Mandostringer

So after a gentle evening of acoustic ear-ticklings with Clifton at the Cellar Door in Downers Grove, we retired to "the basement" to gather our effects to begin the (soon to be epic) saga of THE BIG RED TRICYCLE!
Our gear was packed and loaded in an unusually haphazard manner... (Folkstringer being a neurotic tetris-packing yet somehow spacially challenged coalition that we are) we piled into our VERY recently acquired Ford Club Wagon CHATEAU... whew, that sure sounds fancy! and she sured gleamed under the crisp slightly waxing moon lighting our way down the western spine of Illinois. The seats were comfy, the engine roared like a purring lion and drove like a rickety soapbox racer with a cherry super-rope for axles... It was sloppy, every curve seemed to require conscious battling with fate to keep the darn thing on the road, let alone in the lanes. We certainly must've appeared altered to any bystanders!
I had to call it quits, I was uncomfortable. We stopped to try to see if we could find the blatantly visible not-so-well hidden switch to turn on the air-suspension that was supposed to cradle our gear (and Craig) from bouncing around the back. We couldn't find it. It wouldn't have helped. Cpt. Chewie decided to take the wheel and pilot us slow & cautiously towards Springfield, MO. Sure enough, 'round 3:30 am a lil' outside of Bloomington/Normal, The rear drivers-side wheel quit. Yep, she quit. Gave up. Jettisoned. Peaced. Vamoosed. Went on sabbatical. Son of a bitch just strait up and rolled off the road, and it pointed and laughed as we darn near flipped over veering the opposite direction.
The back end-of ol' "Lomax First Memorial" van looked like a terrestrial version of the Mercury Lander skidding from left to right and right to left shootin' sparks hither and nither! We came to rest gently (and miraculously) on a median between the highway and the on-ramp... 300 yards from a Super 8.
"We just lost a wheel, guys." -Chew's earily calm voice.
There was a permeating air of jaw-droppedness and bewildered acceptance.
That Just Happened. Oh yeah, the van's on fire too. Good thing we are a hydration obsessed folk-band 'cause our only other hope was the accident scarin' the piss out of us!
"Everybody Okay?"
Action: well, one of us has to grab the important arcticles and go establish residence. Clearly, another has to use a *questionable* service card to get a rad gentleman to come move our van off the highway.
Allright, we're settled into the hotel, watchin' a zombie flick. "Now that's some ####ed up ####!" Cliff can't sleep, of course whips out his notebook and starts rubbin' his mojo stick on the paper, buildin' up his juju for the uncannily serendipitous phonecall he makes to a FINE ESTABLISHMENT that not only conveniently has all the parts we need to fix our negligably catastrophic damage but promises to not completely (Carig) Gauge us on price, get us on the highway by afternoon and make for one hell of a run-on to boot!
1pm, we're back to it, jazzed as ever. Say what you want to say, but the whole experience was a hole-in-one off a mountaintop. Missouri was Gorgeous. Two perfect sunsets, Mad shout outs to Cindy Woolf, Celandine, Lou, and the Dogpound for turning the days on the heels of that disaster into a glowing fireside memory... Keep your ear out, 'cause the 'Stringers 'gonna be hustlin' the Big Red Trike like a depression area bread wagon!!!
-Gregory-