Omaha is a fine American city where I had a fine show last Friday. However, regardless of their quality, Omaha shows distract. When in Omaha, my goal is to get across the Missouri River to Council Bluffs, Iowa, as quickly as possible.

Council Bluffs is not a beautiful place, but a desolate strip of pawn shops, fast-food restaurants, and abandoned businesses nestled beneath Omaha’s sleek skyline. Amongst these urban ruins rests a miniature Las Vegas called the Horseshoe Casino. The Horseshoe Casino offers $1-2 No Limit Texas Hold ’Em all day, all night, 52 weeks a year. As long as the Horseshoe exists and no matter how late an Omaha show runs, I will go there, even if I am not welcomed with open arms.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a security guard. She barred entry to the casino floor and eyed my suspicious laptop bag. “You cannot bring bags on to the casino floor,“ she said.

“OK,” I said. It was 2 a.m. I had no stomach for an argument. I have argued with numerous casino employees in a variety of gaming establishments about my right to carry my laptop bag and have never won one of these arguments. “I will check my bag with the valet,” I offered.

“But the valet is across the casino floor,” said the guard. “You are not permitted to cross the casino floor without an escort. How will you reach the valet?”

“Drat!” I exclaimed. “We are caught in a Catch-22. Is there a solution?”

“Indeed,” said the guard. “Sammy, our security guard, can escort you to the valet.”

“Excellent!” I exclaimed. “Have Sammy report to me immediately!”

A few minutes passed, Sammy, a very short man in a grey security uniform, offered his hand.

“I am Sammy,” said Sammy. I shook Sammy’s hand.

“Hello, Sammy,” I said.

“I will escort you across the casino floor to the valet,” Sammy said. Side-by-side, Sammy and I trudged across the enormous, state-sponsored den of iniquity. Numerous Iowans frittered away excess time and money at slot machines, blackjack tables, and other assorted casino amusements. These Iowans were of all races and sexes. As long as one has money, casinos are equal-opportunity. I tried to think of something to say to Sammy. I said nothing. Soon, we reached the valet. This all-powerful valet was a very young man with a lip ring.

“I am the valet,” said the lip-ringed valet.

“Here we are,” said Sammy. “I will leave you now.” True to his word, Sammy left. I checked my bag with the lip-ringed valet and made my way to the poker room and played $1-2 No Limit Texas Hold ’Em for 3.5 hours. Not much happened at the table. I did win a pot from a man on a tight schedule.

“I have to leave here by 5 a.m.,” said the man. “I have to work.” At 5:15 a.m., he was still playing. “Goddammit,” said the man. “I’m late. I have to go.” At 5:30 a.m., this man left. At 6 a.m., I walked back to my car. I watched the sky brightening in the East. I drove through the Council Bluffs ghetto to reach I-480. I-480 whisked me back across the Missouri River into Omaha, where I would sleep for six hours before leaving for tomorrow’s show.

Gambling in Iowa is very depressing, I thought. Perhaps I should not gamble on tour any more. Perhaps I should not gamble at all. Then, I thought of Sammy. Well, the casino does give Sammy a job, I thought. Still, I was not satisfied and became philosophical. Goddammit. I thought. Life is complicated. Driving over the Missouri River, I counted the $83 I had won. Never had such a small amount of money felt like such a fortune.

In 1997, I did not have a clear idea of the breadth or shape of the United States of America. Stumbling in dark realms of geographic ignorance, I booked a show in New Orleans followed by a show in Des Moines, Iowa—a 1,000+ mile trek—with a lone drive day in-between. My band burned through these 1,000 miles in excitement. Our Des Moines show was with Dischord heroes Branch Manager! We did get to meet Branch Manager in Des Moines. By way of greeting, the band informed us that our show was cancelled.

Though I was robbed of a chance to play in Iowa a decade ago, my Iowan dream was destined to be realized. Earlier this week, I performed at the Picador, an Iowa City hotspot. Upon meeting the soundperson, I learned that Iowa was a very literal place.

“I’m Red,” said Red, the soundperson. Red sported red hair and freckles.

“I intuit that you have been dubbed ‘Red” because you sport red hair and freckles,” I declared.

“Yep,” said Red. Iowa—a literal state indeed.

My Iowa debut (see above) got even more literal when literally three people came to see my show—a pleasant couple and a pleasant large man. The pleasant couple left upon learning that my band was scheduled to play at 1:00 a.m. on a Thursday night. The pleasant large man, however, remained. During my band’s performance, this pleasant large man stood in front of the stage and shouted out the names of various songs my band had composed. We played some of these compositions to please this pleasant large man, but our mission—to perform for a one-person audience, a la the Velvet Underground performing for Andy Warhol—was absurd. After a short set, we retired to a local Iowa City inn.

“Are you in a band?” asked the innkeep.

“Yes,” I replied. “Perhaps you guessed this because of my fine form and sparkling attire.”

“No,” she said. “My fiancé is in a band. Where did you play?”

“The Picador,” I replied.

The innkeep sneered. “That place was formerly called ‘Gabe’s,’” she said, “a local dive with bathrooms of ill-repute. The refurbished Picador does not showcase the same dive-bar aesthetic as Gabe’s once did. Many Iowans resent the change.” The receptionist then made a list of four other clubs that we should have played instead of the Picador. Then, inexplicably, she upgraded our room to a suite.

“Thank you,” I said. I gave the receptionist two CDs to express gratitude and retired to my upgraded suite. If I return to Iowa, I thought, I will still probably play at the Picador. The Picador seems peachy-keen. The question is not where I will play in Iowa, but if I whether I will play Iowa at all. I have yet to answer this question. I settled down to sleep on a couch in my upgraded suite. The couch was just a few inches too short.

Well, I thought. So much for Iowa. Now, Alaska, Hawaii, North Dakota, and New Mexico remain. Then, retirement beckons.

“I am Justin,” said the stage manager at the Jackpot! Saloon in Lawrence, Kan.

“I too am Justin!” I excitedly replied. Meeting another Justin is always a thrill. Justin routinely makes the top 40 most popular names on the Social Security Administration’s baby names database.

“Well, Justin,” said Justin. “You’ll love our sound guy. His name is Justin, too.”

“Hot damn!” I replied. I looked forward to meeting this “sound guy.” Two hours later, my dream came true.

“Hello,” said the sound guy. “I’m Justin.”

“I heard that you are Justin!” I said. “I too am Justin!”

“Yep,” said Justin. “There are some other Justins running around here too.”

“Hot damn!” I said. “A veritable Justin paradise!”

“Yep,” said Justin.

“Justin, how long have you been here amongst these Justins?” I inquired.

“Since I got out of the U.S. Air Force,” said Justin.

Movie previews employ a technique called “the needle scrape.” This technique—an audio sample of a needle abruptly scraping across a record—highlights an awkward moment or faux pas. A virtual needle scrape ran through my mind upon hearing the words “U.S. Air Force.”

“Wait—Justin,” I said. “You were in the U.S. Air Force?”

“Yep,” said Justin. Little did Justin know that I have been fascinated with indie rock enthusiasists who pursue military careers since my band stayed with a Navy punk in New Orleans in 1998. This Navy punk had been thrown in the brig for dereliction of duty after blowing off a superior to attend a Warmers show!

“Justin, tell me all about your U.S. Air Force experience,” I implored.

“Well…” said Justin. Justin talked for half an hour. Justin spoke of a childhood on the outskirts of Omaha, a military family tradition, frequent trips to air shows, an aimlessness after high school, a desire to escape his hometown, an aptitude for math, his enlistment, basic training, eventual placement in an obscure position at a nuclear weapons site in the Midwest, his discharge, and his newfound career as a sound engineer.

“Holy fuck,” I said, when Justin had finished his tale. I do not say ”holy fuck” very often. “Will you go back?”

“Into the air force?” said Justin. “No way. You have to get up way too early!” Justin finished wrapping up his XLR cables and retreated to the bar to get a drink. I packed up my band’s drumset and considered a career defending the shores of my great nation. I already have the haircut, I thought. Then, I realized I was very hungry. Instead of joining the military, I went to Taco Bell and got a “vegan” 7-Layer Burrito sans sour cream and cheese. At 2 a.m. in Lawrence, Kan., this was the only nutrition available.

Now I must count to infinity. I will begin with 1. From 1, I will progress to 2. I will then skip to 30,000. But 400,000 is bigger than 30,000. And 3,000,000,000 is bigger than 2,000,000,000. These numbers are very high! How will I ever get to infinity?

These are not the feverish ravings of a lunatic, but the feverish ravings of a sleepless bass player who contracted the flu in Denver in 2003. I, Justin Moyer, was that bass player and, for me, Denver and the flu go hand in hand. Sneezes, sniffles, aches, and pains spoil my memories of everyone’s favorite Mile High City. When I contracted “Denver fever” in 2003, the city was gripped by a influenza epidemic that killed many children. In the grip of my illness, I convinced myself that I was responsible for the deaths of these innocents.

You just toured Sicily, I reasoned. There, you contracted a severe Sicilian flu. Clearly, this Denver flu that is killing children is a mutated version of your Sicilian flu. This flu has mutated so quickly that you have contracted it twice! You are Death’s pale rider who has brought the Sicilian plague to Denver! The blood of innocents is on your hands! Certainly you will pay for this on Judgment Day! Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Because I do not like to envision myself as Death’s pale rider, I prefer to think about stage diving while in Denver. Second to breeding pestilence, stage diving is my favorite Denver activity. Do not be misled—stage diving is not a safe activity. However, stage diving is damn sure guaranteed 100% fun. In pursuit of irresponsible fun, I have executed two stage dives in my thirty years. My second stage dive was at a show in Europe—you may, if you wish, think of it as an international stage dive. My first stage dive, however, was of the domestic variety. On another, flu-free tour, I executed a domestic stage dive at a Denver venue called Cervantes. Cervantes’s stage was emblazoned with an enormous Grateful Dead skull emblem. I’m not sure who fashioned this emblem, how I got to perform on this emblem, or why I thought it appropriate to stage dive off of this emblem. However, I did indeed execute a stage dive in Denver under Cervantes’s watch. Perhaps Denver’s rarified air contributed to my Bacchanalian indulgence.

Compared to previous Denver madness, my show in Denver earlier this week at Larimer Lounge was uneventful. No stage diving took place. I was troubled by a scratchy throat, but no Red Death reared its head. Most importantly, no children died. So runs my progressive philosophy: it is better to have a mediocre show where no innocents die, then a spectacular show that claims the lives of one or two young persons.

(Photo by Bee)

As I pointed out in a recent post, I’m a fan of empty spaces, Annie Proulx, free-roaming pronghorn antelope, and just can’t get enough of America’s least populous state. When faced with a day off in Wyoming, I booked a room at a Travelodge Hotel in bustling downtown Laramie. Adventures awaited—Wild-West style.

The fun began before I set foot in Matthew Shepard’s former home. In Rawlins, a microscopic town 1 1/2 hours west of Laramie, I feasted on summer rolls at Anong’s Thai Cuisine. One does not expect quality Thai amidst the harsh winds that blow through Dick Cheney’s home state. Still, satiated by Anong’s ginger tofu, I was better able to endure the Travelodge-sponsored adversity that awaited.

“Can I have a late check out?” I inquired of the Travelodge innkeep in Laramie.

“Check out is 10:00 a.m.,” quoth the innkeep.

“Curses!” I said. “10:00 a.m. is too early!” The miserly innkeep was none too sympathetic, but begrudgingly granted a checkout of 11:30 a.m. Nothing sours my mood like an inexplicably early check-out. How would I salvage my psyche?

I had spotted a bowling alley on the way into Laramie—not a yuppie approximation of a bowling alley, but a proletarian bowling alley proud and true. It’s no secret that I am a bowling enthusiast. Though I am none too skilled at the sport, I am a Moyer, and the Moyers are an accomplished Pennsylvania bowling clan. My paternal grandfather’s kin were known to bowl on any occasion—birthdays, wedding days, and, famously, after funerals.

“I will bowl my early check-out pain away!” I cried. I secured a lane and a pair of size 8 shoes, and burned through 30 frames. The results:

Game #1: 122
Game #2: 93
Game #3: 89

Local bowlers did not hesitate to remark upon my diminishing scores.

“Look at that!” said a young woman in the lane next to me. “You’re getting worse!”

“It’s true,” I said. “I am a small man, and tire quickly.”

“Well, whatever,” said the young woman. She chewed on her tongue piercing and flaunted a devil-may-care bowling philosophy. She had failed to break 75. “I’m too drunk to care!” she exclaimed.

Post-bowling, I retired to my Travelodge to watch a Sopranos episode on A & E. The episode was a winner—Tony Soprano (James Gandolfini) must protect sister Janice Soprano (Aida Turturro) after she shoots her fiancé Richie Aprille (David Proval). The episode features choice dramaturgic exchanges between Tony and his mother Livia (Nancy Marchand).

The Sopranos really was much better before Nancy Marchand died, I thought. I turned off the television and fell asleep, dreaming of dreaded 7-10 splits. Outside, an unexpected storm flung sleet at my Travelodge. By morning, all traces of this storm had melted into a salty, cruel dust that stuck to Laramie’s streets like taffy.

Migraine headaches have visited me twice in three decades. The first reared its head during a 10th grade history class. When the headache struck, I turned green and nearly vomited. As a result, I was excused from an afterschool play rehearsal. I did not always enjoy play rehearsal. I thought this a fine migraine indeed!

The second migraine struck as I was traveling I-80 West through Utah in 1998 on my first cross-country tour. This migraine was ill-timed—there was no play rehearsal to be excused from, and I was too debilitated to regard the Bonneville Salt Flats. The Bonneville Flats, a desolate salt desert that serves as a test site for land speed record candidates, is one of Spaceship Earth’s most striking geologic features. However, I was too busy trying not to vomit to check them out.

On Sunday, I drove through Bonneville for the second time. I was late for my show in Salt Lake, but could barely contain my excitement. I was migraine free! As I drove across the Flats, I called the club in S.L.C. to say that I would arrive after a short Bonneville viewing. Unfortunately, the representative of the club had depressing news.

“Today is Easter Sunday,” said the club representative. “Many Utah citizens are celebrating the birth of the Living Christ. These citizens will not attend your show, as the Living Christ has a greater draw than you. Thus, your show is cancelled.”

“Oh,” I said. I had driven 700+ miles to play this S.L.C. show. In frustration, I began to verbally abuse the club representative. At the conclusion of my tirade, I employed a popular telephonic technique called “hanging up.” This technique is employed to express disgust at the outcome of the conversation.

Unexpectedly, my bandmate spoke. “You should not have hung up on that individual,” observed my bandmate. Long car trips often play midwife to a phenomenon called “the pointless argument.” This phenomenon overcame my bandmate and me. Our “pointless argument” did not cease until my bandmate seized the steering wheel and forced me to pull over at a rest stop.

As the car ground to a halt, I realized that I was in the middle of the Salt Flats. This was the place I had wanted to return to for almost a decade. I now regarded these Flats and the desolate moon-like landscape. The Flats are so….well, flat that they perfectly trace the curvature of the earth. Mountains in the distance appear to float above the ground because their bases rest below the horizon.

The bandmate who had not participated in the pointless argument regarded the landscape. “You two picked a fine place for an argument,” he said. I looked around and agreed. Only an appearance by the Living Christ could have improved the scene. Unfortunately, I hear that He spurns door deals and will only play for guarantees.

I did not enjoy A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. However, when I hear American wit Mark Twain’s famous S.F. dis— “The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco“—I think that Mark Twain was right. I am anti-San Francisco because I had my IPod stolen in 2005 at the Hemlock Tavern, a popular San Francisco venue. The thief has yet to be identified.

This past Saturday, I faced an overnight 700+ mile drive from Richland, Washington to San Francisco for another show at the Hemlock. En route, I worried that my opinion of the city would not be improved by this performance. Will this show suck? I wondered. Driving south on I-5 towards the city, my worries increased when I saw five large men staring at an immobile vehicle by the side of the highway. These large men were Black Fiction, my tourmates on the West Coast. Automobile trouble was impeding their progress to the Hemlock and our show that night. Because I have a high regard for my fellow man, I pulled over to offer my assistance.

“I am here to help,” I informed Black Fiction.

“If you are here to help,” said a Black Fiction representative, “give our car a jump. We sorely need one.”

“A jump it is,” I said. To get my car into jumping position, I made a three-point turn on I-5. This dangerous maneuver, which left my car facing the wrong way on a major U.S. interstate, drew the attention of a California highway patrolman, a.k.a. a CHiP. The CHiP approached me.

“Hey, driver!” the CHiP said.

“I am the driver,” I confirmed.

“Don’t do that again,” said the CHiP. “I understand that your friend needs a jump, but I can’t have you making three-point turns on I-5. This is a dangerous driving maneuver indeed!”

“Okay,” I said. Still, the CHiP was not satisfied.

“Well,” said the CHiP. “How will you turn your car around again after you give your friend a jump?”

“Well…” I regarded the situation. “I guess I’ll just make another three-point turn.”

“Oh,” said the CHiP. “Well, just don’t do that again,” he added. This declaration was absurdist—Kafkaesque, even. Then, as mysteriously as he had appeared, the CHiP disappeared, leaving my car facing the wrong way on a major U.S. interstate.

Six hours later, I was driving to Reno after a satisfying show with Black Fiction and S.F. no-wave heroes The Fucking Ocean. That show was pretty good, I thought. However, that CHiP left much to be desired.

Jaded, effete indie rockers might skip a show at Ray’s Golden Lion in Richland, Wash. Don’t these fools know that Richland is famous for developing atomic materials used in Robert J. Oppenheimer’s Manhattan Project? As an American, I feel that it is my duty to familiarize myself with all-things-Oppie. Thus, I traveled to Richland at the behest of an enterprising all-ages promoter to see what was what. Some observations, in classic French vignette form:

1. The promoter is a chemist.

“What do you do when not booking all-ages musical events?” I asked the promoter.

“I de-rad atomic material,” she said.

“Oh,” I said.

“Materials used to develop Fat Man and Little Boy were made in Richland,” she explained. “I de-radiate these materials and turn them into glass. The process is environmentally-friendly.”

“Excellent!” I exclaimed. “Atomic material becomes Coca-Cola bottles!”

“Of course not, silly!” she exclaimed. “The glass we produce is not consumer-grade!”

2. The stage manager is a small, tough blonde girl. (I)

“I’m the stage manager,” said a small, tough blonde girl. Her estimated age? Fifteen years. Her estimated weight? Ninety pounds.

“Ah,” I said. “Is there a sound check this evening?”

“Yes,” she said. “Right before you play.”

“Ah,” I said. “You must mean that there is a ‘line check.’ Not a ‘sound check.’”

“No, goddammit,” sighed the small girl. She lit a cigarette. “There is a fucking sound check. There is just not the type of sound check to which you are accustomed.”

3. The owner (see above) of Emerald of Siam loves to cook—and talk.

“We opened the first Thai restaurant in Richland,” said the owner. “1983.”

“Ah,” I began. “Perhaps it was—”

“Oh!” exclaimed the owner. “It was so difficult! People thought ‘Thai’ meant ‘from Taiwan!’”

“Ah!” I began. “Well, your food is really won—“

“Thai cuisine is a very healthy cuisine!” exclaimed the owner. “You are vegetarian?”

“Why, yes,” I began. “I find that—”

“Yes, a wonderful cuisine,” concluded the owner. “We came here from the Washington, D.C. area.”

“Ah!” I began. “I myself am—”

“Yes, the Washington, D.C. area,” continued the owner. “My husband was working for the government out there, then we ended up here. I have a daughter. She has two beautiful babies. She is a jazz pianist!”

“Ah!” I began. “Jazz—”

“Yes, a wonderful music,” said the owner. “My daughter come and play music every week for customers. Excellent musician. She reads notes, reads everything. She took lessons. You take lessons?”

“Well,” I began. “I find that—”

“Yes,” said the owner. “My daughter take lessons. But she is a problem. She does not always want to play! She wants to talk! She talks all the time! All the time talk talk talk!”

4. The stage manager is a small, tough, blonde girl. (II)

The young girl looked at her cell phone. “One o’clock in the morning,” she commented. “Time for me to get stoned.”

“Ah,” I said. The young girl opened her cell phone. A picture of Bob Marley adorned the communication device.

“Bob Fucking Marley,” said the young girl.

“Inded, that is Mr. Bob Fucking Marley,” I said. “As you are a marijuana enthusiast, the choice is appropriate.”

“Yep,” she said. She lit a cigarette. “One o’clock.” She exhaled. “This here Rastafari is getting stoned.”

In Fall 2003, my band went on tour with Black Eyes and Q and Not U. One day, we played a show in Cheyenne, Wyo. at a space called “Club Drakula.” I’m not sure why the space was called “Club Drakula,” but the gothic moniker suited vacant Cheyenne’s star-filled, desolate night.

“Who wants pizza?” asked the promoter of Cheyenne show. In his spare time, this promoter managed a franchise of a chain pizzeria known as “Domino’s.” When the promoter called for pizza-eaters, thirteen hands (five Black Eyes plus three Q and Not U’s plus two roadies plus my postpunkish trio) shot up.

“All right,” said the promoter. “Who wants to come to Domino’s to help me make these pizzas?”

Consarnit, I thought. I would like to help make Domino’s pizzas, but undoubtedly my numerous traveling companions will also want to make Domino’s pizzas. Too many cooks will crowd the Domino’s kitchen. Then, I looked around the room. Miracle of miracles—my hand was the only hand still up in the room. “I will be the one,” I shouted. “If you transport me to your franchise, I will help you make Domino’s pizzas.”

“All right, then,” said the promoter. We drove through Cheyenne’s desolate night to his Domino’s franchise. “I once made a pizza in one-minute, forty-seven seconds,” the promoter boasted. We shaped varius doughs and toppings into edible pie-shape. I am vegan, but was thrilled to participate in this industrial food process. I assembled ten pizzas (including a vegan pie) and loaded them into a conveyor belt oven as bemused Cheyenne Dominoes employees looked on. These bumpkins had never seen a slight man from the east coast assemble pizzas with such glee! When my three-band touring caravan devoured these pizzas. I was not explicitly thanked for my pizza assembly. However, I basked in private glory.

Last night at the Sunset Tavern in Seattle, a young man approached me. “I am from Cheyenne and saw that show at Club Drakula,” he declared.

“Ah, Cheyenne,” I reminisced. “Are you familiar with my pizza-assembly skills?”

“No,” said the young man. “But do you want to stay at my very large house with laundry facilities and free internet? It is five blocks from the club.”

“Does your large home have room for five large men from Black Fiction?”

“Yes,” said the young man. My two-band caravan retired to this ample abode and experienced true Seattle-style hospitality—Wyoming-style. I was glad of this. Besides the show I played in Wyoming in 2003, I have not played or heard of any show in Wyoming before or since.

LaVilla was a vegetarian Mediterranean restaurant in Portland. I once ate there in 2004 because the restaurant is near Holocene, a popular Portland venue. I played at this venue for the second time last night and looked forward to eating at LaVilla for a second time. Unfortunately, in lieu a fine Middle Eastern restaurant, I found a boarded-up ex-restaurant where LaVilla once stood.

On my first and only visit to LaVilla, its owner treated me with the utmost respect. Though the restaurant was about to close, she made me falafel and gave me free baklava. I suspect LaVilla’s demise was related to Southeast Portland’s ongoing gentrification. However, there is no way to confirm this. Perhaps the owner drank, or was a poor manager of money, or the food quality declined, or the restaurant was a front for a methamphetamine lab or gambling ring. Who knows?

This is the problem with traveling. My experience of many cities is limited to the club I play and the restaurant I eat at. “I like Denver,” I might say. However, I do not know much about Denver—only that clubs I have played there are nice and near a sushi place I enjoy. When I say I like a city, this is much like a person who is only familiar with the letter “A” claiming that he or she “likes the alphabet.”

I also like Denver because I know a D.C. transplant who lives there. He claims to have attended junior high with Daniel Higgs and worked for the government in Antarctica. His experiences in Antarctica make for interesting conversation. Once, I gave him a copy of a CD to take to an Antarctic radio station. I did not know that Antarctica had radio stations until this kindly gent informed me of this fact. Unfortunately, I do not think donating a CD to a radio station in Antarctica did much for my band’s Q rating. Still, some enterprising penguins may have erected a radio tower and been able to absorb my art via AM and/or FM. Once one rocks a penguin’s world, little is left to accomplish in the aesthetic realm.