
We’ve played eleven shows, most great. Kids have come, watched, sometimes danced and sung along. They’ve purchased our wares and stuffed our perpetually hungry cash box. They’ve introduced themselves and befriended us, let us sleep on their floors or raid their refrigerators. This is the punk underground in action and we surf upon its crest.
But who cares about all of that hoo-ha. All I can think about is Lyme disease.
Last night after showering in a small apartment in Houston, I noticed something tiny and brown clinging to my left leg, down by my ankle. I tried brushing it off, assuming it was dirt or a speck of leaf. But it remained tight against my skin. I leaned down and squinted (no glasses on in the shower). With horror I realized what it was: a tick, a fucking blood-sucking disease-carrying, life-halting tick. It was bigger than the ones I’d seen back in Jersey. I noticed a white spot on its back, the dreaded mark of the beast.
I’d been infected for sure. A white spot means this mutha transmits
Lyme disease and now it injected its poison into my body. I began squeezing at the tiny monster, pulling frantically. It felt so small and lifeless between my fingertips, as if such a creature of seemingly no stature could never cause me any harm. But I knew the awful truth, the destructive and debilitating possibilities presented by this tiny bundle of terror. I pulled and felt him holding on. He knew a good meal and he didn’t want to give it up.

I boast a bruise where I tore him out. Now I await the inevitable red bull’s eye, the certain signifier of my doom. And I have 30 days left of this tour.
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