Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Receipt for gas
Monsters of Folk: On the Road
Featuring (from left to right) Mike Mogis, M. Ward, Jim James, and Conor Oberst
M: <staring out of the window while lightly playing an acoustic guitar> Seems like every where I go, the sky is falling.
Mike: Really? <genuine surprise and interest> I haven’t noticed any rain at any of our destinations. <his speech gaining momentum> If I had to use one word to describe all of them together, it would be… lovely. Our tour has been lovely.
Jim: <with authentic curiosity> Do you guys think it is kinda silly that my solo work is billed as Yim Yames?
<no response. Not even a flinch, as if they had heard the question multiple times before.>
Conor: <browsing through the tour bus fridge> Is it the destinations that really matter, man? <his rifling becoming more frantic> The road is beautiful. The road heals. The road… <a frustrated clanking coming from the refrigerator> I thought there was more vodka in here. <his eyes not stopping the search in the fridge>
M: You finished the last of it this morning, man. <staring at the strings on his guitar as if he were speaking to them>
Conor: <thoughtless reaction> Shit. <angry, as if he just heard M’s answer> SHIT.
M: Go on… about what you were saying… about the road’s beauty and its healing… <followed by a slight grin>
Mike: <scrunching up his nose with laughter>
Conor: <an angry glare> But that was my shit. <anger’s fumes fade to innocence>
Who drank it?
M: You did, man. <silence and blank stares> This morning. Around 3 am. You said something about the President, chugged the last of the bottle, watched an episode of the Kardashians, and then passed out on the couch.
Conor: <vaguely remembering> Shit. <searching out the tented windows surrounding them> We’re in the middle of nowhere…
Mike: <giggles erupting into laughter> And it is now…
<humor lost on Conor at this moment>
M: <cool; paternal, even> I’m sure the next truck stop…
Conor: <not cool; childish, perhaps> That will probably be hours!
M: Yeah, man… It is only noon.
Conor: Shit… Crappy crappy shit…
M: Man. <somber and observant> This is, like, as worked up as you get.
Conor: Fuck off, Mike!
Mike: <giggling> I didn’t say anything! <through the laughter> We will have to stop for gas sometime soon.
<a few minutes pass>
Jim: <quietly, to Conor. Another authentic question> You were watching the Kardashians?
Conor: Shut up, Yim.
<friendly laughter surrounds>