by Benjy Eisen

Girls love me in Oklahoma. I'm not saying this to be funny - I'm saying it cause it's true. Earlier, the Great MJ and I woke up in the back bed of the 1971 Volkswagen, while Ryan hung animal-like from a canopy contraption set up over the front seats. We let him sleep. During the course of the night he managed to get us the fuck out of Texas and on up into Oklahoma where the wind blows cold in the autumn night and the dust covered prairie is silent except for the sound of engines on 35 and the whispers of old Indian legend and their whiskey. Where have you gone Will Rogers? The Okies love you more than you will know. They love me too...and we're both so wholesome.

We were stopped at a good old American truck stop, just past the Oklahoma/Texas border. MJ and I went inside and grabbed breakfast to celebrate our successful escape from Texas. I felt like Thelma and Louise although we were headed north. I thought about their whole trip and wondered if the cliff would have called to me too, whispering secrets to take me past the daybreak. That's the thing - they kept on going, man. They knew the ride they were on and just like everyone else, they were searching for nothing more than freedom, a couple of drinks, a laugh or two and maybe some kicks along the way. They knew the secret. You see, when they finally arrived at the edge, they continued to do the only thing they knew how - keep going. Forwards. Always forwards. It's the movement I'm after.

If I were them I would've done the same thing too. I *am* doing the same thing. I had reached a few cliffs recently and the mere fact that I was here, in the land of Will Rogers, was proof that I had some cliff jumping in me yet.

In an hour we hit Oklahoma City and found out that surf shops exist even in the Dust Bowl. It was a Californian native inside who asked me out for dinner. Later that same afternoon it was a teenybopper at the Burger King who told me I had beautiful eyes. "I should move here." I thought, "Maybe then I'd finally have something to do with my Saturday night."

But it was not to be. We had to make it through Missouri, stopping once to eat at Toot Toots and again for beef jerky at a Texaco station where the pay phone was busted and the restrooms dirty. The boys inside the station got a kick out of the Volkswagen, calling it "the original hippie mobile." Let them joke, I thought - the poor kids live in Missouri, surely you gotta feel for them.

We drove on. Always chasing the pearl. Always leaning into the road. Always running from something, I don't know what, maybe time and the great sorrow. On I-35 it was all shits and giggles really, as Ryan pressed on against the wheel, MaryJo made crowns to sell, I read a few pages of "The Bridge Across Forever" and looked out the window. I didn't see any bridges. I figured that'd have to wait till Iowa. Madison County.

Another day of travel turned into a pharmie war between MJ and I and before we knew it we were passed out in the back-bed again. When we woke up, we were at a rest stop in Iowa. It's a strange way to view the country - passing out for a couple hours and waking up in a different state, with barely enough time to piss or eat in between the movement. Look, I've seen the newspapers and I know what the Iowa Police would like you to believe - they'd *like* you to believe that the scene outside the Hilton Coliseum was all gangster and ghetto - a bunch of drug dealers run amok, tripping hippies freaking out over patchouli and patchwork, a free for all, wild sex orgies, gigantic anti-government conspiracies, Tinnamen Square, a sure-fire testament to the youth gone wild. Believe what you want. I was there though. I was in the front lines. If I'm going to be an honest reporter then I must tell you that that wasn't the scene at all, although I'm sure it'd sell newspaper copy in Ames and maybe even win a few votes in an election. It was much more wholesome than that though; much more tame. Even for the heart of Iowa, land of cow funk and horse manure.

Christy, the editor for Surrender To The Flow (the Phish lot 'zine) was making burritos while Amy High was trailing around a cooler filled with Mountain Dew. There were eggroll stands, falafel mafia and a few hair-braiding stations up on Shakedown. Music was spilling joyfully out of cars; students walked by mild mannerdly and shook hands with a spaceship culture that had landed in their backyard for the night. It was a backyard barbecue really - a meet and greet of the Mid-West. About the only signs of anarchy and chaos that I witnessed was the fact that the nearest ATM Machine was a good hike away and a couple locals had vague answers for honest questions.

When you're touring with Phish, seeing potentially twenty-four shows in thirty-some days, Phish becomes sort-of the soundtrack to the season. But after having been stranded in Texas for the past four days, it seemed like we were seeing them for the first time. Chalkdust Torture sounded good! MOMA Dance was tight as ever and equally as delicious - I didn't want the moment to ever end. First Tube was pure energy. Trey was jumping up and down, "Go man, go!" his heart pounding, Mike bobbing his head as if to say, "Yes, yaaas." Page a real gone cat, hunched over the piano like "That's right, man!". Sweat was dripping down my face as I danced. My legs ached yet went along. They could navigate the songs blindfolded. It's a popular dance with them.

Outside, Iowa loomed. Inside, the temperature was rising and you could see the electricity light up the place, almost as brightly as the full Kuroda and certainly bearing compliments to his story. This was Phish! Bathtub Gin, "Go man go", Heavy Things, "yes yaas"; Limb By Limb "That's right man."

Oh boy, we were in Iowa and loving it.

Set Two started with NICU. "Play it Leo!" So far the band was tight, but they weren't playing anything we hadn't heard before. Then came the Antelope. Snarling, dark, laying low at first and then quick-like jumping out from behind the bushes until you've got more than spike, man! You've been hosed in Iowa - shot dead and the hunter was Phish. Horse->Silent. Gumbo shot out funky-like trying to recapture its Idaho glory until it yielded wise and ancient-like into Mountains In The Mist which is perhaps Phish's finest ballad yet. Julius, Fluffhead and Slave. Bold As Love encore.

It wasn't Phish's best show, nor most experimental. It was, however, a damn fine Phish show and, song wise, one of the tighter shows of the tour. Afterwards, I caught my breath and then hit the lots in search of a Sammy's Smith to rage with MaryJo. We deserved them. We made it though Texan Jungle and for what? For this, for this! The score came up and we won. Well, odds were always in favor anyway. It was time to cash in the chips for the night - tomorrow was Minneapolis, the Land of 10,000 Lakes and 15,000 mysteries. Like, for one, the mystery of a Governor who was once star of the wrestling rink and whose nickname is "The Body." I wonder if he likes Phish. He probably should.