| Into The Minivan: Summer Tour 2004 “John Wesley Harding’s All Male Threesome” Starring John Wesley ‘Wes’ Harding, Scott McCaughey and Dag Juhlin Tuesday, July 6th. And just who is the first member of the general public to receive a copy of, “Into The Woods,” my solo debut CD? Why it’s my friend Jason on his way back to Colorado, who, as luck would have it, is standing curbside at the American Airlines gate as I unload my guitar and bags (thanks again for the ride to the airport, Mom). Unable to catch up during the holiday weekend when he was in for a visit, we vowed to get together at some unspecified point in the future, maybe for some spring skiing out his way. And there he is, with his wife Robynn and his lovely new cherub of a daughter Reese in tow, heading back home after a long holiday weekend. We catch up at his gate, have an hour’s worth of laughs, and said CD is foisted upon him. I’ve not really left yet, but I am glad to see a friendly face, especially one of an old friend that I don’t get to see too often. They depart, and then it’s time for me to board too. New York city awaits me as I rather nervously and excitedly begin my first ever tour as a solo artist, supporting my good friend John Wesley Harding. Flying in to NYC, all is going well. Somewhere across the foamy green expanse of Lake Erie, my right ear succumbs to cabin pressure, and I am reeling in pain. I yawn maniacally and chew huge wads of gum to no avail. Less effective is the frenzied tugging, poking and even slapping of the ear in question. I realize medical experts would frown upon this last approach to self-healing, but I am in the grip of panic and frustration, fearing that my pure, golden singing is going to be marred by this unplanned development. I arrive in New York and instruct my cab driver to take me to Brooklyn. The question that I feared arrives right on time: “How do you want to get there?” Attempting the ‘don’t try and rip me off’ confidence of a local, I offer a wobbly, under-thrown knuckleball of a response, “Well (nervous swallow), just get me there (place protective hand on wallet) the quickest way.” But he makes it clear that he’s asked me how I want to get there because he, in fact, does not know himself how to get to Brooklyn. Perhaps my attempt at sounding local was too convincing. How in the world does a New York City cab driver not know how to get to Brooklyn? Images of aimless, fruitless drives through Cape Cod, Niagara Falls and perhaps The Bay of Fundy flash before my eyes, and I begin to see me and my driver spending the next two weeks getting to know each other, trying to ‘feel’ our way into Brooklyn. This is when I am glad I have one of those cell phones, and Wes guides my cab driver and I safely into Brooklyn, an exciting first for both of us. It’s actually Wes’ partner Abbey who guides Wes, who in turn guides me. As is so often the case, it’s the woman who really knows what’s going on. It’s not long before we’re pulling up to a swankly Wooster-esque brownstone in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. Hugs all around, save the cab driver. Scott McCaughey arrives later, and we’re soon off to a great dinner at Beisl, the local Austrian restaurant, and I am huffing down some succulent skate and a swell pint of somet uberbrau or other. Later, whiskey and Kinks songs are shared in the kitchen and opening and closing numbers are learned. The rock wheels are in motion. The ear is still mucked up, but all else is rosy. Wes shows us a BBC DVD of the funniest television program ever, “People Like Us”. Late to bed in the back bedroom that overlooks a lovely little garden that seems miles from The City. I am officially out of town. Maxwell’s, Hoboken New Jersey. Decent show, considering the plentiful jitters and first night/’what was I thinking?’ worries. Good crowd. For this show only, however, we are being joined by another act, The Mendoza Line, a local band of some renown, known to Scott and Wes. They will go up first, and the The All Male Threesome will deliver the goods with the opening night order being me, then Scott, then Wes. Prior to the show, however, the lead singer of The Mendoza Line asks me especially sweetly if I’d mind going on first, as her lap steel player can’t arrive to the gig until after 9PM. Though this puts me on the defensive (there admittedly are thoughts of “expendable, inconsequential opening act” running through my head…I’ll admit that I have been, rather stupidly nurturing a type of paranoia with regards to touring with two bona fide rock stars—a paranoia that keeps me assured that folks aren’t going to be interested in suffering through my shtick when they have paid decent money to watch two professionals. Sad, isn’t it, and a really unreasonably long parenthetical aside, too.) and would effectively derail the intricately (er, well…) planned momentum of the JWHAM3 experience, I roll with it and give in. I take one for the team. I am repaid for my generosity by the same lead singer as she stands directly in front of the speaker cabinet, blabbing away at full volume throughout my entire set. My entire INTIMATE, SOMEHWAT LOW-VOLUME ACOUSTIC set. An odd sort of ‘thank you’ note, I think. I rise above it of course, consummately professional all the way. I sell a few CDs and get some email names, but I am not entirely pleased with my performance, though admittedly nervous and still adjusting to the whole notion of being out on the road solo for the first time ever. Battling with the notion of jumping on the next plane home, I decide to gut it out, to learn from the show, and take my message to the people of a little town called New York City. The Makor, New York City. Now we’re talking. Great room, this, like a nice low-ceilinged nightclub in New York City, which is what it happens to be. Great sound, great stage, great sightlines (as opposed to great whitewine, which was shockingly sweet) and even a great, I mean, grand piano onstage. I was going to perform “I Am Ready” on the piano, and even rehearsed it for a spell, but ultimately I chickened out. Regardless of the fact that it would have probably went just fine and I could have ‘gotten my cabaret on’, I felt that a serious blunder in front of a New York City crowd would set me back even further in the confidence game. Carpe’d most of the diem anyway. Decent (and kosher) fish and chips for dinner, and met our emcee for the night, Eugene Mirman, whose website I’ve enjoyed for quite some time (http://www.eugenemirman.com). “I’m Eugene Mirman, and I’m in the arts,” he said during post-show drinks. I’ll steal that for sure. The show was excellent, and the first seeds of spontaneous humor and interaction among the AM3 fall easily into place. A great recovery from the previous night’s wobbly beginnings, and I am beginning to feel like I am on the road. Night off, NYC. Not being too familiar with the music of The Strawbs, but liking what I’d heard so far (we’ve packed a good deal of our beloved prog music on this trip) I had no idea what to expect from this show at the wonderful and intimate Joe’s Pub, other than free admission and a table. And this was one of the best shows I’ve seen in ages. This is the kind of music the world needs now. Support your local reformed Strawbs. We posed for pictures with Strawbs mainstay Dave Cousins, all of us a heckload of giddy. Drinks on me! (Hello, Dennis Diken, Smithereens drummer. It was nice to meet you.) Pittsburgh, PA. A nice club, but the personal low-point of the tour, performance-wise, as it turns out. Hard to describe why I choked, other than not really being aware of where I was and what I was there to do. I don’t mean I was wasted or forlorn or jetlagged or homesick — just forgetful, perhaps even coasting, mentally flatlining somehow. It was a struggle for me, and I don’t think I really had the crowd at any point. It was good to have gone through this, though, as every show afterwards was great, and I somehow managed to trick myself into some kind of mental state that prevented this mental brain fog from descending upon me again. Met Sigreid, a cousin of my mother’s who lives there and is married to world-renowned forensic pathologist, Cyril Wecht. The locals freaked out when they saw him there. He briefly stepped out to do a live cut-away for Fox News (I kid you not!) and then returned to chat and buy me a fantastic dinner at a swanky restaurant across the street from the club. I devoured a heavenly mixed grill and a gooey dessert. Wonderful, fascinating people, and relatives too! (Notable lowbrow purchase to offset this brief bit of luxury: DVD of the original “Batman” [as in the TV show] movie for only $5). Cleveland, OH. Beachland Tavern. We’re staying two blocks from the baseball stadium, and the Indians are playing the A’s in an afternoon game, so Scott and I are all over it. Did you know you can buy a $5 ticket here? Great fun out in the blazing sun, and we forgo our seats to stand on The Home Run Porch, which is basically a place to stand and wait for home runs. Well, I kid you not, internet reader, but we come THIS close to catching (or at least getting bruised in the scrum of drunks) a homerun by the almost commercially named Coca Crisp. The homer in question lands on the tarp of the lemonade stand, and the vendor flicks the ball to the nearest youngster, which is of course a nice move. I think the ball in this instance should always go to the oldest person in the nearby crowd, because the odds are some of those blokes have been waiting 30-50 years for a homerun ball. That a kid should get it is nice, but let’s not be afraid to teach our youngsters the occasionally difficult life lesson, just to toughen them up. Onward to the show. ‘Non-descript’ is almost overstating the appearance of this club, but what it lacks in glossy ambience it more than makes up for in charm, friendly staff and good food. The first of the really great shows of the tour, we were all firing bull’s eyes that night. We also got to meet Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Casady (of course old friends of Wes’) who were playing acoustically next door with Hot Tuna. This is also where I earn a good review for my performance, but also the summation that I “look like an accountant”. Visions of Bob Newhart dance in my head. Good old sturdy Wes. He eschews most of the post show bourbonery, in order to rise and shine with the birds and appear on the local FOX-TV “Wake Up Cleveland” show the next morning. A bit after the fact, publicity-wise, I think, but one must do what one must. I manage to turn the TV in time, on and Scott and I drift in and out of watching our pal play one-minute versions of five songs during commercial cut-aways. One of the announcers says something like “He’s really taking a new look at music,” which is one of the greatest lines ever. Almost like seeing a band you don’t care for and saying to them after a show, “Gee, it really looked like you were having fun up there tonight!” or, “How long have you been playing together…roughly?” And what does this new looker at music do? He notices the Coco Crisp homer being shown in the sports segment of the show and gets an editor to cut a tape of it as a present for Scott and I. If you hit the pause button at the right time, you can see us twitching and hopping and chasing the homer in vain. And we come to the happy realization that all THREE of us were, in fact, on the FOX morning news. Ann Arbor, MI, The Ark. Ann Arbor’s a nice town, if a little bafflingly overpriced (I habitually check out real estate prices wherever I go). We have two days here, truffling through the used book/CD stores and the local guitar place. It’s a quality hang, despite a greasy little hotel with postage stamp sized towels and a vibe that says “an episode of C.O.P.S. could be shot here at any minute.” The show at The Ark was good. A quality venue that’s hosted the biggest names in folk throughout the years, they run a smooth operation. Such was their dedication to efficiency; they filled our backstage fridge three beers at a time! The crowd was light, given the size of the place, and they had plenty of seating levels and sections in which to spread out and appear even more light, but they made some good noise and they were obliging at the merchandise kiosk. (Purchases of note: Jethro Tull “Bursting Out” CD, plus “A” CD/DVD. Also a bag full of Japanese candy. Man, they are miles ahead of us, candy-wise. Carbonated candy, milk chews, multi-layered/textured fruit chews: this is a people that will help you hurtle toward tooth decay in cutting edge style. Had some good English pub food too, and a slight tapas misfire on our off day, I mean our day off.) After the show we spend a very long night with two six-packs, writing a song called “Thursday”. We feel that Thursday is a dang decent day, whose praises have yet to be sufficiently sung. We have a good verse and an epic chorus on Wes’ computer somewhere. Off Day, July 14 En route to a never quite confirmed gig in Appleton, WI. we decide that the show must not, in fact, go on. Pulling the plug on this gig is easy for all parties concerned, and we decide to head to my house for a welcome gratis hang. We grill steaks and vegetables, drink tequila concoctions and watch Wes’ awesome Strawbs DVD, my newly purchased Tull DVD and one of the new re-released 90-minute SCTV DVDs. We also watch the tape of the Coco Crisp homerun many times and locate ourselves in the futile scramble. I chuck some laundry in and try to adjust to the odd sensation of being in my own home as a visiting tourist/owner. It’s at once both foreign and familiar. But that bed sure is nice. Madison, WI. Oh, man. This is where the tour leapt onto the third rail. The crowd at the High Noon Saloon were not only brilliant for actually being able to locate the entrance to this place, but were the first crowd to become essentially ‘the fourth male’ of the AM3. They loved our intro song the best of any crowd on the tour. Way to go, Madison. Lots of friends in the crowd, lots of fun, and the only misstep for yours truly was leaving behind the book of email addresses I had begun to collect. It wouldn’t be a tour (or yours truly for that matter) without the mishandling of an important item. Go, Dag, Go! Chicago, IL. First show, Schuba’s. Hello, Hometown Crowd. Well, I mean, it’s always damn near perfect at Schuba’s, isn’t it. A great show, and the biggest CD night in history for yours truly. Added bonus: the Buffalo chicken sandwich at The Harmony Grill next door. It’s a food highlight for Wes and I, though we agree that the sandwich should perhaps consider a bleu cheese sauce or dressing, rather than the present ranch dressing. If the sandwich is reading this, please know that we are fans regardless and the choice remains yours. Late show – The Hideout Two hours of unrehearsed AM3. Winging it and slinging it and sometimes even singing it. An absolute gem of a show. There’s a setlist out there somewhere. Wish you were there. Vaudeville Muse, Des Moines, IA. Wes put it best in his stage banter. “Nice town you have here. It’ll be great once it’s finished.” A stupefying amount of construction is going on here, in seemingly every part of town we passed through. There was an odd air about the place, as if it was recovering from a monumental disaster or preparing for an Olympiad. But I realize they have either come into a large chunk of money from a deceased relative (I didn’t know that Iowa City was sick!) or they are pitching hard and heavy for the convention crowd. Bad luck turned great when our original hotel, a convenient 10 miles from the gig (or so it seemed) was full, despite having a reservation. Cue Jerry Seinfeld, writing in mid-air. So we were referred to the downtown Marriott, within walking distance of the gig, and at a cheaper total cost to boot! So, yee-ha again for the AM3. Great gig, funky little room (we performed on a stage that had some scenery from a play on it) and an excellent crowd. Saw some of the rock cats from Cracker Van Beethoven at the next morning’s breakfast buffet, but we bonded instead with our breakfasts. Would have said hi to Greg or Victor, though, had the been there. Schuba’s, Chicago. Did you notice that bit of routing there? Chicago to Des Moines to Chicago? Yes, it’s true. Back in the van after our Non-Cracker Buffet and straight on to Chicago. Another Buffalo chicken sandwich and another great show. Wes declares it my best show yet, and I am assisted by Susan Voelz on “I Am Ready” and “Out To Sea”, and we two are joined by Dave Max Crawford on “Can’t Hardly Wait” to essentially tear the roof off the place. Everyone is in fine form at this point, and despite this being our fourth show in 48 hours (with two 5.5 hour drives thrown in there) The AM3 has become a string-popping, whiskey-spraying, Kinks-covering, spontaneously combustible folk rock brigade. I pity any tour that isn’t us. Another day off at home I cut the grass, lounge around, bang on the piano, repack my rolling duffle bag (not a euphemism) and go for a late afternoon barbecue with my friends down the street and around the corner. Shrimp, Tropico, pool, Oberon Ale, curried beans and more! Every day should be this good. The Patio, Indianapolis, IN Enjoyed some fish and chips at Indianapolis’ local chippie (sorry Kent & Ellie, we’ll hit that steakhouse next time) and Wes got a chance to yell at an old Arsenal match on TV and buy some English chocolate. I had a creamy can of Old Speckled Hen, which is well worth tracking down. Played a great show, despite a troublesome mix off the PA. The volume was rather unnecessarily set for full-on rock assault (we play acoustically, as I may have mentioned), which did not help matters when some of the gear started to go wonky in the middle of Wes’ set. No one was injured, though. I know Matt recorded this show. Rudyard Kipling’s, Louisville, KY Ideally, the afternoons of the touring musician are spent doing what he does best, wandering the bookstores, used record shops and coffee palaces of the town in which he happens to find himself that day. So cheerfully we trotted Louisville’s musician-friendly district. Snagged a Wodehouse “Blandiings” collection for a song. Discovered David Hidalgo of Los Lobos in the Guitar Emporium, then Wes called Steve Berlin to confirm that Los Lobos were also, in fact, in town. (So was Dave Alvin at another venue). Plans are hastily hatched for a post-show get-together. Rudyard Kipling’s is as warm and funky a place as you’re likely to find. The music room had a large living room feel to it, and the sound system, when finally assembled, included some experimental microphones that seemed to honk at will during the headlining set. Not to worry, the AM3 rose above it all and delivered a cozy show. Finished our show and raced off to catch the last fifteen minutes of Los Lobos, who are as casual onstage as any band I’ve ever seen. They were great, and we hijack Steve Berlin (he comes willingly) in search of original NRBQ guitarist Steve Ferguson, who is supposedly appearing at a local blues jam. Normally the words “local blues jam” serve as kind of a repellant, but the chance to see Fergie up close has us all slightly giddy. Well, Fergie isn’t there, unfortunately. A story is floated out our way involving a woman from North Carolina, a car, two guitars and an amp thrown in the back seat, and a hastily spontaneous relocation to California, but we cannot confirm or deny this at dagjuhlin.com. Regardless, the Fergie-less blues band is pretty near top notch and resplendent in their pleated pants. We guzzle beer and whiskey and make with the haha for a long time, lightening Berlin’s mood eventually. The Bluebird, Nashville, TN Staying with one of Wes’ managers, Kathy, who has room enough in her house for each member of the AM3 to have his own room. I get the room with all the CDs, and rock posters. Ron Sexsmith looks mournfully down on me as I get in an afternoon nap and slap on a new set of strings (again, not a euphemism). Quite a decent steak taco dinner, and a margarita with blue salt on the rim, en route to the gig. The three-piece jazzy combo is a bit too loud, and completely un-Mexican for a Mexican restaurant, but they have some pretty fluid chops. And this is a town with no shortage of dudes with chops. And well-crafted songs and scientifically mapped out stage banter and tight pants and rhinestones and moustaches and ludicrous songs that make people small fortunes. I wonder how my odd little songs are going to go down here in this Spangling Assembly Line Songwriter’s Town. I wonder if people are into anything but country down here. But I don’t know beans about country and Nasvhille and anyone who wants a more informed opinion oughta head straight over to Robbie Fulks’s site. Boy does the soundman (when he eventually shows up) have The All Male Threesome pegged wrong. As we enter the club, we see three chairs onstage. Chairs! As if we’re going to earnestly engage in some sort of Songwriter’s Workshop®, some sort of forced In The Round® experience, well, Nashville style. We banish the chairs to other parts of the room immediately. We are John Wesley Harding’s All Male Threesome, sir. We drink, we move around, sometimes we leap off the stage or fall to our knees. Chairs? I mean, come on. A great crowd, and one of my favorites of the whole trip, despite my slight wigged-outness earlier on. It is a ripping good show, and there are tons of nice folks here. There are tourists as well, and a couple of tables at the front clear out after my and Scott’s sets, deciding they have had their fill of The Nashville Songwriter’s Experience®. Either that, or deciding that they’ve had not had anything remotely near The Nashville Songwriter’s Experience® at all. Wes battles through the open spaces, of course, and even shushes some loud talkers rather brilliantly. This kid is spot-on as usual. I think his mid-song political set ruffles as many feathers as it is does the opposite thing to ruffling feathers, which is good. (A very nice fellow from Sawyer Brown is in attendance, complimenting my song, “It’s Not True”. They won on Star Search a long time ago! Where the heck is Sam Harris now?) Boy is The All Male Threesome surprised when their respective bar tabs come at the end of the night! Remember, things may seem free, but you’ll always have to pay at the back end. Sometimes even full price, no matter how awesome your threesome is. So watch what you order and spell the terms out beforehand, and you’ll always be happy. Get a pre-nup for your booze. Back to Kathy’s then, for the shortest night of sleep in history. We’ve got to drive to Arlington, VA tomorrow. Ten hours. The Iota, Arlington VA Seattle’s own Scott McCaughey is the driving champ for this grueling stretch of driving. I sneak in for a couple of hours behind the wheel, but this long, long trip is book-ended by Scott. A very impressive bit of driving, we all agree. We spend the trip listening to a CD given to Wes by a fan. It features an oddball assortment of corporate training/cheerleading songs designed to remind mid-level managers to remain aggressive and upbeat in their pursuit of low overstock and a beefy bottom line. It also contains weird, faux sub-Schoolhouse Rock nonsense, and unfortunate Christian pop/rock. We are infatuated with a chap called Roger Nusic (ever quotable, I offer the following to Roger, at no charge: “Roger Nusic — it’s nearly ‘music’!”) and play his hiccuppy skittish post new wave song “Hallelu” no less than fifteen times throughout the trip, marveling at each frightening nuance and missed opportunity for musicality. Roger is our co-pilot. The Iota treats us like heroes. A fantastic meal, free drinks, and a full house — we were anticipating a great night, and our expectations are exceeded by miles. I even sell my remaining copies of “Into The Woods”, which is a good news/bad news scenario, but less stuff to carry. We turn in perhaps our most spirited performance of the tour, even sharing our Roger Nusic CD with the crowd and offering them a play-by-play analysis of his song. The All Male Threesome is awesome at this point we know it. Scott and I celebrate late. The next morning, as if we are being punished, our own inertia and inability to discern the good from the dodgy causes us to stumble into a rather unfortunate restaurant that bills itself without apology or apostrophe as Summers. To go into the endless details that qualify this as the worst restaurant on the planet would require a thesis. Let me just offer a truncated list 1. To refill the coffee cups, the waitress brings each cup back into the kitchen. What is going on in that kitchen? 2. The condiments are brought to the table after breakfast has been ordered, then removed before the meals arrive. 3. The omelets are thin, suspiciously neatly folded things containing what appear to be 1.5 eggs each, and a paltry smattering of ingredients, the cheese lazily unmelted across the top. 4. We each receive 6 precisely doled out potato chunks, constituting the ‘potato’ portion of the ‘brunch’. 5. The food is horrible. 6. The butter is fake. 7. The coffee is a ridiculous concoction of what is presumably ground-up tree bark and essence of hamster cage. 8. Summers labels itself as a ‘Sports Bar & Grill’. There is not a single reference to sports anywhere in the ‘Bar’ or ‘Grill’ (not that we require this to enjoy a meal. We get our sports from the sports page folded under Scott’s arm each day, thankyouverymuch. We are not interested in seeing an old hockey jersey or an autographed football or a battered felt pennant from the good old days. It’s just that this place is not even good enough to be half-assed; it’s totally non-assed). The only nod to sports is the presence of about one dozen large television sets, lined up next to each other behind the ‘Bar’. 9. The food is lousy and expensive. 10. Really, I can’t tell you how truly awful it was. Now does that sound like the pansied ramblings of a would-be rock star, forced to suffer the indignities of what some people find perfectly acceptable? Have the good responses and brisk CD sales gone to my bald accountant’s head? Does hanging with rock royalty somehow give me the right to behave like P. Diddy, forced by some grevious oversight to fly coach? No. This is the worst restaurant on earth, but Scott McCaughey and I are too hungover to do anything about it. Plus, we found a parking spot right out front. How do we top this experience? Well, for a start we get heinously, hugely lost trying to get out of D.C. and on to Philadelphia. Too hungover to change the CD, but also kind of into it, we listen to “Tusk” twice, all the way through as we feebly fumble for the tollway. This voyage, naturally, includes a trip to the most out-of-the-way, grimiest Starbucks in the world. We are shooting the opposite of bull’s eyes, with unflagging accuracy. (Boy, Delaware is a pissy little toll-road of a state. I think they resent the fact that people are just constantly passing through and not enjoying their presumably natural beauty and tourist traps. There’s a rather profound whiff of Short Man’s Overcompensatory Indignance Disease, as they charge you (us) a hefty toll every fifteen yards, just because they can. Oy, Delaware. Let’s talk! You need a hug! You are a pretty state! Seriously, we all think so! Can we have some of our money back?) The Tin Angel, Philadelphia. The Last Night Of The Tour! Ever look for a gas station in a major downtown city? Ever do it in a rented minivan that’s riding on fumes? Well, Scott McCaughey and I have. Our good luck continues! We finally find a shell-shocked little wart of a gas station out in a funky district and plop some precious petrol in the tank. Our journey was kind of funny in hindsight, once we got the gas. Before we got the gas it was kind of a pain. Scott’s cool head prevailed though. The guy has got a cool head! I don’t know why he hides it under those hats of his. Well, The Tin Angel! Here’s a friendly place with another brilliant restaurant underneath. What a great club. I would pay to play here again. This is of course a great show, though slightly less insane than last night’s, but that’s fine. The realization that this is the last night has perhaps got the AM3 slightly melancholy, and in a kind of moment-savoring mood. The crowd is incredibly receptive, and they’ve packed this beautiful room out nicely. There are even some, dare I say it, fans of mine who’ve driven from Jersey after picking up my CD at the Maxwell’s show! Anne + Bill, many thanks! I hope you got home OK. So the tour closes on a high note, musically, and our performances are so spot on, so together, that it’s all of a sudden become kind of a nagging shame that we can’t take this tour further. Say, west. And further north. And southwest. And maybe in some of the mountain states and then a swing northwest and maybe pop into Canada for a sandwich and a couple shows. Or what the heck, Europe is nice. (Listening, JWHarding Worldwide Tours, Inc.?) |