[Editor's note: I am elated that David Gans has joined the team and will offer up postcards from the road every month. David has enlightened and inspired many of us over the years and most assuredly will continue to do so for some time to come.]

Thursday, 8:00 am CDT

Travel day from HELL! I left Oakland yesterday at 10:00 am bound for Boston via O'Hare. Took a free upgrade to First Class, which made for a comfortable flight to Chicago.

My flight to Boston was canceled, along with many other flights into the region, due to bad weather all over the northeast. Thousands of passengers stranded at O'Hare!

The line at the customer service counter was literally hundreds of people long, so I whipped out my cel phone and called the frequent flyer desk; got booked out of here tomorrow afternoon on a 3:something flight that will get me to Boston with NO TIME TO SPARE. I'll have to get in a cab and go directly to the club where I am DJing, with no time to shower, no time to change clothes, no time to nap.

I spent two hours in a mob at the baggage carousel trying to get my stuff back; they took my claim checks, and somehow managed to find my utterly nondescript black nylon soft-sided just-like-all-the-others suitcase but not the utterly unique bright blue guitar case. And then they announced that they didn't have sufficient staff to continue this operation, so no more bag retrieval. Nor could I get my claim check back. Now I was nervous as well as angry and frustrated.

They promised all the baggage would be sent ahead to its destination, but I was not happy about the idea of my bright blue guitar case and its precious contents arriving in Boston on some random flight at some random time and being left in some random place, probably unattended, until I got there -- whenever that might be.

I approached a reasonably pleasant and unfrazzled baggage service person and explained my situation. "I don't want to leave here without either my VALUABLE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT or at least a claim check," I said. She cheerfully directed me to the baggage services office.

While I waited in that long line, I heard from various fellow sufferers about trying to get hotel rooms. One kind soul even gave me the number of a hotel where he had gotten booked. No luck for me. And the two guys I know in town whose floors or guest rooms would be available to me were both away.

Hooray for the cel phone! I called my wife back home in Oakland, and she got on the net and booked me a hotel room. Of course, she got back on the line to give me that info at the EXACT moment I reached the front of the line at the baggage service counter. As I lurched to the counter, trying to control my backpack, by green wheelie suitcase and my utterly nondescript black nylon soft-sided just-like-all-the-others suitcase, my wallet and cel phone went flying.

I was not nice to the man who told me there was nothing he could do for me and that there was no need for the actual hard-copy baggage tag. "The tag number is all you need," he said. "So I waited in this line for an hour for no reason?" I sputtered.

"I guess so," he said blandly.

"And that's as close to an apology as I'm going to get from you people, isn't it," I sneered.

"I'm sorry," he lied.

I'd really like to go back and kick the ass of that sweet-faced, kindly lying sack of shit who sent me to that line for no reason at all.

Thirty-dollar cab ride to Lincoln Park. Cabbie suggested several entertainment possibilities in the area, leading me to believe he is a stand-up comedian when he isn't driving. A kind soul, and I appreciated that even in my black mood.

A fair-to-bad motel across from a park. Since the flights were canceled due to weather, this was on me.

A decent take-out dinner from an Italian place chosen at random by walking out of the hotel and turning left, then right. Email. Lenoman. Sleep.

"Continental breakfast" here turns out to be chocolate donuts and a small puddle of mud where there once was coffee. Fortunately, the convenience store next door had coffee.

I'm gonna see if I can get on an earlier flight, but I am not optimistic.

Friday, 8:30 am EDT

The weather got better but the trip got worse.

My 3:44 pm flight was canceled due to "air traffic control." Too many planes in the sky?? But a resourceful agent on the frequent-flyer desk got me on a different airline at 1:15. I found this out at around 11:30, so I zoomed out of the hotel (whose computers were down so they're gonna bill me), grabbed a cab, and got out to O'Hare. The booking agent on told me on the phone that I was going to have to go to the new airline's ticket counter and ask for a "Rule 240" ticket, trading my E-ticket in. Fine, sez I, so I got in that big line and checked my two bags.

Got my new boarding pass, and then I was told, "You have been randomly selected to have your bags x-rayed." Well, of course I have! I have been RANDOMLY SELECTED TO HAVE MY LIFE RUINED WHILE TRYING TO GET TO BOSTON, so what's another few more minutes and a few more indignities?

The ticket agent signaled to the security people. I watched in agony as a large fellow somewhere near my own age, but much less healthy-looking, s-l-o-w-l-y walked over to our position, moving steadily as though he were on mechanical tracks instead of feet, a look of either stony imperviousness or sheer moronitude blanking his gaze. He picked up my utterly nondescript black nylon soft-sided just-like-all-the-others suitcase and then my green Land's End wheelie suitcase and began to carry them. "The green one has wheels," I offered, but he did not seem to hear me. Then he got a bright idea and placed the two bags on the conveyor, which was moving in the direction of the x-ray machine. The green-suited automaton glided slowly alongside my bags until they reached the place where the conveyor turns and goes into the building; I worried that he would move too slowly to catch them before they went inside, and that the entire transportation system would have to be halted until my randomly-selected bags could be retrieved and inspected. But he caught them in time, and fed them to the big machine, and the big machine spat them out, and another green-suited operative slapped a day-glo tag on each, and the bags were put back on the conveyor.

"May I have my boarding pass, please?" I cried. The original dullard looked at me uncomprehendingly.

A few yards away, another security guard called out, "Mr. Gans?" I snatched my materials from his hand and made my way to the gate.

I had become the sort of angry, self-important jackass I have seen all too often in my travels, the kind of guy you avert your eyes to avoid.

It was a long, long walk to gate H15, but I made it in plenty of time. Got in line to get on the plane, handed my boarding pass to the ticket taker, but she stopped me. "Flight coupon required" is stamped on the boarding pass, and I had no flight coupon. "This is the only ticket I ever got from [that other airline]," I ranted, waving my E-ticket confirmation. "You need a ticket," said the gate agent. So they sold me a ticket for $692.

I got to Boston, got my randomly-selected and inspected bags off the carousel, and lugged all my crap over to the other airline's terminal, where was told by the baggage services person there that the new airline was responsible for delivering my guitar to me. "BUT THEY WERE NEVER IN POSSESSION OF MY VALUABLE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT!" I screamed. "Doesn't matter -- that's the deal we have."

I had no time to argue. I got onto the rent-a-car shuttle, which took FOREVER to get through the rest of the terminals and fucked-up traffic because Logan has been under construction just like SFO for years and years, and got into my RED rental car (I hate red cars), miraculously found my way to the hotel on the first despite incoherent printed directions printed out just for me at the rental counter, and discovered that the hotel had no idea who I was.

After I explained that I had been supposed to check in the night before, the woman decided I must have been dumped into the "no-shows" file. She had a room for me anyway, so I checked in. Nice room right next to the elevators, of course.

Called the club, got directions, found it on the first try, drove around for fifteen minutes til I could find a parking space, went in, did the gig (DJing a Dead dance party), had a swell time, finally stopped seething about an hour in.

Blah blah blah. Got to sleep. Woke up, made coffee, logged in, would much rather be doing this than the two nasty chores that face me: getting that $692 ticket refunded and finding my guitar.

Praying I don't have to go drive back out to the airport. They have to deliver it, don't they? Please?

10:00 am

This is an almost comically awful road trip so far.

My hotel is the site of some unbelievably noisy construction. It sounds like they are dragging large blocks of concrete around the parking lot out there.

Dripping faucet in the bathroom.

I brought a dozen or so cassettes to listen to in the rent-a-car. This one has a CD player -- not in addition to the cassette deck, but instead.

Noon

I spent more than half an hour on the phone with the second airline's baggage people. Later I checked the phone rate card and learned that this hotel gives you the first ten minutes free and then charges 25 cents per minute for "access" on "toll-free" calls.

I am going to regret leaving O'Hare without my claim check, I just know it.

There was some significant confusion over the fact that I checked two pieces of baggage on the second airline when I flew out of Chicago yesterday. I checked my second carry-on, you see. I wonder if they think I'm trying to take advantage of their Bad Day by making a fraudulent claim?

I have a file locator number and I've been advised to call back in two to three hours. I ended the call at 10:45 a.m. and I have been sitting here ever since, unwilling to leave the phone. They have my cel phone number and my home number and the hotel room number; which one will they call if they call?

I need to start thinking about renting or borrowing a guitar so I can do the tour.

1:30 pm

My luck started to turn when my friend Larry called to welcome me to town and see about getting together. When I told him what was going on, he volunteered his Martin cutaway with a built-in pickup.

After saying goodbye to Larry, I called the airline and spoke with a very kind, pleasant woman named Rae Johnson, working in an office several thousand miles away. After several minutes of holding while she called around, I was deeply relieved when she got back on the line to tell me that the first airline has my guitar. "I'll be right over!" I chirped.

I am going over to Logan now to pick it up.

3:00 pm

My beloved instrument is safe, and we are back in my hotel room.

The drive to Logan and back was as charmed as my journey heretofore was cursed. Traffic parted before me as if I were Moses; a squeegee guy did my windshield for free; traffic cops waved me through; the construction crews at the airport took the afternoon off; Peaches and Herb were there on the curb singing "Reunited" just for me!

Okay, I made up the part about Peaches and Herb. But this really did happen: On the drive back from the airport, as I turned toward Kenmore Square from Storrow Drive, a city employee stopped traffic to protect a mother duck and her brood as they crossed the ramp.

1:30 am

Just back from Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. The Mickey Hart Band gave a marvelous and well-received performance to a crowd of more than 1100 people at the Hampton Beach Casino. The reworked Dead songs were welcomed deliriously, as expected, and Mickey's originals -- especially "Strange World" -- went over very well, too. Bobi Cespedes gave "Ripple" a delightful reading over a sparkling Calypso-ish arrangement, and Vince Welnick did a nice job with "Scarlet Begonias." Mickey is doing all the original verses of "Fire" in his original frenetic rap style, too.

And at Vince's invitation, I sang with them during the encore. The plan was to play "The Other One" and roll right into "Not Fade Away," but the audience started in on "Not Fade Away" before the band had a chance to state their own purpose, so off we went. Vince and I did it together, with me taking the main melody line. Coming out of the third verse, Mickey led the band and audience through some call-and-response stuff, with Bobi and Vince and me following his lead. We left the stage and the crowd kept it going, most definitely demanding more. The band went back up and did "The Other One," which morphed back into "Not Fade Away," and Vince and I did another verse, followed by more call-and-response led by Mickey. The band faded away, and then the vocals faded away, and then we left the stage... and the crowd kept it going for quite some time after the house lights went up.

The band was clearly thrilled with their work and with the audience response. "What did you put in their water, Gans?" Mickey demanded. "Nothing, man -- that's YOUR doing!" They really were excited out there, and they were right to be: the Mickey Hart Band hit a groove from the start and sustained it to the finish.

Bonus props for me: While the crowd was still getting used to the idea that the show was over, Mickey said to me, "What are you doing out here, anyway?" I replied that I was on a solo acoustic tour, and Vince said, "You should hear him sing 'Black Peter,' Mickey. Made me cry."