It was a strange weekend.

There we were; Josh, Colin and myself, all minding our own business and peacefully enjoying the scenery at BJ’s bar in Minneapolis. I had just finished my standard poison of choice, and ordered a second: Tequila, Whisky, Diet Coke, twist of orange, dash of cinnamon (I haven’t named it yet)

Next thing we knew, we were on a Russian Trawler, tied to chairs and being interrogated by a group which I think was the Siberian/Lesbianese Army. Whoever they were, they did not shave, had horrible breath and were as unintelligibly drunk as we were. (We later agreed that the food was slightly better than at BJ’s bar.)

Sunday night, we were returned. Our band manager, Sugar, gave us a quite severe lecture on safety, sobriety, international law, and the Geneva Convention. She showed us a letter which seems to suggest that since our manager wasn’t responding to the ransom notes, our captors decided to return us. We couldn’t figure out which one of us was “the loud one” although I probably snore the loudest of us three, especially after drinking.

I’m sure there is a moral to this story, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is. Probably “Don’t mix Tequila with Whisky unless you know what you are doing.” Hell we’re professionals, and we still got Shanghai-ed.