy—like they will snap at any given moment.

Scheduled to leave LA at 2:30 p.m., we actually make our way out of town around 4:30, with Adam's little boombox tape player shoved in between the dashboard and windshield, slowly scuttling through bumper-to-bumper gridlock all the way to Interstate 15. We're now officially running three hours late. We navigate our way up through the Mojave Desert on the 15, which is also packed with traffic for the Memorial Day weekend. We're due to appear at our first venue, the Huntridge Theater, by 7:00 p.m. in Las Vegas, but we actually arrive at 10:00 p.m. The last band is already on and our first $100 is down the drain.

We mosey around the Las Vegas strip, which caters to every hedonistic tendency known to mankind. Very tacky, ugly and base...yet fascinating. Somehow, I still get an overall sense of staleness. I take a two-hour nap in the back of the truck while Adam and Michelle go gambling.

Saturday, May 28, 1994—We depart at 3:00 a.m. for Salt Lake City—I drive most of the way—enjoying some incredible burnt sienna scenic cliff views along the way in the dim morning light. We arrive in SLC at 1:00 p.m. and drive around all day looking for extra leaf springs, since I'm way paranoid they're going to snap at any given moment. This town is just the opposite of Vegas—it's Mormon country: very prim, proper and conservative.

We actually find some leaf springs, but get a big runaround trying to get them installed. We fail miserably and catch a wild goose instead. A couple of thrift stores come into view, where Adam scores a little rocket lighter. The club here is called Playschool, featuring the most disgusting bathroom West of the sun. I shave and brush my teeth in it anyway, all while watching a gay skinhead argue with his boyfriend. The club interior is standard black with ugly day-glo art all over, as always.

During the show, a small crowd of teenagers stand around staring up at the stage in a daze, offering up a slight smattering of applause for each band. I figure they're probably there hoping for a round of fast, blistering hardcore and are kind of disappointed that they're not getting it. There's a bad monitor mix, my amp is all muddy sounding, and Adam, Michelle and I just can't get it together. Surprisingly, five different people come up after our set and say it was great anyway. Despite this show being a benefit (for what, I can't remember), we get $40 gas money. We use it to cruise on over to our first motel in a creepy little town called Heber City.

Sunday, May 29, 1994—We make our way into Dinosaur National Monument, which crosses over the Utah / Colorado border. I haven't been here since I was a kid in the '70s. I gather many good feelings from the big array of jagged sediments (full of fossils bigger than you are) that jut upright for maximum viewing pleasure. It's easy to get a sense of the vastness of space and time around places like this, though it must be kind of boring to people who come here expecting explosive, blood-spilling, action-packed special effects.

Heading out to the road again, we encounter the Hug-A-Pig petting farm and rows of tacky gift shops en route to highway 40 and Denver. At one point, we nearly run smack dab into a deer, slamming on the brakes at the last possible second as it scampers off to the side. Whew! That was a close one. A short while later, a van in front of us actually does collide with a deer. It's quite a surreal scene as the deer is quickly knocked down, it's face staring blankly back at us as its body skids away in the same direction we're going. This is the sort of experience you just have to block out, or else you're going to be bummed for a good long while.

Late at night, the three of us sneak into another one-person room in a Dillon, Colorado motel about an hour West of Denver. This is skiing country.

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