And she said, "How far will this get us from here? I don't want to think about what's back there, and we can never go home..."

I drove to Baton Rouge last night to see Pretty Girls Make Graves. I really wish they had played in New Orleans, for their own sakes. Nevertheless, they rocked this cheezy truckstop club with the worst PA ever. There were under a hundred people there, and they played for about an hour. After a solid set, they said goodnight and turned off their amps. People started leaving and they turned the house lights on. Nevertheless, myself and twenty other kids who had come from out of town stood in front of the "stage" and cheered for an encore that didn't look like it was going to happen. The bassist (ex-Murder City Devils) saw our pitiful little section and talked to the rest of the band; they came out and played a couple more for us. And it was fucking awesome. Maybe the most genuine and passionate encore I've ever seen.

I'm only realizing this morning how much that meant to me. I've become used to being disappointed when I set expectations for other people, even when it is a fucking touring rock band. But it was important last night, and I set myself in front of that stage and screamed for them because I felt an urgency that wasn't going to go away that night or this morning or even in three months. And they fucking delivered.