So we had been driving all night between shows.  I had been behind the wheel, playing dual roles of navigator and DJ, flossing our tour van Brimley through the hills and hollows of Maryland, as I simultaneously picked through the various songs that I thought would compliment a journey of this magnitude.  Our destination, in fact, was all the way up the East Coast, in New Hampshire.  It would be, in every sense of the phrase, an “all nighter”, even though we’d decided to stop half-way at any one of a million non-descript motels to catch a quick two hours of sleep before getting back on the great American highway. 

Every band member and every band van carries battle scars of distinction, mostly in the form of yellow and red stains brought about when the middle of your sandwich decides to do a base jump out of the bun and into your lap.  Brim’s back seat carried enough regalia that he could pass for a veteran of the Normandy invasion.  So weeks before, we had decided no more eating in the van at night.

Now dark out, and our stomachs growling as loud as the hole in Brim’s exhaust, we stopped at a little roadside joint (whose name escapes me) for a bit of sustenance.  I became instantly panicked as I noticed the words “Amish Cooking” in bright glowing red neon lights. 

Releasing their debut LP, Sea Trails, back in April of 2008 it has been all systems go for the Chicago natives Absentstar. Signed to Columbia Records by Geoff Travis, yes the same guy who discovered the Strokes and the Kings of Leon; the band has spent the summer on supporting legs with Third Eye Blind and Daughtry. Drummer Heath Hamilton has been a contributor at TheWaster.com since June of 2008 and continues to put smiles on our editors’ faces with his candid glimpses into the wacky world of a touring rock n' roll band.

Amish cooking?? In neon??  Well, restaurants seemed to be slim pickings, so red herring aside, we sauntered in, hungry and ready to order.  I did one more quick spy of the parking lot, which revealed NO horse-n-wagon combinations, either parked or otherwise.  The closest thing to a buggy was the rusted hulk of a 1972 Monte Carlo sitting near the back of the lot, sans a few of it’s wheels.  There wasn’t even a hitching post.  Amish cooking indeed. 

The stained, tattered and spattered plastic pages of the menu clung together like children playing Red Rover at recess.  A quick browse of the available fare indicated that ordering cuisine of any significant redeeming nutritional value would be a challenge.  I tried to stick with things I knew would most likely not give me that most dreaded “instant sinking feeling”, so I went for the grilled chicken salad.  When the plate was tossed down frisbee football style, I looked the dish over and asked our waitress to please send my compliments to the chef.  I could see him in my periphery as he stuck his head out of the Order Up window, cigarette dangling coolly, trying to catch a glimpse of the band’s reaction to his culinary masterpieces.  He looked like a greasy wack-a-mole. Compliments indeed, the man had triumphed over the age old wisdom that stated “salad can not be deep fried.”  The lettuce was fried.  The tomatoes were fried. Even the cheese was fried.  Have you ever seen a salad with French fries used as a substitute for croutons?  Me either.  I picked through the hot mess, literally a salad that was hissing because it had just been ladled out of the fryer. I ate a couple of crackers, and asked our waitress for another root beer, hoping that the cook in question hadn’t also devised a method for batter-frying cola.  I wondered what his video submission to compete on the next episode of Iron Chef looked like…

We paid and hit the road, but not before making our nightly trek to find a location that would sell us beer.  Luckily this state was more lax on the laws than most.  (Let me say that it is near impossible to buy booze in the east).  Andy, going for a bit of exercise, jogged into a gas station and then back out with a case of St. Louis’s finest.  It was like a dual cardio and weight training workout. 

Brim set out again, over mountains and rivers for hours, before finally making it to a hotel that seemed familiar. It was already past 5AM as Andy and I crashed through the door of room 218.  I had watched Andy exhaustedly struggle up the stairs (this was a hotel with no elevator) with his suitcase, which by the way he was lugging it appeared to be loaded down with concrete blocks, an anvil and even a couple of wheels from that 1972 Monte Carlo. His bed groaned as he tossed the bag on it with a heave ho. As he unzipped the case, no less than 9 cans of beer came spilling out like Mount Vesuvius had erupted 12 oz cans, rolling over the edge of the bed and bouncing to a rest.  Looking over the cans strewn about the floor as if they were gold, he methodically selected one and put it in the freezer compartment of the room’s little refrigerator.  It was 5:17AM, and to put things into perspective the hotel staff was probably just then wheeling out the continental waffle machine.  Andy glared at the freezer with the awe of an art critic or proud parent of a newborn that sees their child for the first time. After approximately 13 seconds passed he declared that the beer was chilled and ready for consumption, tore open the freezer door and snapped the lid of the can wide open.  Then he crawled into his bed, and lay there; hot beer can on his chest, waiting to fall into the arms of slumber.  I sat the room’s alarm clock next to him and snapped a picture for proof of the event before collapsing into the floor, rolling in hysterics, where I would laugh myself to sleep.

Just one more day in the life.