WAR STORIES #5, #6, AND #7 = HIGH SPEED CAR CHASE IN GEORGETOWN & WEST VIRGINIA, & BACK AMONGST THE INDIANA CORNFIELDS OF MY BIRTH, BY DEER CREEK LAKE WITH DEAD & COMPANY IN 2023, THE FINAL TOUR.

War Stories #s 5-7 for J.J. (C) Copyright 2025 Rocknrollconcerts.com and Patrick Tyrrell.

Hi J.J. how are you?

What's up man.

Dude, I am not like everybody else. I never waste any of my time or my effort trying to "toot my own horn", trying to improve my reputation with anyone else, or trying to change somebody else's opinion about a third person by lying, or by repeating other people's lies I think are true, or what have you.

What I care about is what God sees, so it is impossible for Suzanne G. (perhaps) or anyone to remove heroic actions I have often done, or just good actions I do from God the Almighty's eyes. Say hi to Suzanne G. If you want to. I haven't seen her for 24 or 25 years.

I hope you like my war stories, J.J. I like you, you know. I sent "War Stories Parts 1-4" to somebody else last week.

I just typed a paragraph here about how I got into the University of Virginia, with straight A's at the community college, and I graduated from UVA with honors, after paying my own tuition with zero help from my mom or dad, but the paragraph got deleted. It was also about how I am not proud at all of graduating from any f$##$ing school -- including that one. (To be perfectly honest with you, J.J., I am no more proud of graduating from the University of Virginia with honors and two degrees, than I was when I got a certificate for completing kindergarten -- which I was not proud of either).

So, without further ado,

War Story #5, Chasing the Yellow Mustang Out of Georgetown at 2:15 in the a.m.

So, it was about three years ago, J.J. I was in my finely tuned 2022 Cherry Black Kia Soul. I was parked on the side of the road in Georgetown, at about 2:25 a.m.

Well, I don't know about down in Florida, but here in D.C., a frequent occurrence in the D.C. area is when some little sh%%head -- usually in a non-antique Ford Mustang -- presses a button on their car to make their muffler sound louder.

I always wonder, are they trying to intimidate little old ladies, or something with their loud mufflers? And, if they like loud noises, why don't they listen to music instead? And then, you know, some of them have a different modification, and their muffler goes, Crack! Crack! Crack! A lieutenant with the Alexandria, Virginia Police who is cool, named officer Lions, he told me that the police have no way of telling the difference between that Crack! Crack! Crack! of the dirtbags' mufflers, and real shotguns being fired.

They sound the exact same whether it's heard by human ears, or inanimate machines.

So, I'm sitting there on the side of the road, on the main street of Georgetown. What is that 'M' street maybe? I'm reading in my car, at about 2:30 a.m. The streets are entirely empty, when a yellow Mustang creeps up to a red light behind me.

The light turned green, and the yellow Mustang driver hits that button that loudens the muffler and his car drives by me, loud as sh#@t. Right?

So, I was like, "That's it!" Y'know? And I pulled out of my parking space and began hot pursuit.

Just when I did, by coincidence I guess, the song, "Ëye of The Tiger" by Great White, not by Foreigner or Journey or whomever did it originally, J.J., began booming across my car stereo.

"Rising Up, Straight to the top Got the guts, got the glory. And we're not going to stop . . . . . . Back on the street Staying lean, staying hungry, And we kill with the skill to survive. . . . And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night. And he's watching us all with the Ëye! Ëye Of the Tiger!"

Those are the words I can remember from memory, my man.

I caught up to the annoyingly loud muth$$#r as he crossed the Key Bridge going over the Potomac River into Arlington, Virginia, beneath the night sky and stars.

He swung the muscle car around some curbs through Rosslyn, Arlington and I was right behind him.

We both sprinted beneath a bridge neck and neck and proceeded out onto interstate 395. The 1981 weekly top 40 #1 Hit, Ëye of the Tiger, by Great White attempting to drown out the Snap, Crackle, and Pop of his modified muffler machinery reverberating up through the surrounding, high-rise, many-storied apartment buildings, surrounding us on all sides, definitely waking a lot of people up.

Not even if they took their damn Relaxium from Mike Huckabee of Guns N' Roses would it help them bro -- that's how loud the two racing cars, mine and the dirtbag's yellow Mustang were.

I was in the adjacent lane over from him now, heading South towards Richmond as both cars fluctuated between 90 and 95 MPH on the mostly empty, four lane interstate 395 highway.

I imagined he was getting scared as I trailed him like glue from one lane over.

As he approached the King Street, Leesburg Pike exit, he took it and I swung right and took it also, Great White blaring.

The yellow mustang pulled over on the shoulder, and as I shot passed him, I got to see his face.

It would have been all over for him at that point if this was a death match, as I stared straight into the depths of his eyes and identified the culprit. For your information, he was a white Latino American with stubble, wearing a white baseball cap, wearing a white T-shirt, and he was about 23 years old. He also had a worried expression on his face as I drove on.

Now, the funny part--when I looked back a second time, J.J. where he was, parked on the shoulder of the exit ramp, he was being swarmed by blue and red lights of the Alexandria City, Police., or else by Virginia State Troopers who patrol I-395.

Game over. I win. (They probably didn't ticket him for his offensive, and obnoxious, loud muffler though, as those became illegal in Virginia, in July 2022, if I am not mistaken about which July it happened, and this was a couple months before then).

Nevertheless however, J.J., the person was up to no good, whether he is just a kid out having fun, in which case I wish him well, or whether he is with the satanic pack of money-loving, no-respect-for-human-life-having satanic cultists in this area I have busted before who often drive those cars and who I think still think that I'll be murdered by their shallow, incompetent, devil-worshiping heroes some day or by somebody else (but I will not be ever), then, in that case, J.J., I do not wish those individuals well.

On to the next (true) story.

War Story #6, West Virginia at 129 MPH.

"We tellin' War Stories, Outlaws on the Rise Jealous People I Despise Look in My Eyes,"-- Tupac Shakur, #2Pac.

I was driving to Charleston, West Virginia, to see George Thorogood, and the Destroyers play at the Clay Center in Charleston, WVA.

I left early in the morning from Northern, Virginia, heading West on route 66. Later, I passed through Front Royal, West Virginia, and after that, I entered the mountains of West Virginia.

I stopped a couple times for gas, and coffee, and whatnot, on little two-lane roads in the mountains of the famous coal mining state. And after filling up my Cherry Black, 2022 Kia Soul car at a Sheetz gas station, I followed my directions which took me onto a larger West Virginia two or three lane freeway.

I was listening to the Guns N' Roses song, "One in A Million" off of GNR's "GNR Lies" tape and I had it cranked up. It has one of my favorite riffs by Slash, the guitarist, on it, and I do not think it is a racist song at all.

So, I don't care what mutherr$$%%rs say, and it makes no difference that despicable racists like Louisiana loser politician, and member of the laughably ignorant hate group KKK, David Duke, or any other scumbag says he likes or doesn't like.

They're musical preferences, like themselves, are not worth discussing or paying any attention to. (To say it matters that a person like David Duke likes a song would elevate him to someone whose opinion matters, and only race-card playing dipshits who got college degrees to 'prove' they are not the airheads which they actually are, or people who are racists themselves, would do that).

(If someone disagrees, tell them, "Why would I be proud of you for going to a fucking school?" That's what I do). For reals.

So anyway, I am cruising along in my 2022 Cherry Black Kia Soul, about mid-day on the West Virginia freeway. My car is precision tuned and really broken in perfectly.

This is what was cranked all the way up,

Guns and Roses "One in a Million" (Words and music composed by two Indiana boys named Izzy Stradlin, and Axl Rose, whose cousins and them used to wear bandanas in the green summer forests of Brown County, Indiana).

"Radicals, and racists Don't point your finger at me."

"'Cause I'm a small-time white boy, just tryin' to make ends-meet"

"I don't need your religion, Not watching much TV "

"Just making my livin', Well that's enough for me"

"You're one in a million Yeah that's what you are."

"You're one in a million, Baby You're a shooting Star."

"Maybe someday we'll see you, Before you make us cry ."

"You know we tried to reach ya' girl. . ."

"But you were much too high. . .Much to highh-y-ie-i! Oww, much too high."

". . .much too high."

That's when I noticed the first projectile being heaved back at my car.

A partially rusted, twelve-year-old or so white Kia--not a Soul--car that was badly in need of a carwash had just accelerated past me, and the first of several crumpled-up packs of Camel Lights cigarettes, I think they were, had just been tossed back in my direction, and had bounced off my windshield.

A second and a third empty package flew through the mountain air and hit my car.

"Fuck this," I thought, "What are they going to throw next, a brick?"

A paper cup with some ice in it hit my car next, and a few more small items of trash followed.

So, I thought I would get in front, and then whoever this dingbat was wouldn't be able to do that anymore.

We were both in the left lane with green mountains surrounding and blue skies above. I pulled into the right lane to pass the idiot.

I regularly took my 2022 Cherry Black Kia Soul above 100 MPH, sometimes when beating muscle cars or Porsha drivers with attitude problems in Northern Virginia, or wherever, but I didn't expect the white Kia non-Kia Soul car to try to keep up with me, and I was on the right-hand-side of the road.

I could see the perpetrator now. She was a heavy-set blond woman with blue eyes who had curled her hair using hair curlers, some of which remained in her hair as she put the pedal to the medal on the West Virginia highway, some crazed look in her eyes.

She was keeping up with me. The speed limit was 65.

70-75-80-86-90-95 mph--I hit 100.

The maniac next to me was still trying to keep up, and she was keeping up, so I could not get in front.

I brought my car up to 105, then 110, and I hit 115, alright, 120, and 125 mph.

The crazy white lady next to me who maybe had never gotten an oil change in her car before must be under the impression that she is Mario Andretti I guess I thought -- and a tractor trailer semi-truck was coming up in the distance.

I wanted to pass her and move back into the left lane, but she kept driving along next to me like a banshee or a bat-out-of-hell.

I did get in front of her finally, topping out at 129 MPH. The back of the semi-truck was getting closer, and I thought to myself:

"Well, I could cut left now, and get in front of the wingnut, and blast in front of the semi-truck from the fast lane (the left lane where trucks are not allowed to go, and where she was in, J.J.).

But I thought, you know, "If I did that, my life might not be in my hands," y'know J.J.? Because it is possible her car might be able to go 129 mph also, and I didn't have that information with me. So, my life would be in the hands of a crazy white lady being able to accelerate more or not, which was not something I felt comfortable with. So, I slowed down and dropped in behind her as we both sailed past the truck from the left lane. I was glad I did.

I slowed down and slowed down more, and I was no longer trying to go past her.

And then, a funny thing happened, which, in retrospect I am not surprised about at all. The lady turned her warning lights on, and she coasted over to the side of the highway, and she pulled her car over on the shoulder sputtering and looking sad, and she stopped her car.

Because she had blown out her engine.

I obeyed the speed limit the rest of the time I was on that West Virginia freeway, and it wasn't long before a West Virginia State Trooper, about four of them actually, passed me or tailed me for miles. They drove black State Trooper SUVs with lettering that was either white or yellow or blue, but I was obeying the speed limit of 65 MPH now, and I was abiding by all traffic laws, so they didn't stop me.

Don't try this at home though I guess though, right?

War Story #7, Back Amongst The Indiana Corn Fields and the Place of my Birth By The Lake--By Patrick Tyrrell

It was late June 2023, and Dead and Company were on The Final Tour, 2023. It would be my fifth Dead and Company Concert of the summer.

The first had been in Charlotte, North Carolina, on May 31st, with my good friend, Nick Rahall. I was caught by surprise at the Charlotte show, by how good the band sounded, and the fun we had. It was so cool, and rad compared to previous iterations of Grateful Dead member lineups the band had had since Jerry Garcia left the planet, dying back in 1995.

Those had never been very good, Rat Dog, and Further, and whatnot. Besides one Further show I saw in 1996 or 1997 in Camden, NJ with Donna Jean Godchaux in the band, they never were very good.

But Charlotte, 2023 was different. As a result, I saw an additional 4 East Coast shows in June 2023. They were Philadelphia, Saratoga Springs, New York, Burgettstown, Pennsylvania, and finally Noblesville, Indiana.

I was 100% sober the whole time, and the band's song lyric "What a Long Strange Trip It's Been" had taken on a new meaning.

I had been cooped up in the Washington D.C. area for too many years, J.J., and D.C. is a real weirdo area. If you've been there then you know.

People are dipshits there, and I could go on and on about that, but I won't. The bottom line, J.J., is -- I had to find out if America still existed.

If you live in most parts of D.C. and you watch TV news of other parts of the country then you would be like I was, thinking this great country had been thrown to the dipshits, "dipshit central" you would think it was called, probably. I was afraid it could be true--that the America we all grew up in was no more. . .

Thankfully, when I took my five cross-country road trips, in June 2023, it became instantly clear that America hadn't gone anywhere. It was here the whole time, hiding in plain site from the fools in Washington D.C. and in Alexandria, Virginia, and from the people who were glued to their television screens elsewhere.

Americans are f&&%n cool, cheerful, happy, hardworking, God, Family, and Country, full of fun individuals who do impossibly amazing things like nowhere else.

The evil haters of human beings praying to make people unhappy who they prey on are not numerous enough to make any waves or difference as the lovers of slavery and derailers of freedom -- hardly anywhere in America -- except one place; a former African slave trading hub if I am not mistaken, and that place is --The Alexandria City Courthouse, Alexandria City Hall, Alexandria City Government buildings, and various other organizations of Alexandria, in the Commonwealth of Virginia. It is like no other courthouse anywhere else in America, J.J. It crawls with Satanists and Satanic Cultists, Voodoo practitioners, perverts, sex workers, and racists. It being a small city courthouse, it was possible for the Devil's admirers to amass substantial numbers and control in there -- unfortunately for anyone who is good. And how disgusting, amoral, and Un-American they are in Alexandria, Va, and in a few other places in the D.C. area such as at the D.C. Department of Motor Vehicles were the Klu Klux Klan recently suspended my driver's license until June by adding B.S. to the DMV 's computer system about a ticket I received over 25 years ago. (As everyone else, not named Danny, working at the Washington D.C. DMV, who is not in the KKK like Danny from a place called the 3DF is, and who is currently not serving time for a hate crime like Danny is knows -- If it says it in their computer at the DMV, that means God put it there, right? The machines are always right and, although we do not, at this time, genuflect before the computer system at DMV and the machines there, we do defer to anything appearing on a screen at all times. And this goes for bank employees too, judges, clerks, doctors, office workers, and everyone else). OK. Ahem.

I'm an expert about machines, dude, and I have more fun than anyone else no matter what, machine B.S. or not, and I've outlived Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart too, which is beside the point.

Otherwise, though America remains "The Shining City on The Hill," which Ronald Reagan often spoke of; and no one will be taking that away from us anytime soon.

I threw my backpack in the back of my 2022, Cherry Black Kia Soul just around midnight. The warm night air of Northern Virginia was slightly humid, and the stars twinkled in the sky. My car hugged the road all through Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, across the whole state of Ohio, and rolling into Indianapolis in eight hours flat.

At 8:00 a.m. I was sipping an iced venti Americano espresso beverage in the parking lot of a Starbucks, on a sunny "Nap Town" (Indianapolis, city of napping) street.

Record time? I don't know, I'm not sure, but the person I was talking to on the phone had gone to bed hours before I left my house. yet here I was, waking the person up from an entirely different region of the North American continent--the Great Midwest, in what may be the greatest State in the United States, and the land of my birth -- Indiana.

I hadn't been in Indiana in years, I had returned for this, the Final concert of the Final Dead and Company tour that I would catch.

I stayed at an Extended Stay America, I think it was, in Fisher's Indiana, next to an IHOP.

The concert was the next night, in nearby Noblesville, Indiana at the Ruoff Music Center (formerly called Deer Creek amphitheater), which is situated on a lake that used to be called Eagle's Creek, which is where my grandparents used to have a house.

It's where I grew up fishing every weekend on a dock with my gramma, my skin turned brown by the sun, my uncombed hair matted down and wet from jumps in the lake.

I was a very 'Lean, Mean, Swimming Machine,' like the muskrat I'd seen on the lake wharf early one morning there with a live fish protruding out of its mouth.

I don't drink alcohol, and I don't do drugs, and I don't need to, or want to, and if I change my mind about drinking someday I will, but not today.

The next day, I drove to the stadium and parked my car in the grass parking lot, surrounded by chin high or forehead high cornstalks. The parking lot was all grass there. The stadium is near the other end of the lake from where my grandparents had their house.

A grey haze hung in the soon-to-be July air. The reason? -- forest fires from Canada. The smell of acrid smoke, and the perpetual smoke-filled air was thicker and stronger here, in Noblesville, which is Northern Indiana, and closer to Canada than the other places I had been that summer, and I liked it.

I saw that tall Deadhead there who died recently, who I think played in the NBA when he was younger. What was his name? I forget, but he seemed to know who I was.

There was a Gypsy runaway girl looking forlorn and lonely wearing mascara and a lip ring sitting by herself near a cornstalk-surrounded light post there about age 15, I hope she's fine.

Most people I talked to were not from Indiana. Most of them were from Iowa, Minnesota, or tour heads who I had met at the other shows I had gone to earlier in the month.

A band called Mason's Children, who are my friends were there. They sounded better in each parking lot I saw them in that summer, and again in the fall seven more times at Bobby Weir's other band's, Wolf Bros', concerts.

Mason's Children are the young tour head band that the cool, adventurous, kids in their twenties and teens were down with and danced to all 2023, and probably still do. The band members of Mason's Children were about twenty years old, plugging in their guitar amplifiers in every parking lot across America.

And they too, are what America is all about. Because Americans are always on the move, as much as your bank, your wife, or your husband, or your probation officer, or someone else doesn't like it. So, I suggest you take advantage of President Eisenhower's Interstate Highway System, and don't be a slave to a phone, or a witch, or anything else for crying out loud, man.

Traveling around the country is also the only consistent theme of much of the very best literature ever written in America by American writers, including, but not limited to: Mark Twain (Samuel Clemmons), Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

People were cool there, and I told a lot of them how cool I thought it was "To be back amongst the Indiana Cornfields."

Eventually the concert gates opened up, and I was about to go in.

Before that though I talked to my buddy Nick on the phone.

"Hey, what do you want to hear?" He asked me.

"Well, I'd kind of like to hear a "Wharf Rat", Nick," I told him.

I hadn't heard one yet, and Dead and Company hadn't played one on the tour. I felt like I myself was an incognito Wharf Rat, J.J.

Wharf Rats were Deadheads in the 1990s on tour when Jerry Garcia was still alive who were 100% sober but followed the Dead. It was a very hard thing to do when everyone else around them was getting wasted all the time. I sat on the Wharf Rat school bus a few times at stadium parking lots in New Jersey, and D.C. and talked with them a few times in the early 1990s.

Well, here I was, a lone wolf Wharf Rat myself. I was sober, but not 'stone cold sober'. I seemed to catch a contact buzz from every other Deadhead who was near me at all five Final Tour 2023 shows I went to.

When the concert gates opened, the real fun began.

I sat a few places in the lawn before the show began, scoping out the crowd which again was Indiana, and Midwest, which is why I came here, and why I skipped the Manassas Virginia show near D.C. where I live.

I decided to be dancing on the concrete between the lawn and the seats this concert, so that's what I did.

When Mickey Hart, Bob Weir, John Mayer and the rest of Dead and Company finally hit the stage, the crowd went wild.

I think they kicked it off with "Sugaree" with John Mayer on the vocals. The first set also included a song the band never played before or since--a mashup of "Big River" and "Dark Star." The crowd loved it.

The kind rainbow sisters who many people call 'spinners' were dancing barefoot in the concrete area where I too was dancing like a maniac, and I am proud that I succeeded in my mini-mission of not stepping on any of their toes or their feet with my basketball shoes.

I kind of' dance like Janet Jackson people have told me, which is OK, because she's a great dancer. My gramma who used to live on that very lake before I moved to Virginia, her maiden name was Jackson, not by coincidence.

My gramma was originally from Gary Indiana before she married my grandfather Cal Mathews, from Lafayette, Indiana. I happen to be a damn good dancer, when the spirit moves me.

And the spirit was definitely moving me, with some help from Mickey Hart's drums.

At one point I did a rapid-fire 360 X ten using my powerful legs which few people on this planet would be able to replicate.

People in the lawn area divided their attention somewhat evenly I think between the stage where the band was playing, and me, who was on fire, J.J. (no joshing).

At one point, J.J., I jumped up to the back of the seated section, standing higher than the concrete area I had been dancing in. I was standing on a ledge behind the last row of seats, and I scanned the lawn intensely, pretending to be a psychopath. LoL.

I pointed as I hung from the back of the seats there.

With my right hand I pointed at someone all the way to my right up in the lawn, as if I was going to call them forward to me, and then I slowly moved my pointed index finger slowly to my left pausing on certain guys' faces as if I would select them; and call them forward, much to the semi-horror that appeared on some of their faces when I paused, LOL.

Then I jumped back down and was dancing just like Axl Rose, which I thought was funny also.

Intermission came.

During intermission, a pressed golf shirt wearing man with black hair and a mustache approached me. Staring keenly at me, he said, as if he was a huge invasive insect scoping out a house to infest:

"Hello," he said "It's a nice crowd we have here; isn't it?"

I realized right away the guy was some kind of asshole, so I said, "I'm from Indiana, and I love Indiana," in a somewhat faux menacing tone of voice.

Even though most of the people I had talked to there were from outside of Indy.

The man then said for no apparent reason, "I drive a speedboat on this lake."

"Oh yeah?" I used to hear these guys brag about their speedboats a lot when I used to live on the lake as a child.

"My grandfather drove a speedboat on the lake," I told him.

'Touché' I thought.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, what's your name?" I asked him.

"Mike. Mike Albright," he said like he was in charge of something.

I told him my late grandparents' names who I had spent my Indiana childhood with on the lake in my youth.

"Oh, yes, I knew them, they used to come into the club," Mike Albright said with an Indiana drawl.

"I bet you did," I told him, "I bet you let those grandparents of mine into your club," I stated in a feigned intimidating tone.

Mike Albright's face turned bright red, and it looked as if smoke might start pouring out of his ears. (I don't know why).

"Do you know Bailey!!!?" He screamed.

"What the f%%%%k?," I thought to myserlf.

"Why yeah, I know a guy named Bailey, he lives in Bloomington Indiana, are they related?" I asked him.

"Noooopooooooo!" Mike Albright screamed.

"OK, they're not related then. Fine," I said looking at him as if he was an odd duck in need of some bread.

He began to storm away.

'Hey, where are you going?" I asked him, "You knew my grandparents, can you tell me any stories about them?"

"Noooooooooo," he moved farther away.

"Well. You knew them, than you probably know my mom and her sisters then too."

"I probably do!" He said and ran away.

"Mike. Mike Albright, and he's in charge," I thought, and laughed quietly to myself, shaking my head.

The second set began with "Hell in a Bucket," which is unusual as that song usually kicks off a show in the 1st set.

From there I think it went into the glorious "Wharf Rat" Nick Rahall and I had discussed on the phone before the show began.

I have an incredibly loud voice, and when Bobby Weir sang the part in "Wharf Rat" that goes,

"Half of my life. . .I spent doing time, for some Mutherfucker's crime. The other half found me stumbling around, drunk on Burgundy wine."

I went, "Wheewww-hewwwww!" Right after Bobby sang the word motherf$$$r.

The entire crowd, tens of thousands of Midwesterners, erupted, following my 'Q', as if they had never heard the word mother$##r before, or as if it was the greatest thing since sliced bread to them!

It was quite awesome, and it can be heard on the recording of Noblesville, Indiana, Dead and Company, June 2023, which is free on most streaming services.

The show also has a great "Iko-Iko" on it, with Bobby adding alternative lyrics to the song about girls dressed in different color dresses who are going to "shoot you dead." "Chak-a-fie-fee-my-may."

They played a "Good Lovin'" Bobby Weir is also on fire on; A "Lovelight" that rivals many that Jerry Garcia played on; and highly appropriately, the encore was "Touch of Grey," which had the whole crowd near me anyway dancing as intensely as me and those kind rainbow sisters I told you about had been dancing for the entire show.

By the end of the encore, "Touch of Grey," I saw many people dancing near me there who were having powerful religious experiences. I could tell, many of whom were 100% sober like me, and many were laughing with pure joy.

On my way out of the stadium, I texted a few people I grew up with in Indiana long ago. I asked them if they were there, they all said 'no'. I asked a cousin of mine if he made it in. He hadn't either; but, when I have talked to them since then, they all say the Noblesville Indiana, 2023 Dead and Company show is still talked about all over the 'Nap Town' metropolitan area to this very day, and people remembren' the time.

That night, when I went back to my hotel, I walked over to the IHOP for a late-night dinner.

The waitresses and I there were laughing hysterically about the intermission incident.

Who is Baily anyway I asked them?

But they didn't know either.

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OK, keep the faith bro,

Thanks, brother.

Have an awesome one.

Patrick Tyrrell.

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