Driving. Heading toward carne. Hwy 15. Pechanga. Emissions coat the asphalt esophagus. It’s 105 degrees, up to 107. Sun is through a magnifying glass. Combustion blurs. The music of LCD Soundsystem and Trans AM shoot the barrel of the desert plain. I’ve heard if you die of thirst in the desert, you rip off your clothes in a panic and dig for water. Must be a long dig. I do 90 and think about buzzards.

Cut to Wine on the Desert by Max Brand - the story of a a runaway killer crossing the desert who can’t turn back because he’ll be gunned down. Hours into his escape, he finds out there’s only wine in his canteen. 2 days later, he’s digging for water.

We found a spot and set up our gear next to a microwave full of bullet holes in the shrub flats.

Barstow has a COPS feel to it. All the guys look like the bass player from Limp Bizkit. You know they will throw down, and need no excuse to throw down. The gas station we fill up in has Tina Turner’s “˜What’s Love Got to do with It” playing and I feel safer. “Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?” I inhale heat and Freon, and hit the Long John Silver’s for the shrimp fritters. That fresh desert fish.

Barstow Hotel. Recorded sprinklers. Dave woke up early and went to the hotel pool to swim laps. There was a girl there with a pit bull. The dog was going nuts, barking and snapping and following Dave up and down the side of the pool while he was trying to swim. The girl said, “Oh, he just wants to play with you. He likes the splashes.” One lap turn, Dave accidentally touched the pit bull’s nose. Mistake. The dog erupted and had to be restrained. Rabies and saliva poured forth. Dave was very frightened and turned into Mark Spitz for the Bat Boat getaway.

Photos: Dan Tyler

The Las Vegas Beauty Bar was jumping. A Tuesday even. I tasted my shrimp fritters all night. Full on dance party. A guy in a Chicago Blackhawks T-Shirt was making us drink Goldschlager. Gargantuan laser tarantula beats on the 909 and low end looping for the people of the desert. The booker, Brandy, does not take shit from Britney Spearslike chics who have punk, meat head boyfriends.

We went to some casinos to record sounds with the M-Audio. People were hooked up to the slots like they’re i.v’s. Smoke crusted gambler zombies drinking white russians and needing to play.

Bet everything you own on red and run.

Trent - out.

Head Like a Kite