"But it's all good, right?"

"Yeah, right. My cousin just gave me the wrong fuckin' directions, so now we'll get to Sacramento by way of Sparks. But it's all good."

We were on our way to a truck stop in Reno for the world premiere of "Joy Ride," a movie about a trucker who stalks three teenagers. Johnny the C.'s brother, Tommy the C., managed to score a gig for his band at the event, which makes sense since it's a trucker band.

Tommy's band is called White Line Fever, in honor of truckers who have been on the road too long and suffer from lack of sleep. The name has nothing to do with snorting cocaine, scoring cocaine or selling cocaine to finance guitar rigs. That's just coincidence.

I'm not sure why we stopped at Sacramento, but we did get a lunch out of it. I suppose we had to prove to Johnny the C.'s cousin and her husband that we were really going to the event. Our appearance in Sacramento might also give credence to the possibility that Tommy the C. would show up in Reno himself. It would certainly seem to increase the odds, in an odd Italian family way.

Sacramento, Sparks, right turn, wrong turn, lunch, no lunch -- it didn't matter to me. I had finally escaped Sonoma County and now looked forward to a free weekend in Reno where I didn't have to worry about sick and dying family members and could drink myself to oblivion. I had a three-beer head start by the time we hit Sacto and a six-beer heater by the time we left.

A few miles out of Reno, John pointed out Donner Pass, where we finally lost the thin reception to the Oakland Raiders game on the radio.

"That reminds me, I'm hungry," I said. "So... do you think the band will do my song tonight?"

"I doubt it."

"Yeah, me too. Learning the song would require an effort. That's too much to ask."

A few weeks back, I had sent Tommy the C. a song I wrote called "Gas, Food and Lodging." I had been waiting 20 years to place that song with a trucker band, and I'll probably wait another 20 years to hear it played.

"Think the band will do any songs tonight?" I asked.

"I hope so. Or we're fucked."

Tommy was getting us in free and providing all the obligatory free booze that bands always get at the world premiere's of trucker movies, so it was imperative he showed up. Otherwise we'd have to hang out at casinos all night.

Fortunately, there was a casino at the truck stop. Even more fortunately, we were staying at the Alamo Travel Center, right across the street from the world premiere of Joy Ride (I can't say that enough). As a tribute to the movie, 10018-wheelers were going to surround the stage in a semi-circle (I'll skip the pun) and at a dramatic moment in the event, all the truckdrivers were going to blast their horns in unison.

"And the best part? Sue Hawk from "Survivor" is the master of ceremonies," Johnny the C. said.

"Cool. Who's Sue Hawk?" I never watch Survivor.

"You remember. She's the one who told the other woman, 'If you were dying of thirst in the desert, I wouldn't lift a finger to help you get something to drink.' Or something like that."

"Oh, yeah. I remember now," I lied.

We unpacked our bags at the motel then hit the casino, where Johnny the C. explained the various gaming activities to me. Strangely enough, I never gamble on anything but football, so I was clueless about the ways of the casino. After giving me a quick education in blackjack, keno and roulette, John got tenacious with a slot machine, so I went to the bar for a beer. Bars I knew.

"I'll take a Budweiser," I said to the bartender.

"I'll be right with you," she said. She wasn't bad, so I stared at her. Sensing my gaze, she turned around. "I said, I'll be right with you." I didn't say a word but held my stare. "All right, I'll get your beer," she said huffily. I didn't say one word, and yet I pissed her off. That was happening to me a lot lately, probably because my "I want to fuck you" look and my "I want to kick your ass" look are pretty much the same.

Johnny and I returned to the motel and crashed for an hour, then went across the street to take in the big wingding. It turned out to be a free event, as long as you asked someone in the casino for a pass. And since no one ever asked for a pass as you entered, you didn't even have to go to that trouble.

We hooked up with White Line Fever's tour bus and were relieved to see that Tommy the C. had shown up.

"Great to see you guys," he said. "Glad you made it, Jasper. Come inside the bus and have a beer."

We hung out for awhile and I politely asked, "Care if I have another beer?" I didn't expect the answer to be no.

"Sorry, man, I've got to save it for the gig."

"You know, I've got money, you dweeb. I just don't feel like moving. I can walk across the street and buy a 12-pack later."

"That's a great idea. Could you get me some cough syrup, too? My throat's a little sore."

Fuckin' bus-ridin', pseudo-truckin' motherfucker.

I went across the street, bought the goods and returned to the bus. Good thing I did, because the so-called free booze turned out to be four-dollar margaritas and, yes, even the band had to pay. Wonderful.

Three margaritas later, the band took the stage. Two guitars, two dancing girls (dressed like those silver chicks often seen on a truck's mud flaps) bass, drums and Tommy on lead vocals. He could hit the high vocals, too, like Robert Plant with a rubber band tied around his balls.

Too long a time after the band finished, Susan Hawk took the stage, dressed in the obligatory, post-Sept. 11 red, white and blue patriotic garb. She thanked the band and introduced the film, then led the truckers in the ceremonial horn blast.

See? Call me cynical, but if you put on an event at a truck stop, hire Sue Hawk and White Line Fever to perform, premiere a movie already done years ago by Dennis Weaver and cap off the night with a 101 horn salute, then I think the terrorists win.

(... to be continued.)