Vik looks up from his crossword as I walk into the 7-11, the chirp of door chime telegraphing my entrance.
“Heya boss.” he says. “Early for you, yes?”
Yeah it’s early.
Still dark at 5:30 now, the early summer morning sunrise finally surrendered to the oncoming decay of fall.

Vik looks past me, out the front windows, then frowns.
“Where’s my puppy boss? Why have you not brought Dee Dee the dog?”

I put a banana next to the coffee and sandwich on the counter, wave a card over the reader in payment.
“No dog today, on the way to the airport.”
“Oh?” and here he strums his right hand in front of his groin, the left hand held out on the neck of an air guitar. “Ah. Another gig, yes?”
“Indy tonight,” I say. “Indianapolis?”
He whistles and shakes his head.
“Man, how is it you guys do that? Travel all that way for just the one show, hmm?”

“And Chicago tomorrow night…….” I add, almost in apology.
But Vik’s already gone back to his crossword, though he holds a hand up in farewell.
“Safe flying, boss.” he says. “Long day ahead.”

Long day indeed.

We get that a lot, the amazement at the turn n burn weekend.
It’s a fly-in, that time honored tradition of C level musicians and suicidal stand up comics everywhere: Fly in, do the thing, fly out.

Our days of sitting in a van for months at a time are behind us.
And though we are no longer confined to those soul killing hours upon the highway, new trials are endured:
Ungodly wake up calls to get to the overcrowded airports.
The zombie shuffle through security. The lines snaking back and forth as if we will soon be rewarded with a ride through Space Mountain, and not the indignity of a spread eagled X-ray and an over familiar patdown.
There’s the overheated flight, the manic car rental counter, yet another Chrysler Pacifica mini van packed Tetris-like with guitars and merch.
The mildewed rooms and google mapped traffic jams, the baffling regional foods eaten at unhealthy hours.
We carry only guitars and cymbals, so we play Backline Roulette!:
It’s a delicious anticipation to see if we will be playing through hand-wired boutique amps or blown Line6 beauties salvaged from the curbside on trash day, if Nick will be seated upon a hydraulically lifted drum throne or milk crates.
Then, finally, we play.
Late night sets that season our tinnitus to yet a sweeter tone.

Why?
We fuckin love it.

We touchdown in Indianapolis on a sultry Friday evening, the Midwest humidity still holding the lingering perfume of Summer.
We’ve called upon Cleveland merch wizard Beenie, and though he has to route up to Chicago to get down to Indy (for, apparently, there is no way to get here directly) we are all soon hugged up and back up to speed,.
We head out to find just what this town is known for, besides a high banked Speedway and toxic drinking water.

It is the pork tenderloin sandwich we are apparently seeking, described by the questioned front desk clerk in reverent tones, this punctuated by a chef’s kiss.
A regional delicacy that consists of a pothole sized slab of fried pork product plopped upon a wee bun.

It’s one of those local dishes that was created to provoke the bewildered tourists, I suspect, for we all ooh and ahh when the great sammies are placed before us.
We take cell phone photos with the beasts, a hand spread next to the cutlets for context.
Looking down at the bulging concoction, I admit to comparisons with other kitschy Americana tourist trappery.
The largest ball of twine, say, or perhaps a five pound burrito that is free if you can consume it in thirty minutes without blowing out your lower colon.

Then we fall upon the sandwiches, some of us deconstructing the thing with fork and knife, some daring to lift it as a whole and take a bite.
Poor skinny Beenie, who only wanted a side salad, looks close to tears.

But ya know, it’s pretty fucking good, a passable schnitzel that would not be out of place next to some spaetzle and red cabbage or perhaps nestled under two over easy eggs.
And though we each consider asking for to-go boxes, though we should know better than to attempt such a thing before a gig, we end up chowing them down whole.

And then?
We stumble to the parking lot, blinking at the streetlights, stomachs heavy as if we’d just eaten a Rawlings catcher’s mitt.

The van ride toward the club is quiet, save the occasional groan from Beenie, who is holding his belly as if expecting twins.
Nothing sounds better now than a digestive nap followed by an evening of Hawaii Five-O reruns, but we soldier on to the merry Melody Inn, home of that other delicious Indy tradition, Punk Rock Night!

Going on twenty-five years (!!) PunkRockNight has become a goddamned institution.
It feels like nothing so much as a community collective, practically a Hey kids, let’s out on our own show! type of feel-good brotherhood: A celebration of Indianapolis’ loving care of local, and especially, touring bands.

As it was when we visited just 18 months back (a fact that the smiling locals remind us of repeatedly on this evening, as in, what are you guys doing back here so soon?) the Melody hosts a roomful of lovable misfits.
A jaunty bar lines one side, worn leatherette booths along the other.
In the drug store front window, for all the world to see, is the stage, crazily tilted to the immediate wall, making my neck sore from looking sideways at the crowd stage left all night.

Back in the green room we meet up with the Electric Frankenstein crew.
They are on the ‘ol Fly-In schedule as well, traveling up from North Carolina for the weekend.
Fellow So Calforidian Jaime is along too, lending his shredmaster axe skills to the EF crew.

We note the green room mural looks suspiciously familiar, and pose Jaime in front.
We take photos: we have fun.

The Frankies are almost our East Coast doppelgangers, when you think about it.
A long survived band that has nurtured far too many members to mention. (Indeed, when I grill Dan and Sal about just how many have passed through their ranks, they simply shrug and direct me to their Wikipedia page).
An excellent band that comfortably flies just under the festival headliners, (like us), a band that endures the back handed compliment of underrated far too often. (ahem).

We chat easily of common friends, past hilarity (the Brighton Bar massacre ,anyone?), and their upcoming tour of Japan with shared pals The Adolescents.
The lads all raise a toast: To the first night of tour! (…and to Tomorrow, the last night of tour! some wiseguy chimes in…)
Hell, even my buddy BA from the fabulous Sloppy Seconds stops in to say howdy,

It is like a lovely little cocktail party back there, everyone speaking in hushed tones between fits of barked laughter.
We show each other guitars and vacation photos, compare blood pressure medication.
Rich, our gracious host for the night, dips his head into the green room and asks if we need a refill of hummus for the veggie tray.

As I take in this wholesome scene, I admit to just a tinge of longing for the old days.
Wither the destroyed dressing room?
No bloodied knuckles, no smashed mirrors?
No sprayed beer dripping from the ceiling like shame fattened raindrops?
And where is the enraged promoter, threatening lawsuit and police escort unless we leave the premises, now.

Ah, but I’ve come to accept it, cherish this.
Who are we, after all, but well-seasoned men granted the privilege of coming out here again.
Of playing, literally, as if we were a group of Senior League softballers or bowlers.

I try to do the quick math, of just how long I’ve been awake now.
4:30 am to 1:30am, but am I subtracting two hours or adding three?
The drive to the airport, the stop for coffee, it seems days ago now.

A long day indeed.
But I am wired, suddenly, ready.
Rich comes back again and lets us know the stage is cleared: we are up.
And now we go out there.
And we get to play.