12:11 PM
We drive along the Pacific once more and I’m looking at hulking oil tankers off in the ocean misty distance.
Last night Josh, Greg and I hung out for a while at the beach. I couldn’t stop looking up and losing myself in the gorgeous celestial emptiness of the sky and the stars. The college kids of Isla Vista don’t see the beauty of this place. This is college? Try living in the burnt out soul-smashing, university/company town of New Brunswick, NJ, where drunk townies (not the four-year mommy-and-daddy subsidized drifters) collapse on your stoop with nary a warning. That is college, with squalid street winters of gray slush in housing built 100 years ago when heat was a word relegated to a fireplace and wool sweaters.
After the show last night (in the Biko house garage), we retired briefly to Alex’s co-op house. Last time he was gracious enough to let us crash there, though he left. Guy offered us free reign of his belongings and demanded I sleep in his bed. I recall sweetly slipping into unconsciousness sore and almost broken as the sounds of the Pacific crashed a mere two blocks away.
This time Alex brought us to a mad college party. Hundreds of drunk frat and sorority types spilled out of the house and all over the yard. We just stood there and watched with mouths agape. One of Alex’s housemates explained that what we witnessed was a “Pimp and Ho” party, hence the lurid outfits. I saw one beefsteak Charlie looking behemoth wearing a bow tie sans shirt. Stumbling jocks wielding plastic cups of frothy piss-colored beer struggled valiantly to woo drunken make-up queens. Terrible, nerve-wracking scene. We retreated to the beach and then back to Alex’s. Eric made out with a girl from the show. The next morning a female employee of the Starbuck’s across the street from the burrito place asked for his number. Tonight we play Santa Cruz at a college. Maybe we’ll attend another Pimp and Ho party.
4:07 PM
Somehow The Beatles are dragging me out of my bad mood. Too much to think about and dwell upon on these long drives, as if I’m fingering a cavity-ridden tooth or pulling at the scab on an open wound.
For some reason I feel the need to make zines again. It’s not as if I hadn’t had fleeting bursts of desire to do so in the past few years. It’s always been the hurdle of funding and means of photocopying. I skimmed through a zine someone left with us somewhere and it is terrible. It reminds me of my disillusion with the anarcho-punk sect I once tried to ingratiate myself with. Despite some sense of feeling aligned with the cause, it was the tactics and the culture that rubbed me wrong. I realized that the “movement” was dominated by a groupthink mentality. Everyone looked the same, they acted the same, they talked the same. It’s no different with the scene I see at our shows. We’re all sheep marching to slaughter. I don’t fit anywhere. I like it that way. That isn’t to say I am nihilist who doesn’t believe in movements working together towards change or towards something. I want to be myself.
I’m craving a mentally nourishing political tome. Too many of such books are dull as a math class at 7 in the morning (I suffered through one, I know). That’s why I loved some of the books I plowed through before embarking on this tour. Rogue State by William Blum, Best Democracy Money Can Buy by Greg Palast…damn, only two. I need to do more, I need to be more. That’s enough whining for now. Farms and hills pass by. I don’t know where we are. Road signs announce Salinas, San Francisco and we need to reach Santa Cruz. 21 shows to go.
4:20 PM
Matt bought Bass Player Magazine at the Barnes and Noble in San Luis Obispo. Gracing the cover was Ben, a guy I was friends with ten years ago. His band often played with mine at all ages club shows at the Jersey shore. I envied his immeasurable talent. He had the best of all worlds: expert guitarist finesse, multi-dimensional vocal ability, not to mention enough charisma to win over every girl (or guy) in the joint. I remember one cold December night after a show at the Surf Club in Ortley Beach, a crew of us hunkered down at a sticky table at the OB Diner in Point Pleasant (home of Kirsten Dunst for those keeping score at home). During a discussion on the deluge of straight edge and vegan kids at our shows, he coolly remarked, “Look, I’m wearing a leather belt. I don’t care about that. I smoke cigarettes. I’m eating this cheeseburger. All I care about is my guitar, my bands, music.” What he said made sense for him. There he is, looking not much different than he did in 1994, on the cover of a magazine, doing exactly what he said he would do. I was 18 then. I obsessed over hardcore, DIY, punk. The notion of devoting myself to music was entirely foreign. More precisely, it was anathema to everything I believed in. You were not supposed to live off of music, that was the rule. I was a freshman in college, I planned…shit, time to look at directions, I will continue this rant later…
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
PCH
10:22 AM
The sun shines as usual as we leave L.A. This has been our home. We stayed the last two nights at Ray’s house in Huntington Beach. Nice place, nice area. Hanging out with Ray is always a blast. Our show last night was in this dodgy area of L.A. by skid row. There were no indications outside the venue that it was a venue. We parked the vans in the back and watched twitching, growling homeless guys watch us. One of them was paid by the venue to guard the band’s vans (though he asked us for payment directly).
I thought it strange how we sat in the middle of downtown, yet once night fell, the streets transformed into a shanty town of begging, howling, braying vagrants and cardboard box tent tenement cities. I couldn’t comprehend how the LAPD allowed this civilization of the homeless to erect their shoddy edifices, given that the police of the northeast cities would surely batter down such transient domiciles. I don’t imagine the LAPD being more compassionate.
I enjoyed the show. A lot of kids danced and sang along. During LGS’ set, Jamie threw his guitar. Apparently it’s given him constant grief. I watched as the instrument soared far up into the air and sailed in an arc into the blackness at the back of the venue. He strapped on another guitar before the first met its demise on the floor.
I finally washed my clothes at Ray’s, staying up until 4 or so in the AM. We watched Chappelle show DVDs in the morn and then embarked for Santa Barbara, ahhhhhh, utopian Santa Barbara. 19 shows down, 21 to go.
2:42 PM
Sometimes I do this thing where I ask myself: if I could be anywhere in the world right now, where would I be? If I could do anything right now, what would I do? At the moment, I want to be right here doing this: driving up the Pacific Coast to play another show in California. I am content. In a week we will be driving back east, through the dreary, soul-crushing Midwest. The good times never last.
3:51 PM
We’re driving up 101 and I’m thinking how amazing it is here. We all seem to loathe where we’re from. Grass is greener on the other side, in another place. If I grew up outside San Diego or Santa Barbara, I’d probably have plenty to complain about and perhaps yearn to flee for the east coast, New York City maybe. I think I enjoy living in Philadelphia, but maybe not. I don’t go out. I have no urge to live it up and be social. It’s all work, band and girlfriend. That is fine. And I love right now. Traveling and performing. That is a temporary optimism. I have no desire to return to my job. I feel sick and suffocated having to work the routine job. Would I just play music if it’d pay the bills? Sometimes I say yes, other times no. My girlfriend wouldn’t want me spending half the year away. Would I? When we return to the backwards/backwoods towns of middle America, I will be pining for home.
The sun shines as usual as we leave L.A. This has been our home. We stayed the last two nights at Ray’s house in Huntington Beach. Nice place, nice area. Hanging out with Ray is always a blast. Our show last night was in this dodgy area of L.A. by skid row. There were no indications outside the venue that it was a venue. We parked the vans in the back and watched twitching, growling homeless guys watch us. One of them was paid by the venue to guard the band’s vans (though he asked us for payment directly).
I thought it strange how we sat in the middle of downtown, yet once night fell, the streets transformed into a shanty town of begging, howling, braying vagrants and cardboard box tent tenement cities. I couldn’t comprehend how the LAPD allowed this civilization of the homeless to erect their shoddy edifices, given that the police of the northeast cities would surely batter down such transient domiciles. I don’t imagine the LAPD being more compassionate.
I enjoyed the show. A lot of kids danced and sang along. During LGS’ set, Jamie threw his guitar. Apparently it’s given him constant grief. I watched as the instrument soared far up into the air and sailed in an arc into the blackness at the back of the venue. He strapped on another guitar before the first met its demise on the floor.
I finally washed my clothes at Ray’s, staying up until 4 or so in the AM. We watched Chappelle show DVDs in the morn and then embarked for Santa Barbara, ahhhhhh, utopian Santa Barbara. 19 shows down, 21 to go.
2:42 PM
Sometimes I do this thing where I ask myself: if I could be anywhere in the world right now, where would I be? If I could do anything right now, what would I do? At the moment, I want to be right here doing this: driving up the Pacific Coast to play another show in California. I am content. In a week we will be driving back east, through the dreary, soul-crushing Midwest. The good times never last.
3:51 PM
We’re driving up 101 and I’m thinking how amazing it is here. We all seem to loathe where we’re from. Grass is greener on the other side, in another place. If I grew up outside San Diego or Santa Barbara, I’d probably have plenty to complain about and perhaps yearn to flee for the east coast, New York City maybe. I think I enjoy living in Philadelphia, but maybe not. I don’t go out. I have no urge to live it up and be social. It’s all work, band and girlfriend. That is fine. And I love right now. Traveling and performing. That is a temporary optimism. I have no desire to return to my job. I feel sick and suffocated having to work the routine job. Would I just play music if it’d pay the bills? Sometimes I say yes, other times no. My girlfriend wouldn’t want me spending half the year away. Would I? When we return to the backwards/backwoods towns of middle America, I will be pining for home.
Bakersfield
2:53 PM
Back in gorgeous Los Angeles. I never thought I’d develop any sort of affinity for this city, but go to Bakersfield. Any large metropolitan region suddenly becomes nirvana in comparison. Last night was indeed a fiasco. We played inside the boxing ring. Yes, within the ropes and turnbuckles. A bunch of kids hopped inside and went crazy. They crashed into each other, fell into us, did flips and acted out their bored, drunk teenage wrestling/boxing fantasies. It is something, to see children raised on backyard wrestling videos and pay-per view boxing matches attempt to become their icons in reality. We were the soundtrack to their melee. Here we are now, entertain us.
One poor soul made the mistake of leaping from Greg’s bass drum. Greg throws his sticks down mid-song, stands up slowly and surely, and hisses, pointing, “Don’t you ever jump off my fucking drum set!” It was an astounding moment, as if a god came down from on high to scold us mere mortals. Everyone responded by shutting up and SITTING DOWN. They cowered before the mighty Drudy. It wasn’t until I, of all people, said they could do whatever they wanted, as long as they laid off the drums, that the kids resumed their raucous behavior.
Afterwards a fight occurred outside. Racial slurs were thrown about. One kid ran after another with a plastic rooster. As we aimed our vans out of the dusty, pebble-strewn parking lot, the melee hindered our exit. Someone asked the heated boys ready to fight, “Hey, can we get through?” One responded, “Oh yeah, go ahead.” They quieted, let us drive past, and then continued shouting. We fled for the peace and serenity of L.A.
Back in gorgeous Los Angeles. I never thought I’d develop any sort of affinity for this city, but go to Bakersfield. Any large metropolitan region suddenly becomes nirvana in comparison. Last night was indeed a fiasco. We played inside the boxing ring. Yes, within the ropes and turnbuckles. A bunch of kids hopped inside and went crazy. They crashed into each other, fell into us, did flips and acted out their bored, drunk teenage wrestling/boxing fantasies. It is something, to see children raised on backyard wrestling videos and pay-per view boxing matches attempt to become their icons in reality. We were the soundtrack to their melee. Here we are now, entertain us.
One poor soul made the mistake of leaping from Greg’s bass drum. Greg throws his sticks down mid-song, stands up slowly and surely, and hisses, pointing, “Don’t you ever jump off my fucking drum set!” It was an astounding moment, as if a god came down from on high to scold us mere mortals. Everyone responded by shutting up and SITTING DOWN. They cowered before the mighty Drudy. It wasn’t until I, of all people, said they could do whatever they wanted, as long as they laid off the drums, that the kids resumed their raucous behavior.
Afterwards a fight occurred outside. Racial slurs were thrown about. One kid ran after another with a plastic rooster. As we aimed our vans out of the dusty, pebble-strewn parking lot, the melee hindered our exit. Someone asked the heated boys ready to fight, “Hey, can we get through?” One responded, “Oh yeah, go ahead.” They quieted, let us drive past, and then continued shouting. We fled for the peace and serenity of L.A.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Desert Thoughts
1:04 PM
Alright, I should discuss some earlier occurrences in the tour. First day saw us finding out the wonderful news that we could not use our newly purchased van. We expected to receive the title in the incipient stages of tour, and assumed we’d just use our various vehicles to get to nearby shows. Our first was in a basement in Connecticut. It took us three times as long to get there from Jersey since a truck carrying fuel oil exploded on I-95. That effectively shut the major artery down for weeks to come.
We played to a couple dozen kids and stayed in some girl’s dorm at UCONN. I slept on a tiny couch. I learned a valuable lesson: it is better to sleep on the floor and stretch out than it is to sleep on the comfy sofa and curl up. From there we went to Boston for a radio interview and played a raucous show at Boston University. I found myself rather disconcerted by the bevy of huge, hulking tough dudes up front going nuts, but I guess they enjoyed us.
We stayed at Brad’s house, and hung out with him, Nat and Ben. We walked amidst the hordes of ornery college students to some pizza place, itself infected with inebriated college cretins. Nat took to hurling insults at them, which made me extremely concerned for our safety. But no one responded. I fell asleep at Brad’s on a long couch around 4:30 AM, amidst Nat talking about music gear.
Next morning saw us in the Watertown Diner, me devouring vegan flapjacks and grinning like a mook. Then we cruised to Amherst. Played at Smith College to a small crew of kids. We ate at the school cafeteria, collecting nasty looks, since we were a group of strange looking boys in an all girls school. They offered vegan food too, what the fuck! Is New England as progressive as ZInn or Chomsky would have us think? We stayed at Will and Meghan’s house. I fell asleep after 5 AM on a big couch next to Josh. I left my hat there, a wool cap my girlfriend knit for me. She is not fucking happy about that for various reasons.
From there we went to NYC and played a great show at CBGBs. Various stoic members of our party used the restrooms. Promoter Rich wrapped his hands around Eric’s throat and hoisted him heavenwards when Eric foolishly made fun of Rich. I watched a drunken concertgoer pour beer all over straight edge Alexander. We stayed at Billy’s place in Whitestone Queens and found out the title wouldn’t arrive for at least 30 days. Greg generously offered the use of his minivan for the tour. The cost of renting a van was as high as the sun. So we embarked on the tour, hitting Reading, Newark, Blacksburg, Asheville and Harrisonburg, all dreary, rain-soaked days. The 14+ hour drive to New Orleans really kick-started the tour. I think we’re reasonably caught up now. HOORAY HOORAY FUCKERS!!!
1:17 PM
It occurs to me all of the sudden that I’ve grown jaded and bitter in my old age. Maybe that’s not it. When this began three years ago, I felt much more engaged politically. I cared and felt guilty for not involving myself more deeply in activism. Now I feel little desire to get involved in that way. I am deeply disturbed by the current political and social climate, given the Bush junta and all they’ve done to cause grief at home and abroad. The anarchist/activist set in Philly rubbed me wrong. I didn’t fit in, and indeed, I tried. I don’t fit in anywhere. And I don’t need people wearing all black with patches sewn onto their clothes, calling me bourgie because I like a little heat in the winter and a little air-conditioning in the summer. Yet I am not normal and I don’t want to be. Maybe I am not as radical or as leftist as I once was. I am not hopeful that an anarchist reign (I know, that phrase is a misnomer) could ever exist in this country. I think there are a few fundamental changes that could go a long way towards creating a better way of life for most people. Maybe this is a compromise with capitalism. Yet I see no other feasible alternatives at the present time. Here goes:
1) Livable wage. C’mon, this is common sense. A person cannot live on $7.50 an hour and then have the government take a third. That amount is above minimum wage too. I make $7.50 an hour, and it barely covers the bills. How is a family able to survive on less? We need a mandatory minimum livable wage. How about $12 or $14? I could live like a goddamn king on such amounts, though I do not have children. If you pay workers better, they may feel more inclined to work better. I might not loathe my job if I was paid a reasonable wage.
2) Universal health care. Fuck man, this is a no brainer. Compare the standard of living here with other comparable industrialized nations and the U.S. falls far behind, like down in fucking Dark Ages. Let’s liquidate the insurance companies. They keep us stuck in this mess, them, and the politicians they subsidize, as well as the rich people who don’t feel a need for universal health care coverage since they can afford health care.
3) Free childcare. How can a parent making minimum wage hope to go to work and then care for the kids? And afford to take care of them? Do it for the kids.
4) Tons more. This is the beginning. We can move on to paying teachers more, reducing the defense budget and redirecting those funds towards worthwhile endeavors. You get my drift.
I should run for political office.
2:27 PM
Just spoke with the girlfriend. She wants me to come home. Now. She says this every time we speak. I understand, I miss her. I left her alone with various housemates back in the cold and rain of Philadelphia. This is the longest we’ve been apart. But then she starts in with her jealousy and insecurities, accusing me of not loving her and me fucking other girls out here in the middle of fucking nowhere and it gets to be a bit much. Being out here is fun, sometimes. Mostly it’s figuring out the optimum way to situate your body through a long drive to prevent back aches and neck pains (yes, we are old men). In addition, holding a serious conversation via cell phone is difficult to do when you are surrounded by dudes and a blaring stereo.
Back in Philly the rain falls hard. It is still cold, winter not relenting its tenacious bite. She accused, “You want to leave me,” after I quipped that we should move away from Philly for a sunnier, warmer destination. Uggg. It is sunny and warm with clouds to the east.
3:11 PM
What would I do if I joined the “real world”? Become an academic? A journalist? The manager of my department at the bookstore? There are several career options available to me thanks to the piece of paper hanging up in a frame across from my old bedroom in my parent’s house that says I graduated college.
Quick aside: we’re passing hills and mountains dotted with windmills used to generate wind power. Yes! Less oil and more wind and solar energy. I’d love to live in a house run entirely on renewable energy. Leave the oil in the ground clowns!
Back to my story…I almost took two graduate level Political Science courses last September. They were awful. Yet I love learning, debating, writing, researching and growing intellectually. If I have to have a normal job, why not a professor? Well, there is the downside of that means of employment: barely any PhD grad finds gainful employment as a professor. The competition is fiercer than gladiator battles in Roman times. The sycophants run rampant and I don’t know if I have the strength in my lips and the clothespins for my nose to kiss so much ass. I am a weirdo. I am 28. I think the grad school window is just about closed for me. Look, I don’t want to be just a guitar player in some dumb rock band. Yawn. Eat shit. Get fucked. Fuck face. Eat my fuck. I need to read more, love, learn, live. Fuck complacency.
I just remembered last night how Cisco Nabisco’s owner mentioned seeing Suicidal Tendencies in 1986. He said he loved Metallica and Megadeth. But he added, “That wasn’t the heavy stuff. What you guys play is the heavy stuff.”
4:10 PM
We just stopped by and left where we’re performing this evening: Munoz Gym. It’s a tiny building with a boxing ring taking up most of the space. That means, you guessed it, the bands doing their thing inside the motherfucking ring. Should be quite a night. This is touring. Hello Bakersfield!
7:20 PM
Here in the dirt and pebble backyard to the gym. Two local kids hang out behind us. One dude said, “I’m gonna get so drunk. I’m gonna get crunked.” Go you dude. This place is a true, ripe shit hole. Bakersfield is the asshole of California. Perhaps I should refrain from such a hateful depiction of this place. We walked around “downtown” and ate at Quiznos. The soft-drink dispenser kept dispensing lemonade long after I pulled my cup away. The employees laughed at me. HA HA HA HA HA! Now I feel sick. But it is as warm and humid as the Amazon here and the sun sets gloriously behind me.
Alright, I should discuss some earlier occurrences in the tour. First day saw us finding out the wonderful news that we could not use our newly purchased van. We expected to receive the title in the incipient stages of tour, and assumed we’d just use our various vehicles to get to nearby shows. Our first was in a basement in Connecticut. It took us three times as long to get there from Jersey since a truck carrying fuel oil exploded on I-95. That effectively shut the major artery down for weeks to come.
We played to a couple dozen kids and stayed in some girl’s dorm at UCONN. I slept on a tiny couch. I learned a valuable lesson: it is better to sleep on the floor and stretch out than it is to sleep on the comfy sofa and curl up. From there we went to Boston for a radio interview and played a raucous show at Boston University. I found myself rather disconcerted by the bevy of huge, hulking tough dudes up front going nuts, but I guess they enjoyed us.
We stayed at Brad’s house, and hung out with him, Nat and Ben. We walked amidst the hordes of ornery college students to some pizza place, itself infected with inebriated college cretins. Nat took to hurling insults at them, which made me extremely concerned for our safety. But no one responded. I fell asleep at Brad’s on a long couch around 4:30 AM, amidst Nat talking about music gear.
Next morning saw us in the Watertown Diner, me devouring vegan flapjacks and grinning like a mook. Then we cruised to Amherst. Played at Smith College to a small crew of kids. We ate at the school cafeteria, collecting nasty looks, since we were a group of strange looking boys in an all girls school. They offered vegan food too, what the fuck! Is New England as progressive as ZInn or Chomsky would have us think? We stayed at Will and Meghan’s house. I fell asleep after 5 AM on a big couch next to Josh. I left my hat there, a wool cap my girlfriend knit for me. She is not fucking happy about that for various reasons.
From there we went to NYC and played a great show at CBGBs. Various stoic members of our party used the restrooms. Promoter Rich wrapped his hands around Eric’s throat and hoisted him heavenwards when Eric foolishly made fun of Rich. I watched a drunken concertgoer pour beer all over straight edge Alexander. We stayed at Billy’s place in Whitestone Queens and found out the title wouldn’t arrive for at least 30 days. Greg generously offered the use of his minivan for the tour. The cost of renting a van was as high as the sun. So we embarked on the tour, hitting Reading, Newark, Blacksburg, Asheville and Harrisonburg, all dreary, rain-soaked days. The 14+ hour drive to New Orleans really kick-started the tour. I think we’re reasonably caught up now. HOORAY HOORAY FUCKERS!!!
1:17 PM
It occurs to me all of the sudden that I’ve grown jaded and bitter in my old age. Maybe that’s not it. When this began three years ago, I felt much more engaged politically. I cared and felt guilty for not involving myself more deeply in activism. Now I feel little desire to get involved in that way. I am deeply disturbed by the current political and social climate, given the Bush junta and all they’ve done to cause grief at home and abroad. The anarchist/activist set in Philly rubbed me wrong. I didn’t fit in, and indeed, I tried. I don’t fit in anywhere. And I don’t need people wearing all black with patches sewn onto their clothes, calling me bourgie because I like a little heat in the winter and a little air-conditioning in the summer. Yet I am not normal and I don’t want to be. Maybe I am not as radical or as leftist as I once was. I am not hopeful that an anarchist reign (I know, that phrase is a misnomer) could ever exist in this country. I think there are a few fundamental changes that could go a long way towards creating a better way of life for most people. Maybe this is a compromise with capitalism. Yet I see no other feasible alternatives at the present time. Here goes:
1) Livable wage. C’mon, this is common sense. A person cannot live on $7.50 an hour and then have the government take a third. That amount is above minimum wage too. I make $7.50 an hour, and it barely covers the bills. How is a family able to survive on less? We need a mandatory minimum livable wage. How about $12 or $14? I could live like a goddamn king on such amounts, though I do not have children. If you pay workers better, they may feel more inclined to work better. I might not loathe my job if I was paid a reasonable wage.
2) Universal health care. Fuck man, this is a no brainer. Compare the standard of living here with other comparable industrialized nations and the U.S. falls far behind, like down in fucking Dark Ages. Let’s liquidate the insurance companies. They keep us stuck in this mess, them, and the politicians they subsidize, as well as the rich people who don’t feel a need for universal health care coverage since they can afford health care.
3) Free childcare. How can a parent making minimum wage hope to go to work and then care for the kids? And afford to take care of them? Do it for the kids.
4) Tons more. This is the beginning. We can move on to paying teachers more, reducing the defense budget and redirecting those funds towards worthwhile endeavors. You get my drift.
I should run for political office.
2:27 PM
Just spoke with the girlfriend. She wants me to come home. Now. She says this every time we speak. I understand, I miss her. I left her alone with various housemates back in the cold and rain of Philadelphia. This is the longest we’ve been apart. But then she starts in with her jealousy and insecurities, accusing me of not loving her and me fucking other girls out here in the middle of fucking nowhere and it gets to be a bit much. Being out here is fun, sometimes. Mostly it’s figuring out the optimum way to situate your body through a long drive to prevent back aches and neck pains (yes, we are old men). In addition, holding a serious conversation via cell phone is difficult to do when you are surrounded by dudes and a blaring stereo.
Back in Philly the rain falls hard. It is still cold, winter not relenting its tenacious bite. She accused, “You want to leave me,” after I quipped that we should move away from Philly for a sunnier, warmer destination. Uggg. It is sunny and warm with clouds to the east.
3:11 PM
What would I do if I joined the “real world”? Become an academic? A journalist? The manager of my department at the bookstore? There are several career options available to me thanks to the piece of paper hanging up in a frame across from my old bedroom in my parent’s house that says I graduated college.
Quick aside: we’re passing hills and mountains dotted with windmills used to generate wind power. Yes! Less oil and more wind and solar energy. I’d love to live in a house run entirely on renewable energy. Leave the oil in the ground clowns!
Back to my story…I almost took two graduate level Political Science courses last September. They were awful. Yet I love learning, debating, writing, researching and growing intellectually. If I have to have a normal job, why not a professor? Well, there is the downside of that means of employment: barely any PhD grad finds gainful employment as a professor. The competition is fiercer than gladiator battles in Roman times. The sycophants run rampant and I don’t know if I have the strength in my lips and the clothespins for my nose to kiss so much ass. I am a weirdo. I am 28. I think the grad school window is just about closed for me. Look, I don’t want to be just a guitar player in some dumb rock band. Yawn. Eat shit. Get fucked. Fuck face. Eat my fuck. I need to read more, love, learn, live. Fuck complacency.
I just remembered last night how Cisco Nabisco’s owner mentioned seeing Suicidal Tendencies in 1986. He said he loved Metallica and Megadeth. But he added, “That wasn’t the heavy stuff. What you guys play is the heavy stuff.”
4:10 PM
We just stopped by and left where we’re performing this evening: Munoz Gym. It’s a tiny building with a boxing ring taking up most of the space. That means, you guessed it, the bands doing their thing inside the motherfucking ring. Should be quite a night. This is touring. Hello Bakersfield!
7:20 PM
Here in the dirt and pebble backyard to the gym. Two local kids hang out behind us. One dude said, “I’m gonna get so drunk. I’m gonna get crunked.” Go you dude. This place is a true, ripe shit hole. Bakersfield is the asshole of California. Perhaps I should refrain from such a hateful depiction of this place. We walked around “downtown” and ate at Quiznos. The soft-drink dispenser kept dispensing lemonade long after I pulled my cup away. The employees laughed at me. HA HA HA HA HA! Now I feel sick. But it is as warm and humid as the Amazon here and the sun sets gloriously behind me.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Las Vegas
12:17 PM
The show last night was a lot of fun. We played in this tiny record store in Vegas called Balcony Lights. The owner of the store (who I think was the owner anyway) was a real character. He reminded me of that dude in Boogie Nights, you know, that scene with the small Asian man lighting off firecrackers. Remember? It was that hoser that liked Journey and insisted on defying the Man by putting his mix tapes in the song order he desired, not them. Maybe I thought this when the guy offered us a ton of weed. “No, you need to speak with the other guitar player,” we said, thanking him for his magnanimity. Quite an affable man.
The store sat in a thin strip mall with a 7-11, Wendy’s and Pizza Hut nearby. 60 or so kids crammed in and rocked out. I had a blast and sang a lot, since I could hear my voice for once. I spoke with my boy Spoon back in Jersey. He’s encountering rough times. Him and his girlfriend of a year split up. Now he’s back to living in his mom’s basement and feeling desperate and miserable. It’s a hard life. I wish I could chill with him, but I’m on the other side of the country.
Anyway, Vegas is weird, of course. Cars keep cruising by. People throw their bottles at a dumpster across the street. Why? Some guy walking his pit bull stopped to chat with us. The dog’s name was Cisco Nabisco. He had Billy hold the canine’s leash, then he’d yell, “Go, Cisco, GO!” and the dog charged ahead, dragging Billy like a rag doll dog chew toy. He then focused the pooch on Josh and shouted, “Get him!” Cisco sprinted for poor Josh, him yelping like a schoolgirl. He commented, “I like you dog but I don’t you biting my nuts off.”
After the show we made our way to the Excalibur.
Greg decided that if cost less than $100 to stay at this particular casino, then we would do it. The room cost $90. Excalibur was ours. We didn’t roll into the joint until after midnight. The lobby spread for what seemed miles, as if it was an airport. Despite the hour, the place teemed with all grades of humanity. We heard one guy complain to his wife, “I’m gonna kill that faggot, I’m gonna kill him.” Was this Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? And why are there families here? It’s fucking Easter, they can’t all be Jews and Agnostics! I see little kids tumbling about and it’s fucking midnight? Who takes the family to Vegas on Easter? Did they tell the children that the Easter Bunny might leave them lots of candy and riches while mommy and daddy blow their hard earned pay (your college funds) in the casinos? No wonder this country is fucked.
After an eternity, Billy procured the room keys and we trekked up to our room on the 21st floor in Tower 2. Our room overlooked one of the turrets. As you could eruditely deduce from the casino’s moniker, it boasts a medieval theme.
Greg, Josh, Jamie, Eric and I went down to the casino. Billy and Alex crawled into bed together. “We’re snuggle bears,” they said.
Jamie played the slots. He said to me, “Just because I like you, I’m giving you half of whatever I win.” He hit $60 and asked, “Should I cash out?” I responded, “The night is young.” He continued pulling the lever and wound up losing everything. In an instant I watched $30 vanish before my eyes.
An hour into our casino adventure, Greg wanted to hunt down a Del Taco. Jamie returned to the room, while the rest of us headed out to Tropicana to find food. I absorbed the scene outside, a sprawling metropolis of glitz and glamour. It looked like some psycho playground. You have the New York, New York across the way, a replica of that city’s landmarks replete with a roller coaster that runs all over the city. Then there’s MGM and Mandalay Bay and plenty more.
We walked for hours it seemed just to reach a McDonald’s that loomed ahead, only to find it closed. We then stopped at Mr. Deli. Everyone bought snacks, me shelling out .80 for two bags of peanuts. Then we walked back. I saw newspaper boxes lining the street full of circulars advertising escorts and phone sex. What other city would have so much sex on display? I recalled seeing similar material in Japan.
Once back in the room, I hit the floor and wrapped up tight in my sleeping bag. Now we’re on the road to Bakersfield. It is Monday. Monday is not a prime show night. What can you do? I abide by the old Minutemen ethos of no days off. As they stated, “If you’re not playin’, you’re payin’.”
The show last night was a lot of fun. We played in this tiny record store in Vegas called Balcony Lights. The owner of the store (who I think was the owner anyway) was a real character. He reminded me of that dude in Boogie Nights, you know, that scene with the small Asian man lighting off firecrackers. Remember? It was that hoser that liked Journey and insisted on defying the Man by putting his mix tapes in the song order he desired, not them. Maybe I thought this when the guy offered us a ton of weed. “No, you need to speak with the other guitar player,” we said, thanking him for his magnanimity. Quite an affable man.
The store sat in a thin strip mall with a 7-11, Wendy’s and Pizza Hut nearby. 60 or so kids crammed in and rocked out. I had a blast and sang a lot, since I could hear my voice for once. I spoke with my boy Spoon back in Jersey. He’s encountering rough times. Him and his girlfriend of a year split up. Now he’s back to living in his mom’s basement and feeling desperate and miserable. It’s a hard life. I wish I could chill with him, but I’m on the other side of the country.
Anyway, Vegas is weird, of course. Cars keep cruising by. People throw their bottles at a dumpster across the street. Why? Some guy walking his pit bull stopped to chat with us. The dog’s name was Cisco Nabisco. He had Billy hold the canine’s leash, then he’d yell, “Go, Cisco, GO!” and the dog charged ahead, dragging Billy like a rag doll dog chew toy. He then focused the pooch on Josh and shouted, “Get him!” Cisco sprinted for poor Josh, him yelping like a schoolgirl. He commented, “I like you dog but I don’t you biting my nuts off.”
After the show we made our way to the Excalibur.
Greg decided that if cost less than $100 to stay at this particular casino, then we would do it. The room cost $90. Excalibur was ours. We didn’t roll into the joint until after midnight. The lobby spread for what seemed miles, as if it was an airport. Despite the hour, the place teemed with all grades of humanity. We heard one guy complain to his wife, “I’m gonna kill that faggot, I’m gonna kill him.” Was this Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? And why are there families here? It’s fucking Easter, they can’t all be Jews and Agnostics! I see little kids tumbling about and it’s fucking midnight? Who takes the family to Vegas on Easter? Did they tell the children that the Easter Bunny might leave them lots of candy and riches while mommy and daddy blow their hard earned pay (your college funds) in the casinos? No wonder this country is fucked.
After an eternity, Billy procured the room keys and we trekked up to our room on the 21st floor in Tower 2. Our room overlooked one of the turrets. As you could eruditely deduce from the casino’s moniker, it boasts a medieval theme.
Greg, Josh, Jamie, Eric and I went down to the casino. Billy and Alex crawled into bed together. “We’re snuggle bears,” they said.
Jamie played the slots. He said to me, “Just because I like you, I’m giving you half of whatever I win.” He hit $60 and asked, “Should I cash out?” I responded, “The night is young.” He continued pulling the lever and wound up losing everything. In an instant I watched $30 vanish before my eyes.
An hour into our casino adventure, Greg wanted to hunt down a Del Taco. Jamie returned to the room, while the rest of us headed out to Tropicana to find food. I absorbed the scene outside, a sprawling metropolis of glitz and glamour. It looked like some psycho playground. You have the New York, New York across the way, a replica of that city’s landmarks replete with a roller coaster that runs all over the city. Then there’s MGM and Mandalay Bay and plenty more.
We walked for hours it seemed just to reach a McDonald’s that loomed ahead, only to find it closed. We then stopped at Mr. Deli. Everyone bought snacks, me shelling out .80 for two bags of peanuts. Then we walked back. I saw newspaper boxes lining the street full of circulars advertising escorts and phone sex. What other city would have so much sex on display? I recalled seeing similar material in Japan.
Once back in the room, I hit the floor and wrapped up tight in my sleeping bag. Now we’re on the road to Bakersfield. It is Monday. Monday is not a prime show night. What can you do? I abide by the old Minutemen ethos of no days off. As they stated, “If you’re not playin’, you’re payin’.”
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Death Valley
2:34 PM
Back in the desert. We played in San Diego and Long Beach. I ended up having a blast at both shows. It’s aggravating though, when all the audience wants to hear are old songs. Does that mean the new ones aren’t as good? I don’t know, this is a fickle sport. Not that I can really fathom doing anything else. I feel a need to write again.
I spoke with my parents today, it being Easter. My mom mentioned how my girlfriend alluded to us having children. Uhhhhh…. My older brother just had a baby, well, his wife did. My younger brother is engaged. Babies and marriage for your humble narrator? Not now, when I enjoy a job that pays $7.50 an hour, and a job I may not have when I return from this vigorous touring. We’ve played 16 shows. I crave the performance. But do I crave the actual music? Or am I over analyzing everything, my normal trait? I think too much. About everything. Being out here with miles and miles upon hours and hours of empty space to just sit and think, I am plagued with ponderings. And that gets me into trouble.
3:34 PM
The desert is gorgeous. Just off the rest stop oasis of Barstow, and now we pass the desert’s answer to the Hollywood sign: CALICO, perched to the north in the maroon mountains.
5:02 PM
Desert. Desert. Desert. And then Primm, Nevada! A taste of the madness to come. There’s Buffalo Bill’s, Carl’s Jr., McDonald’s, Starbucks, Chevron, Texaco…everyone out here is on their way to Vegas. Whiskey Pete’s sits across the street. The rest stop offers slots and everything here is chaos. Some guy tried to sell me cologne, now he eyes the van. Billboards everywhere announce: “WINNINGS IN THE AIR!” This, kids, is America. Hundreds of thousands are on their way to a mirage.
Back in the desert. We played in San Diego and Long Beach. I ended up having a blast at both shows. It’s aggravating though, when all the audience wants to hear are old songs. Does that mean the new ones aren’t as good? I don’t know, this is a fickle sport. Not that I can really fathom doing anything else. I feel a need to write again.
I spoke with my parents today, it being Easter. My mom mentioned how my girlfriend alluded to us having children. Uhhhhh…. My older brother just had a baby, well, his wife did. My younger brother is engaged. Babies and marriage for your humble narrator? Not now, when I enjoy a job that pays $7.50 an hour, and a job I may not have when I return from this vigorous touring. We’ve played 16 shows. I crave the performance. But do I crave the actual music? Or am I over analyzing everything, my normal trait? I think too much. About everything. Being out here with miles and miles upon hours and hours of empty space to just sit and think, I am plagued with ponderings. And that gets me into trouble.
3:34 PM
The desert is gorgeous. Just off the rest stop oasis of Barstow, and now we pass the desert’s answer to the Hollywood sign: CALICO, perched to the north in the maroon mountains.
5:02 PM
Desert. Desert. Desert. And then Primm, Nevada! A taste of the madness to come. There’s Buffalo Bill’s, Carl’s Jr., McDonald’s, Starbucks, Chevron, Texaco…everyone out here is on their way to Vegas. Whiskey Pete’s sits across the street. The rest stop offers slots and everything here is chaos. Some guy tried to sell me cologne, now he eyes the van. Billboards everywhere announce: “WINNINGS IN THE AIR!” This, kids, is America. Hundreds of thousands are on their way to a mirage.
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