Of hitchhikers and new turns.

They were two days south of the dreaded Canadian border, Sheila now in the driver's seat. Ken gave her the wheel at an exit north of St. Louis. Anything to stop the Cher songs - maybe she would concentrate on just driving. No such luck, but he was able to slip into a fitful sleep in the back. The rest of the band were awake but quiet, still thinking of the losses in Winnipeg. Steve was mumbling again. "No way, I can't play the guitar parts on my cello," he whined. Bob was insistent. "We've got a gig in two days, and you're going to play them, so start practicing." Steve: "Oh yeah, like... in the VAN?" Bob lashed back. "I'll banish you to the roof and you can play them in the wind. They might sound better like that anyway." Steve mumbled something not nice, and Bob drifted off again, depressed.

On the straight road ahead, Sheila spotted a figure walking the shoulder with the unmistakable shape of a guitar case in one hand and a thumb sticking out of the other one. She pulled over and he walked up like Robert Johnson at the Crossroads, expecting to see the devil. No such luck. "Need a ride?" Sheila said excitedly. "Yeah- hey thanks," he said. He hopped in and cheerfully said, "I'm Chris." Bob said, "What are you, like twelve? Does your mamma know where you are?" Unflapped, he said, "No, just lookin' for a gig." He dumped his guitar in the back, accidently bonking the sleeping Ken, who just couldn't catch a break.

Gail: "Looks like you're going to get your gig. We need a guitar player." She reached out the window and pulled the sullen Steve back in as he was making his way to the roof. Sheila stepped on it, the van lurched forward as instrument cases tumbled again. Bob pulled out a flask and handed the whiskey to "The Kid," as the young highwayman would henceforth be known. Little did he know what he'd gotten himself into. He might have been better off with the Devil.

R.I.P.

Russian maestro and activist Mstislav Rostropovich playing as the Berlin Wall comes down.

Of celebrities and a clean Getaway.

Not to be outdone, Bob donned the Freddie Mercury costume to compliment Sheila, now posing as Cher. The gang was ready to make a run for it. Dodging traffic, they made their way to a not so well lit parking ramp. A few minutes later they were heading down highway 75 in a 1979 VW van, hurtling toward I29, back to the good old USA. Ken took an exit 20 miles south of the city, and lurched onto a blinding network of backroads. The last town, Winkler, was dark in slumber - nothing open but a dimly lit gas station complete with buzzing Mobil sign and half asleep attendant. With no Mounties in the rearview, all they had to do was get across the border into North Dakota. Steve and Gail slept; Steve mumbling something about Redbull, gasoline and cotton balls, and Gail twitching in perfect time to Bob and Sheila singing turns of "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "Life after Love." Ken missed his wife, Jen, who was now running a ranch in Montana, long having given up hope of his return. He wondered why he EVER left his accounting job. The wound in his cheek itched. He reached for the a.m. dial. Fargo never sounded so good.

Tasty Pralines, Unplugged to Boot!

The lovely Pam Richardson and her musical cohorts, collectively known as The Pralines, playing "Paris and My Own Passing" at Uncommon Ground in Chicago: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyL6hd57FwE
"The Pralines" made their club debut with "The Getaway Drivers" at the now defunct Slipper Club, driving up from Chicago through a raging blizzard to grace the stage.

Of Unionsuits and Tutus...

Having sacrificed her shirt for the dual purpose of disguising the hyper-publicized cellist and bandaging the bleedin' bassist, Gail extricated a daybag from the front passenger seat of a Mini-Cooper through its smashed window. The five ducked into a nearby alleyway, giving Gail the chance to sneak behind a dumpster to make a quick change. The others heard a gasp...then a stifled giggle as she rummaged through the bag. Two minutes later, she made her appearance.

"Kee-rist!", was the collective utterance, followed by a "Wha...huh?"

Gail stood before them, dimly lit by an overhead lamp, wearing a red woolen unionsuit topped off with a shimmering white tutu. "Chanuck ballet, I'm guessing. You don't want to know what the alternative was."

Sheila was more than interested, though, and ducked back to the daybag to peel off the layers of sludge and take advantage of the remaining booty...

The value of bodily fluids

Covered in sewage is no way to be when you find yourself in the middle of the street, in the middle of Winnipeg, in the middle of Winter. Unfortunately, that is exactly where the small, but resourceful clan found themselves. They were soaked, and they needed shelter and quick. Sheila had the foresight to slather the thickest of the sludge on her bare arms, neck, and head. This seemed to provide a useful, albeit noxious barrier to the harsh winds. Ken, with his bullet wound found that his bleeding had slowed if not stopped. In addition, the bullet must have nicked his olfactory nerve as his sense of smell was non-existent. Bob, with blind-folded "CELLO" producer-cum -loudly in tow, used the Sundance "kid" as a shield to the elements. All Pingry could keep saying was "Bob, don't stand so F*%#ing close to me, man".
And Gail, shivering to the bone did not hesitate to break the side window of the closest car that appeared to have any kind of apparel in it. This later proved to be helpful.....

Rising Up to Paradise

They surged ahead, slipping and clawing their way through the acrid slime to where Sheila stood illuminated by two garish shafts of red and blue light. There was a grate overhead, old and filthy, which begrudgingly allowed the unsettling glow to ooze in and down a series of wet, rusty rungs like an electric fungus.

''What light?'' came a muffled voice from somewhere near the armpit of Gail's t-shirt. ''Uh, you can probably take that off, Ken...'' Gail retrieved her bloodied garment as Ken blinked painfully, eyes stinging but bullet wound now staunched.

''I don't like the look of this,'' growled Bob, ''But we've got no choice--we can't hang around in this disease-infested hole any longer, and Ken's cheek wound could rip open any minute. Y'all get on up that ladder.''

They clambered up and out, the clammy grate offering surprisingly little resistance.

The sight that met their eyes above ground was nearly as terrifying as the dank underworld below: an enormous, crackling sign screamed ''Winnipeg Central Cinemas,'' its excess light spilling across a larger-than-life poster featuring a sullen Asian beauty, a hideously bloodied cello case, and--Steve.

STEVE???

''Jesus GOD,'' bellowed Bob as his startled brain strained to absorb the fact that the boyish mug of his fellow gunslinger-cum-producer was now plastered all over Canada, if not the entire Western hemisphere. ''Pingry, what have you DONE!!''

''No, seriously, wait, it was just a little college project, I mean, I sent it to Sundance like AGES ago but never heard back, and...'' Steve gaped, transfixed at the glorious horror of the predicament.

Bob ripped Gail's shirt back off and tied it firmly around Steve's head. ''Dude, congratulations and all, but now every joker in TOWN knows your face. And you WOULD have to call it CELLO,'' he fumed, glaring at the telltale instrument case Steve was now fumbling to use as an oversized cane, having become both famous and blindfolded in under 4.5 seconds.

Bob cinched the shirt down tighter. ''Keep this on your head at ALL times, or we're DEAD,'' he hissed through gritted teeth, adding a somewhat embarrassed ''Sorry, Gail.''