We eat at a diner around dawn. Because I didn't bring my coat, and it's cold, I'm wearing my gaudy new feathered preaching suit to stay warm, and it draws attention in these truckstops. The waitress asks if we're with a band. I should have said, "Yep, I'm Garth Brooke's bass player," giving them something to talk about, but instead I say, "Oh, we're with a sort of circus," and her face drops like a fast elevator. I never saw such obvious disappointment. I guess running away with the circus doesn't impress the chicks anymore.
Now becoming increasingly toasted with antisleep with every passing hour, we arrive at The Lab, an art gallery in the garment district downtown, at around 1 or 2 in the afternoon.
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