Shit.

Two days ago we were on the freeway into Houston. It had been raining; the roads were wet. The semi in front of us screached to a stop, forcing us to do the same. The van skidded on the wet road, giving us three options: veer into a lane of traffic, collide with the rear end of the semi, or take it onto the shoulder and into the concrete guard rail. Our sensible driver chose the guard rail.




The result is three bent axles, two bent rims, and a bunch of other broken stuff: in short, a totaled van.




(It doesn't look like much, but the tire is bent out and the wheel assembly and axle destroyed.)

A passing tow truck was kind enough to stop and help us out.





We, thank the gods, are all fine. We've spent the last two days holed up in a Super 8, dealing with all the complications of the mechanics' shop and insurance company, becoming very familiar with Whataburger (a "Texas treasure"), watching too much tv, and smoking way too many cigarettes. We've had to cancel three shows so far, and this makes me the saddest of all. I hate that. Right now, we still don't know what we are going to do. We wait.