Blythe, CA to Mesilla, NM–Thurs September 7
The car is sparkling clean and water is beaded up everywhere—on the streets, the hood. Debris covers the pavement. The storm was not exaggerated by our delirium. A black kitten slinks in front of the car as we’re packing up.
Nick has never seen the American Southwest. He keeps gasping and pointing at the purple mountains, at the cacti that he says look like cartoons.
We pause in Tucson because I know a good place to eat—Café Poca Cosa. First, we hit the tourist board for postcards and directions. I’ve never been to a tourist board before. What a concept.
Pulling into Mesilla, we spot an odd shape swinging beneath the tow hitch on the rear of a black pickup. Further examination reveals it to be a ball sack; that’s right, a scrotum, rendered in lifelike pink latex. It jiggles over potholes, sways gently at stop signs.
Our show is fun; I worry we’re too loud for the space, but oh well. Afterwards, we try hard to be party animals. (We’re missing merch man Mike badly at this point—he’d be rallying.) After one beer we notice two side-by-side drain mats—one for Crown Royal and the other for Jager. Memories come flooding back. The place has $2 calls and so everyone keeps staggering to the bar and walking away with Jager, fumes wafting past our noses. This drives us out the door in no time.
I forgot to mention that every person we met in LA was so freaking nice. Our waitress at breakfast, the other people in the gelato line, everyone. I thought LA was supposed to be Sodom and Gomorrah. After meeting even nicer people in Mesilla, I mention to Nick how if you just go about your normal life—traffic and the post office and the DMV–you can start to think people are real assholes. But in truth, the world is full of really, really nice people. It’s humbling.
And maybe this is the squarest tour blog ever written.