Sun., Dec. 28, 1997, Sharon, PA, Hot Rod Cafe -- It was "Blues Night" at the Hot Rod Cafe, so it was a nine-hour drive for us from Chicago. We left Joanna's at 4:30 a.m. to pick up Tony and Vic, after I managed to get about four hours of sleep. I had been going to bed then, so I had trouble catching zzz's. We arrived around 4 p.m. EST, and I just wish my little video cam could have captured some of the automotive artifacts in that place, but due to low light situation it just didn't work. Collector cars were hung from the ceiling (whole, entire, functioning cars, mind you), such as a 1976 Shelby Mustang with 170 miles on it, a 1959 Chevy El Camino with 3,000 miles on it, a 1985 Ferrari GT300 with 1,000 miles on it--all of them red. The sound man and I struck up a conversation because he was a drummer, and he told me the beer truck over in the corner was originally Al Capone's. It had been owned by racing great Andy Granatelli who sold it to the Hot Rod's owner for 24 grand. He said it was now worth something like a half-million now on the collector's market...still had the original beer kegs on the truck from about 1927 (beer long since consumed). There were a couple of old Harley's and some strange vehicles designed especially for that Mick Jaggar bomb movie, "Freejack." The stage was situated in the middle of the room with nice theatre lighting and monster sound system. We ordered some food, and for the second time in a day my order got fucked up. The first was at a Burger King during a van lunch break (one of those horrible, plastic "service areas" on the Ohio Turnpike). I wanted a grilled chicken sandwich expecting to just get it and run since everyone was waiting for me, but no, they didn't have any made and I'd have to wait 10 minutes. Not having that many, I grumpily returned to the van, starving, coffeed up and edgy. At the Hot Rod I ordered another chicken sandwich from the waitress, who managed everyone else's order but mine. She didn't write it down and completely spaced it out. She had the ruffled-tense-emotional look of someone who'd been arguing with a lover, and her mind was barely on the job. The manager ended up bringing the tardy sandwich, which was very good. Shot of my mess behind the drumkit as I tried in vain to repair the high-hat stand. We got our rooms on the other side of town, returned to the club to begin the gig when my high hat stand finally met its maker. The bottom threads holding the pedal to the action rod stripped off eliminating the spring motion allowing the hats to open. I had been pretty sure it was going to last for longer than it did, so it caught me by surprise, especially 30 seconds before downbeat. Not having the hats in motion was disconcerting, but the sound was great and we rocked regardless. During break I outdid myself trying to find a quick fix for the damn thing, but I couldn't given the time restraints. I considered the irony of being in this building with all this vast automotive presence and couldn't find a damn BOLT! The crowd was hard to read. There were some definite blues fans out there, but for the most part I think it was a disco crowd that didn't have anywhere else to go on a Sunday night. So, polite applause, even though Joanna was belting out some cool shit. I never did feel like I got my balance, since I had to keep making combination decisions to avoid using the hats. We returned to our rooms--I got my own alone this time (Joanna: "He's been living with us for the last two weeks, give him a break."). I immediately got online for about two hours with what I thought was a local number. I was jolted as we checked out at 11 a.m. to receive a $75.00 bill for long-distance service. Now I know: IT IS LONG DISTANCE TO PITTSBURGH FROM SHARON, PA. I had misread the phonebook and blithely surfed into cyberspace...