Sing a song of sex and death.

Our van is being euthanized soon.

We're in Indianapolis, where we weren't supposed to be until the 23rd of January, because our transmission suddenly decided to slip n' slide its way into the dustbin of history. Add to that the ubiquitous spray of coolant leaking from our radiator, our suddenly totally useless heat and her increasing shudder, and we're putting our baby down.

This is a van that we bought a few years ago for $2,200 with just over a hundred thousand miles on it. Our odometer stopped working about three tour ago, forever stalled at 173,000 miles as we drove up Highway 101 in California. We've replaced everything on this van numerous times, are on our fourth set of tires and have basically rode it without mercy for years. This equals us feeling totally attached to it and sort of unreasonably sad that we've got to get another and let it go.

The bad news is that we're missing our tour kickoff show in Jersey tonight. The good news is that we were added to a show here in Indy, a supposed-to-be-raucous house party that should prove to be stupid amounts of fun. Fun is exactly what we need, since we're exhausted and grouchy and feeling betrayed by our van, that sweet and bitter bitch that she is. A fucking party does wanton hopelessness improve.

So we end 2005 by kicking our van to the curb like the toothless, A/C-less ho she is. There's hopefully a nubile, midriff-barin', leatherclad Ram 3500 hottie in our future, just itching at the chance to climb on the highway and fuck that blacktop until it spits.