The tour bus has squeaked to a stop in front of our treehouse here in Brooklyn and disgorged a stream of sleepy, tousle-headed musicians and crew members. We will be home for a while now, sweeping the acorns from our front walk, untangling the rope ladder and repairing the woodpecker holes in the stereo speakers. Our heads are filled with fond memories of our adventures across the USA and my pockets are full of exposed rolls of Price Club film (expired 07/94).
Mr. Ralph Carney plays a whole bunch of woodwinds including bass clarinet (pictured), pocket trumpet, saxophone, and one that we still don't know the name of. It's sort of a slide clarinet thing.
This is what you get for breakfast in Fort Worth. Kind of makes me jealous that they have those, but the waffles shaped like our tiny states in the Northeast wouldn't be as much food.
This lovely sunrise was photographed out the bus window somewhere in Nebraska. Usually we sleep while we're traveling, but sometimes rosy-fingered dawn beckons some of us awake -- also the sound of empty bottles rolling around on the floor and the bus wheels grazing the rumble strips.