(Get me) Out (of) the ol' Texas town of El Paso. El Paso was probably the least attractive major city I've seen. Dry, brown, flat, surrounded by desolate rocky hills. I imagined being there two hundred years ago, before the land was settled, and my imaginary self withered in the relentless desert sun and became a little pile of sad, bleached bones, picked clean by scrawny vultures with beady eyes.

Moments after leaving the Motel 6, we were pulled over by the highway patrol, who handed us a speeding ticket. I don't blame him--we were doing close to eighty miles per hour in a sixty zone. I believe it was partly my fault, since I took it upon myself to break our speedometer in Orlando. Every time a highway patrol car pulls up behind our van, I get this horrible fear. I am not too sure why I worry so much about it--we don't have any illegal substances in the van. I think mostly I just don't want to have to pull our stuff out onto the highway. We do enough loading and unloading as it is. Luckily he didn't care to search our van. We just have to pay a measly, piddling little speeding fine.

El Paso to Santa Fe is a long drive through scrublands. Our route took us nowhere near Roswell or White Sands or anything remotely interesting. I saw no alien spacecraft, no nuclear explosions, no sand dunes, nothing. Once the glory of the beautiful and majestic mountain scenery began to get repetitive, I kind of blanked out and was transported all the way to Santa Fe's Warehouse 21 in an instant. The club was a sort of art space and hangout for teenagers. The requisite mismatched chairs and couches combined with a plethora of photography and drawing exhibits by local teens to create a "welcome" and "accepting" atmosphere, for which I was rather grateful. I like nice venues. Especially ones where cigarette smoke doesn't replace nitrogen as the main chemical component of air.

We sojourned briefly to the local Whole Foods store to grab a bite to eat. I made a salad at their "gourmet" salad bar, complete with parmesan, jack, and blue cheeses, egg halves, croutons, onions, vinaigrette, and romaine lettuce. Isn't that interesting? There's your little glimpse into the intricacies of my salad. I expect you find this particular bit of information helpful and entertaining. Perhaps someday you might make a salad using this recipe. That might be fun! You can call it the Logan Salad. Order it at your favorite restaurant, and scowl convincingly when the waiter has no idea how to prepare one for you. Then produce a small piece of paper with the information listed above and insist that the chef assemble such a salad for you post-haste, or he shall face the wrath of your mighty broadsword. Make sure to brandish your broadsword at this point.

Submit were a super-aggressive thrash-metal growl-core band from Montana. They had a rather small audience, but their singer made the best of it by shouting "What's up, Santa Fe?!" and leaping out onto the floor and shrieking into audience members' faces while flailing and rumbling like a demon possessed by another, more evil demon.

Kidcrash were a young band. By that I mean that the members were all about sixteen years old or so. You might not be able to guess their age by listening to their music, which had a rather mature indie edge to it. They played well, but more importantly, they played like they were having fun. Their audience was enthusiastic, and they ended their set around 9:30, which meant we were headlining before 10! When I heard we were headlining, I had immediately remembered "headlining" in New Orleans at 1 in the morning. For this nice and early show I was thankful.

The entire crowd stayed to watch us. I noticed some of the kids singing our songs. That never ceases to surprise me. I mean, I keep forgetting that people outside of Sonoma County, CA have even heard of us. It takes playing in some strange and distant city that I've never seen before and actually seeing the kids in the audience singing along word for word to get me to realize how music travels. That interest and involvement from the crowd got us playing better than we had for some time. The show made me remember that I do draw an energy from the audience. It is hard to give a hundred percent to an audience if they're milling around with their backs to you, shouting over your songs to their friends and spilling their drinks, leaving the room, or yawning and looking at their watches. So for this crowd I tried to give a hundred percent, and I think I did okay at that.

Afterwards, we took some photos with Kidcrash and their friends in a giant chair outside the club. Group photos rock sometimes.

Max, the club soundman, was generous enough to offer us a place to stay that night. His house seemed like a converted storage space or warehouse in a small junkyard. It was very nice, clean, and comfortable, and he made some Fuzzy Navels for Judah and Josh. I thanked him, saying I already had a fuzzy navel. There were enough beds and futons for all of us, and after hanging out for a while I took a shower and made my way up to the loft to sleep.

Logan