Day 1: Hollyweird, CA: Drove down I-5 from San Francisco, stopped to get gas at the same station where James Dean fueled his racecar (nicknamed "The Little Bastard") before his fatal crash in the desert. A sign along the road states "Life Provides No Spare." I had no gig booked so I played an open mic at the Rainbow Room on the Sunset Strip, home to hair rockers from Led Zeppelin to Motley Crue (and the other act with Poison in its name). The audience just stared at me as if I was from another planet, and I suppose I was. Surprisingly the host called me the next day to see if I wanted to do a regular show there; he asked how many people I could draw and I said "five." I could probably draw six if I have a sharp pencil and the piece of paper is large enough.

Day 2: Silverlake, CA: Had breakfast at Oki Dog, where they wrap their hotdogs with roast beef and chili, and got called "Faggot!" in Watts, then played Club Ding-A-Ling at the Hyperion Tavern, which was originally a law office and a leather bar (not at the same time). The law books still line the walls, so I learned about the case against the town of Burlingame. There were five fine acts on the bill, including an ambient piano/DJ combination (On Holiday), Appalachian folk music (Little Frankie Fairlane), a duo reminiscent of early Cocteau Twins (Maystar), and snakily costumed experimental noise that took their act into the street (Bow and Arrow). Amazingly the show ended at a reasonable hour; as MC Don Bolles of The Germs opined, "there's really no need for a band to play more than 20 minutes."

Day 3: San Diego, CA: After a day spent procuring wrestling masks and absinthe soda pop in Tijuana, I joined my friends The Nerve Meter and Switchyard at the Zombie Lounge, which is in its last week, as it will shortly reopen as "The Radio Room" with "nicer" décor. This is a terrible plan; I primarily play there 'cause it's called the Zombie Lounge and is decorated with torn velvet paintings of vampire women. Both Nerve Meter and Switchyard had been on long hiatuses but sprung back into action when offered a gig, and sounded fantastic. Musicians, don't let the dreaded "hiatus" overtake you! I set myself a minimum of playing 31 gigs a year, lest I turn into a salamander.

Day 4: Oceanside, CA: One of the many similarities between being a tour musician and being a bum is constantly hunting for free places to sleep. I spent the morning in the grass of a park by a police station, and the night at a highway rest stop, with a brief conscious stretch in between playing a bar near a marine base, where I gathered that metal is big with our armed forces.

Day 5: Phoenix, AZ:On the way out of California I stopped to visit my friend The Voodoo Organist in his new digs in the high desert; a thousand-year-old Joshua Tree looms in his backyard, behind the tiki masks and decaying keyboards from lounges of our American past. Coming into Phoenix the hills were on fire, adding an apocalyptic backdrop to the night's gig at the fabulous Trunk Space. The Black Jacket and Swallowing Stones came out of the aforementioned state of hiatus to play wonderful sets, and the fourth act attempted to do the same but their singer drank a dozen shots of tequila at the Polynesian bar next door and had to be physically dragged out by his drummer, a mammoth man in a black hood and very little else.

Day 6: Tucson, AZ: Tucson is The City of Love; every time I'm there I'm floored by the niceness of Tucsonians. The gig was at The Surly Wench, whose décor is an ideal mash-up of the Haunted Mansion and the Pirates of the Caribbean, which perfectly suited headliners The Mission Creeps, whose brilliant garage-gothic aesthetic is steered by the guitar and theremin of James Arrr and the driving bass of Miss Frankie Stein, augmented by a crack band and undead go-go dancers to boot.

Day 7: El Paso, TX:
El Paso was my rendezvous point with Mr. Warren Jackson Hearne, an extraordinarily talented Texas troubadour with whom I'd be playing a number of gigs. I first met Warren when I played with his group the Merrie Murdre of Gloomadeeres at Mabel Peabody's Beauty Parlor and Chainsaw Repair, which later was burnt to the ground by an arsonist but has since rebounded. Warren arrived by greyhound bus carrying his guitar and two jars of genuine moonshine from a still in the hills of Winnsboroand suffering from two brown recluse spider bites on his shin. After we played our gig, and following a party thrown by fire-jugglers that ended when the firemen and their trucks arrived, we inspected the necrotic, festering wounds that the arachnid had dug into his leg. I tried to drag him to the hospital (while our host went to fetch a kitchen knife to perform home surgery) but in the end the moonshine proved to be the cure.

Day 8: Dallas, TX: 9 hours and 1 speeding ticket later we arrived at the Bar of Soap, a laundromat/bar/venue that agreed to host our show after the place we were supposed to play, The Red Blood Club, was shut down by police following a stabbing incident. Of course, when you name your establishment as such, that outcome should be no surprise. I was able to wash my socks while I rocked, which is why I love laundromat gigs. I suppose if I wanted to I could make a whole tour of laundromats, as they always have electricity and are often free of attendants.

Day 10: Denton, TX: Denton is a small town with a higher concentration of talented musicians then either Los Angeles or Nashville. It must be something in the water. Warren Jackson Hearne spent a number of years here, and tonight we both played on the rooftop of a café, competing with the free jazz emanating from the bar across the street. Those saxophones were no match for my sleigh bells, as I employ Phantom Santa Power.

Day 11: New Orleans, LA: I bought three magic beans from a witch doctor before playing my set at Neutral Grounds (with Iain Micah Weigert, who conjured haunting folk blues on his brass resonator guitar)… The instructions are to make a wish and throw them into running water, and if the Loa are willing, the results will be evident by nightfall. I forgot to do this before I left the Mississippi, but I suppose my bathtub will suffice.

Day 12: Austin, TX: This was the 4th of July, and I celebrated by setting my finger on fire again (not intentionally). Esmerelda Strange threw a backyard party on Comal Street, and her fine set (Esmerelda is an astounding accordion-playing one-woman-band, or "all girl band" as she says) was followed by myself, Warren Jackson Hearne, and Izzy Cox, whose barn-burning 30's blues I was hearing for the first time. We were mixing coffee and vodka and wound up lying in the graveyard across the street, along with half of Austin it seemed.

Day 13: San Marcos, TX: Another backyard party, at the home of Grady Roper of Attic Ted and Teddy and Marge renown. It was a family affair, with a litter of young 'uns getting in on the action, as evidenced by the photo above. I was a little concerned when one of the tykes drank an entire bottle of my miracle tonic, but as advertised it proved to be a sure cure for colic.

Day 14: Wichita, KS: Kirby's Beer Store is always a favorite destination. Although owner Steve Kirby recently passed away, not only does his spirit live on through the efforts of Christina and the other long-time employees, but his actual ashes sit on the bar in a bottle, so you can still share a drink with him. My friends the Honkey Tonk Devils put on a terrific set (they opened with their classic "Hillbilly Band at a Punk Rock Show") undeterred by their lack of a drummer for the evening, though I filled in for a number on my bass drum/sleigh bells contraption.

Day 15: Denver, CO: On the way out of Kansas I saw a sign reading "Next exit! World's largest prairie dog! Six legged cow!" Yes, I want to see that, I decided, and though I was disappointed to find that the prairie dog was only a statue, there were actually two six-legged cows, one of which had its extra appendages protruding from its posterior (it had two hooves coming out of its ass). My gig in Denver was great. The show had actually been cancelled at the last minute by the original venue, which was extremely uncool, but luckily the good people at Three Jacks Tavern put me on the bill for their "Panties at the Bar" night, wherein the barmaids tend in their underwear and perform burlesque to boot. Luckily I opened, for I've found in the past it's hard to follow a naked lady (though second group Velvet Cash held up admirably).

Day 16: Boulder, CO: I played at a coffee shop, which was pleasant enough, and then took a detour to the town of Fruita, which is where Mike the Headless Chicken lost his head. Back in 1945, farmer Lloyd Olsen beheaded Mike but left enough neck that the brain stem was intact, and Mike lived for two years (Lloyd fed him with a syringe into his stump). I tell this story frequently before playing my song "Run Rooster Run," so I made a pilgrimage to the site of the beheading, where a statue of Mike, made of rusty wrenches, stands. Unfortunately the rural Colorado roads played havoc with my car tires and I was stranded for a while in the middle of nowhere in 105 degree heat, surrounded by roasted rattlesnakes.

Day 17: Salt Lake City, UT: Burt's Tiki Lounge stuffed the bill to bursting with three other bands (Collard Green's soul improvisations, Mean Molly Trio's howling blues, and All Time Ending, who went on early to an empty room but gave 110% anyway) and two comics. Two women with wings attached to their backs appeared on stage during my set, assisting with my demonstration of miracle tonic. Apparently in addition to treating ailments my elixir acts as an aid to levitation, provided one is already enhanced with wings.

Day 18: Reno, NV: Fires burning in the hills of California were sending all their smoke and ashes into Reno, so a stinging orange haze descended on the already shifty and toothless hard-luck streets. The Satellite Bar was a good scene, and local group The Humans were in fine form. Midway through their set I noticed a huge "Reno" tattoo on the back of their bassist. A patron next to me filled me in that Reno tattoos are common among residents there; it may be a gritty place, but its folks are proud!