Here is the story of two adults and three youngsters partaking in adventure focused around a heck of a indierockshow lineup: Denison Witmer, Page France, and Anathallo.

Remember when I said Erica and I were no longer cut out for late-night road trips and whathaveyou? Well something made me think we could make a trip to Hoboken to see this show, despite the fact that it didn't start until 9:30 in the evening. So we did it, and Stan and Leah and Travis came along at the last minute, too. Since we had youngsters along, Erica and I had to act real tough and young and play it off like we could handle it no problem.

I drank six cups of coffee throughout the day in preparation for it, and that helped. Erica, on the other hand, struggled in her exhaustion to stay awake throughout the evening.

We were right on schedule, approaching Hoboken (which is a quaint little city right across the river from New York, New York [a city so nice they named it twice {-Michael Scott}] and also the birthplace of ol' blue eyes himself) at 8:50PM, when I went left towards the Holland Tunnel instead of right towards our exit. I immediately pulled over, and decided I had no choice but to put 'er in reverse and get the exit, rather than driving into the Big Apple and getting lost or mugged or whatever else happens in that place.

Erica told me it was illegal and started making siren noises, and I insisted we had no choice. I was very safe and cautious. The shoulder was nice and large, I defrosted the back window, I even put my four ways on as I backed up, and we pulled it off perfectly and everyone cheered and we were on our way to Hoboken.

But as we accelerated, we saw a New Jersey State Trooper waiting for us in stealth mode, and before we knew it, we were back in the shoulder, this time with a bright spotlight shining on the car and an officer approaching the car with a riot stick or whatever they're called. I blamed it on Erica's jinxing siren noises.

Now, you know how socially awkward I am? Multiply that by ten, nay, twelve, and you'll get a picture for how completely awkward I am with cops. It never goes well. (Like the time we were pulled over after the prom, and I was wearing my neon orange tux, and the officer asked, "Is there a prom tonight?" and I said frantically, "Nosir,there'snoproblem,Imean,didyousayprom?Uh,yessir,therewasapromtonight,butthere'snoproblem...")

"I need to see your license and registration. Where you headed tonight?"
"HoBOken."
"HOboken?" (That's when I found out I was putting the accent on the wrong syllable of Hoboken.)
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know why I pulled you over?"
"I assume because I missed the exit."
"Well, yes, because you were going in reverse on the shoulder."
"Right."
"Where you going in Hoboken?"
"Maxwells." (I guess I should have said we were going to a concert.)
"Is that a bar?"
"Um, yes, I think so." (I really honestly didn't know.)
"Is everyone in the car 21?"
"Um, no, sir."
"Well, some of you are going to stay and keep the car warm, then, right?"
"Um, yeah, of course, sir." (What does that mean, anyway?!) "But, I mean, I don't know if it's a bar or not." (Sure, kid. I wanted to clarify but I guess it wasn't worth it at this point.)
"You have any problems with your license?"
"What?" (Seriously, what kind of question is that?)
"Problems with your license?"
"Um, no." (It seems to work just fine for me, thank you.)
He came back and only gave us a warning, for careless driving. I wanted to let him know that I really was quite careful in the whole matter, but didn't think it was necessary. He asked if we were lost, helped us with directions, then added...
"I pulled you over because you were going in reverse on the shoulder. How old are you?!"
"23."
"Well, use your head, alright?"
"Of course, sir."

So we arrived in Hoboken just in time, which is quite a nice little place. As we apporached and saw the New York City Skyline, we yelled things like "These colors don't run!" and "It takes guts! It takes an American!" and Stan kept yelling in a funny voice "The Biiig Apple!" and we sang things like "Start spreadin' the news.....!"

Let me make one thing clear about Hoboken, empty parking spaces are just about completely non-existent. After about 25 minutes of looking, we asked two girls who were walking for any suggestions they might have and they said, "We were just looking for an hour." We were about to follow their advice, but dropped the youngsters off at Maxwells first. On a fluke, we turned in one direction, and saw big construction site straight ahead with some completely empty road-side parking, well-lit, a block away from the club, and so that problem was solved.

Denison played first, and it was nice to see him. He's good, but he's kind of losing his touch. He's still got a sense of humor though. There were a whole lot of talkative people in the back, so he said, "This is my first time in Hoboken, and the nice thing about Maxwell's is that they have two bars, one for talking, and one for listening, so if you want to talk, you should probably realize this is the bar for listening." They kept talking, so he added, "Did somebody order a shutup sandwich?" We all laughed, but the oblivious talkers just kept going. Well a little later in his set, he said, "Has that shutup sandwich been delivered yet?" And just by chance, everyone got quiet at the same time, except for some loudmouth lady at the bar who kept going, saying really really loudly, "THERE AINT NO LOVE FOR YOUR SISTER WHEN YOU'RE CALLIN' HER A SLUT!" The entire place heard it including Denison, and everyone just went, "OOOOOOOOOoooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" and it was really really funny. Guess you had to be there. The talking stopped after that.

Page France played second. I've been listening to their album "Hello, Dear Wind" for a little while now, and I was excited to see them live. Page France is incredibly simple and repetitive, and if you consider that a downfall, it's their only one; put another way, they've indeed mastered the art of a 2-chord song. At any rate, Michael Nau picks up his pen and rich metaphors and colorful imagery naturally flow; he opens his mouth and lively, vibrant melody naturally sounds. Maybe I'm reading into them and their lyrics far too much, but there is something deep and rich, unique and almost magical going on here...It's a hopeful longing and eagerness to move on from this world....It's in their presence and stature, it's in their music...It's not something you point to and dissect, but something that is only felt. I can't explain it.

"I heard it's getting windy, so I'll sit and watch you blow, I will chain you to my boat, I will you carry you back home. And I won't say I love you because it's all been said before, let's not say it anymore, cause love nothing here's for sure...When we blow away, get out of this place, go down like a shout, go up like praise...I'm not sure what happens when everything here ends, but I hope it's like they say, and I hope it never ends...
...They're turning out the lights, the first day of my second life, take my name off the lease, and you can keep the name, it never suited me anyway..."

Anathallo closed the evening, astounding and charming as always. It is incredibly refreshing to see a group of artists doing things the way they should be done, or at least trying their hardest, rather than doing it for the money, the image, the popularity, whatever it is. They are proving things can be done successfully without compromising ideals, when it is done with passion, excellence, and authenticity. Everybody--and I do mean everybody--has a lot to learn from these guys.

Anyway, the show ended at about 1:15AM, which is at least three hours way past my bedtime. Erica was falling asleep standing up (she woke up at 7:00AM and had a busy, long day), and we were ready to get out of there.

We saw Lady Liberty on our way out, and even though I insisted no one would be sleeping on the way home, it only took about 20 minutes until everyone was out cold. Those cups of coffee kept me going.

When we crossed the Delaware and stopped at the tollbooth, Erica woke up and counted out the change: 2 quarters, 1 dime, 2 nickels, and 5 pennies. The tollbooth man was mad at the world because he was stuck counting change at 2:15 in the morning, and I pleasantly gave him my toll, wished him a good evening, but he refused to lift the gate. He opened his window back up and said grumpily, "There's only 74 cents here, boss!" (I wanted to ask if that's how he welcomes everyone into the state.) I watched Erica count five pennies, but he wasn't lifting that gate and we wanted to get home, so I reversed the car (careless driving again?), dug up that last penny, apologized, and he scowled at me. I tried wishing him a Merry Christmas but he closed his window before I could finish. He lifted the gate and I blew my horn as I left. (Not very loving, I know...do you think less of me?)

We arrived home safely around 2:30AM and I woke up the rest of the car. I felt young again.

And yet, with a car full of sleeping people, I kind of felt like a dad.