St. Louis

11:38 AM

Feeling somewhat better, though my throat feels like I swallowed a handful of open safety pins. I barely slept last night. As soon as I return home, the g-friend is forcing me to go to the doctor to see if I indeed have Lyme disease. Fucking ticks. When we evaluate the symptoms, it looks grim for your protagonist: flu-like symptoms, soar neck, insomnia, irritation at tick bite, just no bull’s eye. Apparently the bull’s eye appears in 50% of cases. Sweet. I am fucked by a centimeter in diameter arachnid. Or insect. Or whatever.

Our hotel experiences the past 24 have been amusing. Jamie claims we’re missing out on the true nature of touring by evading staying at kid’s houses and opting for the safe normalcy of hotels. Last night proved more interesting than any house we stayed at on this tour.

We stayed at a Super 8 in Litchfield, IL. The room was cramped with a general filth about it. Ants swarmed the bathroom tile floor and cracked tub. Some ventured out into the room by the desk and the bedside table. We could look past those flaws though: the room was $50 and we were exhausted after a long of day of sitting in a Laundromat reading Spin magazine.

So we’re watching TV, probably Sport’s Center since I am in a band of jocks. I get up to swallow some sinus medicine, when I hear voices in the hallway. It struck me as strange, seeing as how one normally does not hear talking at 1:30 AM in the halls of a motel. Someone muted the TV. We hear, “Someone help. Help!” More indiscernible words. We tiptoe to the door, hoping it is locked. We hear a female voice, and a male voice, with words and phrases appearing from the din: “TV,” “knife,” “money,” “prank.”

At first, I think it’s two people cracked out on meth that roam the motel halls. It begins to sound like there is a struggle. We hear the woman say, “It’s all a prank. This is for MTV. The show Punk’d. Ashton Kutcher is right outside. It’s all for an MTV show.” We’re thoroughly confused and unsure how to proceed.

We hear another man and another woman. He asks, “What’s your name?” She responds, “Elizabeth Taylor.” “How old are you?” “21.” Then the first guy says, “She took money from me. She robbed me. She has a knife.” “No, no!” she shouts. “It’s all a prank. It’s for Ashton Kutcher. He’s in his car outside with Demi Moore. I don’t have a knife.”

More ruckus ensues. The other woman calmly says, “I want her brought up on assault charges. I have bruises all over me.” Then we hear a police officer, then cuffs clinking. He says, “I see a knife on the floor, is that hers?” Then he asks, “Where is the money?” followed by “Put your clothes back on.” Someone then explains, “She worked here as a clerk at the beginning of the year and was fired for stealing from the rooms.” The office asks her, “What have you ingested?” She answers, “Just a few beers, that’s all.” Then everyone is gone and all is quiet.

Later on I awoke at 5 AM and could not fall back asleep. The people upstairs made an awful calamity. Perhaps they raced horses around the room or set up a makeshift bowling alley. The TV then switched on just in time for a George W. Bush commercial. Ghosts of dead Republicans trying to brainwash us into voting for their boy? One can only wonder.

3:27 PM

Completely and utterly fucked. The sinus medication has ruined me. Everything spins and swirls. I can’t see straight. I can’t think straight. St. Louis is hot. I’m in a T-shirt and sweating. We ate at a small bagel place called Meshuggah in a hip area. Cue 7/5 time mosh here. The girl cut me a deal on my peanut butter and jelly bagel. Why are the girls cutting me deals? I look like a car wreck. I did shave today, but I’ve worn this Q and Not U shirt at least the past eight days. I’ve worn these jeans two weeks, the boxers with the dogs on them for at least five days and the argyle socks two days. I draw the line at the socks.

6:22 PM

Just ate falafel that completely devastated my stomach. No need to eat anything more today. We hung out with an old friend of Matt’s at the mall. He works in a funeral parlor. He offered lots of gruesome stories. For instance, they superglue the cadaver’s lips shut. When someone donates organs, the corpse is hung from the back of the neck on a meat hook. When fluids are drained, sometimes it leaks out of the eyes. He said his boss constantly jokes with him, asking him to stick pins into the dead bodies’ hands or having him handle the dead babies. Fuck food.

7:55 PM

I’m sitting on the curb outside of the venue. This is a super DIY arts space here in St. Louis. I prefer these spaces. There’s more space than a basement, though not as big as a hall and nowhere near as shitty or cliché as smoke-filled bar or club. They’re run for and by the kids. Sure, the PA might suck and there might not be enough power for the amps. But this feels a little more like home. I lifted Jamie’s amp and carried it inside. I felt hemorrhoids brewing in my groin, muscles popping in my shoulders and a tearing in my side. I’m a wimp.

St. Louis is an interesting place. We’re in the economically disadvantaged area, which the locals say is becoming gentrified. I see African-Americans, white punks and bohemians- indeed, the cycle commences. What can you do? Rents soar in “white” areas. So poor whites move into poor black regions. The more financially well-off white folks see that the area isn’t so dangerous and begin moving in, along with their cafes, restaurants, cars, art galleries and boutique clothing shops. Then the chain stores roll in. The original non-white inhabitants can no longer afford the rent and move out. What can be done? Big issue, one that I am no about to solve on this curb.

Iowa City

3:06

We’re kicking it in some ultra-modern café in Iowa City. This is serious college town. Yesterday saw us here as well. Everywhere we walked we came upon posters for our show, a harsh fact slapping us in the face every time we saw them. We did not play. The LGS van remains in Omaha. Turns out, the U bolts need to be replaced and the drive shaft must be rebuilt. Thanks McFuck! Our singer is stranded there with them, so no rock for the rest of us. Now they wait for a part to arrive, which could be anytime between now and Friday. Today is Tuesday. Yeah, it’s heavy.

My illness rages. I feel slightly better, but still out of it. This is exactly how I felt when the sickness struck in Europe. I went to sleep last night in my sleeping bag, sweatshirt on and the hood pulled right over my aching head. I got up to urinate for about 15 minutes, then returned to sleep. That ended violently at 7 AM when a loud, piercing whine shook me awake. The fire alarm went off in the hotel, the AmericInn. It was a false alarm. Yet we still went outside for half an hour. I did not need that. Went back to sleep for three hours, dined at the Village Inn, had a surprisingly tasty though expensive Boca Burger, hit up Wal Mart, bought three oranges and now we reside back in Iowa City.

Depending on what happens with the LGS van, we’ll either go to St. Louis or Chicago. Tonight’s show in Columbia, Missouri is cancelled. Last night, two bands did play here at Gabe’s Oasis. While propping myself up on the merch table (we are capitalists, we still sold merch though we did not play), a female approached. “Do I know you?” “Uhhh, no, I don’t think so.” “Really? You look so familiar.” She donned punk attire of studded belt, hair streaked black and pink and face heavily caked in make up. Since I have zero knowledge of these matters, I have no idea if she was being friendly, if I look like an acquaintance or if she was hitting on me. Who knows? I will never see her again. Unless we come back to Iowa City.

Before the show we hung out at the promoter’s apartment. It was astonishingly clean, considering boys live there. You can always tell what a house and especially a bathroom will look like when only males reside in said places. This abode defied that popular touring band theorem. Prior to this we had sushi. Maybe Iowa is not the hotbed of proper sushi, but I detested it. Perhaps my cold and cold medicine interfered.

Anyway, two shows are cancelled and possibly a third. I don’t mind last night since I felt so thoroughly fucked. Still, we’re here to play, not lounge in cafes and hotel rooms. As Mike Watt astutely observed, if you ain’t playin’, you’re payin’. I long for the comfort of home, of Philly, of the east coast. I’m realizing nowhere compares to home, though southern California is rather nice.

Iowa

3:38 PM

I’m sick. Not in an existential, I’m riddled with debilitating First World anxiety sick. No, sick as in I need a doctor or a stuffed bottle of Ibuprofen. The symptoms kicked in two days ago. Perhaps it’s allergies, Lyme disease, exhaustion. I barely slept three hours last night. Matt snoring and a stomach ache are to blame. The region on my leg where the tick attacked me is irritated. Either I have Lyme disease or its head remains in me or both, double your fun style fuck yeah! Hunger is all I know. Eating has become a luxury. Next time I need to better prepare myself for these excursions.

There is some chance we won’t play tonight. LGS is having its van repaired in Omaha. Eric backed into a pillar at the hotel in Boise. Somehow that minor incident cracked U bolts, whatever the hell those are. If they make it, it will be by the skin of their teeth.

As demolished as I feel, I want to play. Last night was solid, albeit abbreviated. The show went down in the basement of a school arts center or something. A ton of very young kids came. Six bands played, too many. Who wants to sit through that many bands? Not I. The local heroes took their sweet time and left us with maybe 15 minutes to play. Add to this the bizarre Sioux Falls 11 PM curfew for anyone under 18, and there went most of the audience. So it goes. There are always obstacles, always pitfalls and traps and snares hiding along the way of life. What determines who we are is how we handle those hurdles. Do we hide from them, stay at home and remain in fear and wonder what could have been if we really lived? Or do we face what scares us most, do we run outside to chase our dreams and live out our desires?

I feel awful. At least it took 32 days until I felt the familiar crushing headache, searing soar throat and thick gooey phlegm clogging my sinuses.

We’re driving through Iowa with Propagandhi on the stereo. More farms, cornfields, barns, silos, rest stops, cows and horses. I should move to Casey, Iowa. Dork.

Nebraska

2:18 PM

We’re chilling here in Lincoln, NE. We played in Omaha last night. We pulled up to the Ranch Bowl, a huge bowing alley complex, to see a spacious bus parked out front. Who could that be, we wondered. Inside we went to investigate the meaning behind the pro touring vehicle. We came upon a canyon-like room, with a band onstage sound checking. Were we playing in this room, on that stage, with whatever big rock band glowered down upon us? No. We were playing the smaller room directly adjoining this one. Sweden’s own International Noise Conspiracy was the band in the middle of fine-tuning the sound of their equipment and the PA. The upshot of this was us playing 100 feet from INC. This did not bode well. Who would choose crappy us over mammoth INC? Nothing we could do but load in, set up the merch and eat French fries from the bar or bowl a game or two.

Prior to the show, we enjoyed an afternoon in downtown Omaha. We wallowed for what felt like hours in a record store. I grow bored easily in them. I know, I should rejoice like a kid on his birthday. But no. I half-heartedly flipped through some used records, picked up one of the books to leaf through.

From there we made our way to food, which was crucial. Had above average Thai. Later on we performed and it was one of the best sets of the tour in my opinion. A lot of kids came, shocking considering the competition next door. In between songs, we could hear INC playing. At the end of the night, we were told about the same number of people attended both shows. That ain’t sayin’ much for a band payin’ for a bus.

Afterwards we drove to Lincoln to say with some dudes in a band that played with us. We tried to procure nourishment at a joint called Amigos, but it was infested with collegiate swine. Finally we arrived at the house of one of the aforementioned band members, and stayed up talking well past 4 AM. I fell asleep on an animal-hair encrusted couch (most from the cat we played catch with. Yes, catch. We’d throw a bottle cap, the feline would chase it down, pick it up in her sharp teeth, and bring it obediently back to us). She was Glamour, the young insane cat. They also had a rotund black cat we never saw, as well as a very cool Dalmatian. I woke up at 1:30 and still feel like a tractor-trailer mashed into me.

3:52 PM

I feel better mentally than I have in days. A fun show and sunshine can be credited for the shift from glass-half-empty to glass-half-full. The skies have punished us with rain nearly the entire trek. We currently cruise up Rt. 77 towards Sioux Falls. It’s interesting to be out here. Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee has told me much about the torrid history of these fields and these hills that surround me, flying by and behind me. These lands saw the last battles of the Native American tribes in their quest to rid themselves of the European descended oppressors. How can the children of those rebel fighters not look at us with some hint of contempt? Ghost faces plaguing ancestral lands in swarms. Our skin and our presence are constant reminders of their defeat. This is empire. Conquer destroy settle colonize. It continues in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Somewhere in that hazy terrain of last night, a political discussion erupted. Mike from a local band began venting about Bush. Javid mentioned his opinion that Nader cost Gore the election in 2000. I was too beaten to counter this oft-spoken liberal contention. People who voted for Nader by and large would not have voted for Gore. It’s common knowledge that Bush essentially stole the election. Read Greg Palast’s insightful book on that. I need to better inform myself on current affairs. We’ve been out here 31 days. I barely know what day it is let alone what’s happening politically or in the world. This, from a dude with a degree in Journalism and Political Science. College degrees are for weinies.

Anyway, the Midwest and the Great Plains are vast landscapes of green and brown. People here stare at us like we’re from Mars. People seem slower here, and say quirky things, like calling soda “pop” and grocery bags “sacks.” I know, I’m from the east coast. I automatically am born with superiority complex.

Colorado Continued

10:29 AM

While driving yesterday, I reflected to myself on the beauty of South Carolina’s finest, Assfactor 4. On the day of that tragic break-up that I detailed earlier, I forgot that I also purchased Assfactor 4’s “Sometimes I Suck” 7-inch. It was good, but nowhere near as crushing and brilliant as the “Smoked Out” 7-inch.

Thinking about the 4 reminds me of my first job. I worked as a bus boy at a bed and breakfast across from the beach in Spring Lake, NJ. Every day I drove there blasting “Smoked Out.” I required something fast and punching to kick-start a rotten day of toil. The proprietor never trained me. That left me winging it as I went along. I spilled water on patrons, dropped cubes of butter in their laps and tried to hide in the back room or on the porch as frequently as possible. My coworkers and I stole food, a finger-full of cake here, a handful of fries there. I talked some to the waitresses, despite debilitating shyness. After three weeks, my older brother said they needed another guy on their aluminum siding crew. I quit and took what wound up being an even more agonizing mode of employment.

10:41 AM

Greg asked me yesterday how long I’ve been out of college. I answered: “Five years.” Has it been that long? As he commented, “What have I done since then?” Both of us have been productive, him with a hot indie record label, me with, uhhhh, well, let us investigate the matter: two salaried jobs, two wage slave jobs, five tours with this band, various writings in zines and magazines. Spoon told me that he ran into some old friends of ours. They asked the standard question: “So what are you doing now?” By that they mean “what is your job” and by asking that they seek to determine if you have risen above them on the social scale of income. He responded, “I work here, at this diner.” They laughed, and asked again, “No, really, what are you doing?” Poor Spoon is just trying to make ends meet and figure out what to do next.

We’re all figuring out what to do next. These days people live with their parents past 30, can’t find jobs that pay a livable wage and look up from beneath a mountain of debt they cannot hope to climb out from. These are hard times. Is having a “real job” any guarantor of security? Ask the downsized. I decided at my last real job that it would be my last real job. It crushed me. I wanted to be able to do what I’m doing right now. If I ran into those old friends and they fired the Question at me, how would they view the answer? Most people envy what we do. Despite the poverty, the uncertainty and the wear and tear, most people would love to play in a band and travel around the country.

Still, if we went to our high school reunions, what would our former classmates make of us? My high school reunion is this year. What would I say if I went? “I’m in a band that’s played over 100 shows in the past year, that’s put out albums and that’s toured the U.S., Europe, Japan and Canada. I’ve written a lot and work at a bookstore.” How would that be received? I don’t care. I stopped trying to impress people in junior high.

This reminds me of when I saw a friend of my older brother. He left Jersey for Los Angeles nearly 17 years ago to pursue an acting career. Only now is he beginning to acquire bit parts in semi-seen TV shows. He said to me, “I look around at my old friends here in Jersey and they’re old. They look beaten. They’re alcoholics or meth heads. They work heating and cooling. They’re dead. I never regret moving and going after my dreams.” Is that what I am doing? Chasing my dreams in the middle of Colorado with the screaming wind whipping icy rain against the van?

11:05 AM

I think part of my problem lately with some performances is a feeling of disconnect with the people watching us. I don’t feel any bond and I don’t try to forge one. That is my fault. Should I feel a connection with them? Not once on this tour have I addressed the audience, though I did on past tours. Part of me feels like I have nothing to say and part of me knows that I have nothing new to say. Sure, I could mention the war and the Bush junta and the greatness of DIY hardcore in the face of encroaching Clear Channel cooptation. But it’s been said. How do I talk and have it come out sincere and unique? I miss the idealism of my early days in this. I miss the feeling of community, of a movement. Now it feels more like the hollow shell of modern day communism, more like the aftermath of a bowel movement. We are in Kansas and just passed a tractor-trailer flipped on its side. That is real life, that is movement, or the lack thereof.

Sign upon entering this town: “Gorham, KS. Spud Whitman- Professional Bull Rider”

Denver

Day 29
9:44 AM

It figures that we play Denver when the city experiences a rare spring snowstorm. The weather was frigid and rainy when we arrived. Imagine being pelted with broken icicles. I drove from somewhere in Wyoming to Denver. We encountered snow along the way.

A lot of kids came. We met some reasonably awesome people and enjoyed ourselves beyond the performance aspect of the evening.

As we prepared to leave, a helpful citizen informed us that Denver expected over a foot of snow by morning. We then high-tailed it out of there, despite various members of our party looking forward to an evening with morally dubious females.

As we exited Denver’s city limits, the blizzard enveloped us. Everything became violently white. No street, no lights, just snow. We could have been driving through a cornfield and we would be none the wiser. Eventually the celestial shapes of other autos appeared from the snow void. After an hour or so, the snow eased a bit. We were exhausted, hungry, tired. We yearned for a Denny’s. In Limon, Colorado we found our Denny’s, all of us exalting triumphantly upon seeing her gold, green and red sign flying high in the snowy night like a beacon of hope. A hotel stood barely one hundred feet away. We’ve stayed at a lot of hotels, but on this night such a means of lodging proved crucial.

Greg, Josh, Matt and I lugged our weary frames into the empty Denny’s (Billy was stuck with the LGS van, possibly flipped in a snowy embankment somewhere on that deadly highway). Mark was the sole host/waiter on duty. He emitted a vibe of total outcast. Something about his attire, his demeanor, his diction marked him as a bona fide leper. He wore heavy, ugly glasses and a botched, pseudo-military crew cut to match. I’d say he wasn’t a day under 45. Mark also featured the terminal illness of not being able to close his mouth. He talked to us as if he fired his words in machine gun volleys. The Latino cook- the only other employee or human in the restaurant- merely shook his head in forlorn recognition of our pain, a pain he must endure every shift, all night long. Mark discussed his home life, his friends, his town, how his brother watched it rain in the backyard while Mark saw it sunny out front. After our meal (quickly shoveled down, mine consisting of a plate of seasoned fries and toast- the toast of course dripping with butter though I requested it dry- $1.79 down the shitter), we retired to our $58 hotel room. As we drifted off to sleep, LGS arrived with Billy in tow. They attempted to drive through the night to Lawrence, KS. They stopped for sleep at a rest stop parking lot, and decided a night in our hotel room would prove far more advantageous. We awoke early to find them already gone, meaning no more than three hours of sleep for them. This is not a vacation.

10:24 AM

I can’t believe we’ve been at this for almost a month. When we left feels so far away. How do bands tour months on end? I’m at my wit’s end. Driving is driving me crazy. The lack of sleep, the malnutrition, people, the dog shit weather- all of it is debilitating. I yearn to be healthy again. I crave a day alone to cleanse myself of the dead skin cells accumulating on me from the fuckers around me. Do I want to tour like this? Do I want a normal job? Hell no, I guess I stay the course.