10 millenniums in Los Angeles

I hope everyone is now unzipping their layered and thermal outerwear, finally welcoming the opulent rays of the sun; the warm round beast that has been hiding behind leagues of frosty universe, leaving our entire country to freeze in an unpredictable frigid climate. During the wrath of Earth's icy dominion, we Fear Before had the opportunity to shoot a new music video---a video that took place outside. At night. Each of us covered in cold wet mud. For 7 hours. I am typing with a sniffly stuffed nose, still yet the aftermath of a bare fleshy warm-blooded body at mercy to nature's unyielding force. But it was one of the best times of my life. I am glad we survived...
The day of the shoot we had all afternoon to sleep in and prepare ourselves for the ultimate exposure to the most unprecedented dreary weather Los Angeles had thrown at its greasy pavement since long before anyone could remember. Scene call was at 430 PM and we threaded through the tight Los Angeles suburbs in our van and trailer, beads of thunderous rain splattering at our windshield. We pulled up to a colossal veranda tucked deeply away, past winding pavemented pathways and extensive open yards, the terrace costumed in a blatant castle design--resembling some ancient ride at Disneyland that would have been torn down mid 80's during the influx of theme rides that choked the expensive real estate of booming Southern California. Quickly the amiable director took charge, requesting that we change into the clothes we were willing to destroy in repeated rock n' roll maneuvers and gallons of clumpy bubbly thick mud. We were seamlessly swinging our hair doused in baby oil and faces caked in Milano foundation cream, clenching our frozen digits around the muddy necks of our guitars..trying to look infused with rock core amidst the terrible elements of nature breaking our backs with each cold pounding rain drop upon our shoulders. With the staggered alleviation from a heated living room dressed in garbage bags to ward off the mud stains, we zipped in and out of the frosty field with only enough time to recirculate the blood through our veins, heating our hands and feet next to the television that was constantly playing reality television. But hardship yields results. So stay tuned for the upcoming video for "Fear Before doesn't listen to people who don't like them", because we almost died of hypothermia to deliver it to you. That's my column for today.

Great Season's Greatings

Good Season to all... I hope your lavish days of tranquil leisure and bountiful consumption of Santa's favorite treats left you feeling complete and satisfied to take on another new year. Oh 2009! What mystery you hold. I have a feeling 2008 will only cower in the shadow of the monumental powerful profile such a becoming and tenacious year as yourself wields. I am flipping through pages of new year's resolutions and trying to slug out a better me come this new year; hoping to welcome in the fortitude of 2009 with open arms and relief like a feeble peon humbling before rain clouds. 2008 had it's highlights, but over half of it I feel I wasted--sitting around like life would shower me with gifts and opportunities; rather it befitted me with the humble realization that you make life what it is. So...using this spirited outlook and tasteful approach, one of my new year's resolutions is to comment on my life occurrences and choices as if my life were a column. I will tell enthralling tales of life on the road, romances, disparities, humor...everything. I hope to gain new readers and sift out the stale old ones. This is Mike in black and white. So hold on tight, because when the going gets weird...the weird turn pro.

Maybe For Only This Moment

Maybe for only this moment
Concerns will be brushed aside
Relationships will be at bay
Money will be only numbers
And Time will finally stay
And I will float here
As the waves of now
Carry me up and down
But my mood will not wary
Because my anchor is found
Just stopped right here
In the time of now

Sorry.

Many apologies to everyone and myself for my prominent diffidence with my writing---the second half of tour was far too much fun and swept my studious behavior away like rats in a rainstorm. I am gratefully home now, after the taxing drive across 1/3 of America with a most fearsome winter storm nipping at our accelerating hindquarters. We barely missed getting buried in the dolloping blanket of foot upon foot of heavy snow, covering the western United States in frost like an Oreo cookie. On this arduous drive home I pounded out some thoughts and will virtuously elaborate on them in the next coming of days.

Thesis on how I am invincible and there is no challenge I cannot overcome

Evidence #1
It was a brisk night, infused with the kind of cold that steals your body heat away like a passing apparition grabbing at your soul. The desert of New Mexico offered no warmth from its sandy hills and cloudless sky; it sat there lifeless and frozen like a bad painting---vacant and void. We played at a venue called the Launchpad and it was embarrassingly empty. This was due to one reason and one reason alone…the mega-hype hip-hop gangsta-frat-boy sensation known as “3OH!3” was playing a free show down the street and drew all the local kids like toddlers to an ice cream truck. After we packed away our equipment and tucked away our disappointed furrowed brows, we quickly joined the masses in congregation---but with a different motive---two of our very best friends were on tour with 3OH!3 and we desperately wanted to see them. I drove our van to the event in drooling anticipation and parked it illegally; the tour bus idling in distant view. We ran up and shook them out of the bus like coconuts from a tree; exchanging high-fives and fine whiskey shots in the frosty parking lot as if it were a wedding reception. We all had such a jubilant time and the party moved onto the bus until the wee hours of the morning. I was Mr. Responsible and played the role of the designated driver, calmly sipping on a stale Budweiser can and catching up with my friends. Eventually the celebration ceased and we loaded back into our van, sadly bidding our friends farewell. I maneuvered our van through the city streets in destination to a distant motel en route to Phoenix with the erupting laughter from the back of the vehicle piping up and ricocheting around like a wild beast in a cage. We were about 40 miles away from the desolate Motel 6 when amidst the laughter and bedlam in the van comes a crashing thunderous pound on the passenger door and I realize there is a massive 18-wheeler semi-truck knocking us into the median and almost into oncoming traffic. Survival tactics are always dependable and I watched my limbs jolt and thrust in a mechanical reaction as our van slowed down, headlights flash, horn honk; swerving to the side of the interstate---my arm jolting out the window with a towering middle finger erected in the frosty desert air; intended for the negligent truck driver ahead of us. In complete fury and powered by the atavistic energy of adrenaline, I jolted to the driver’s side of the truck and pounded on the door like Luther, beckoning the evil soul to emerge. There is no feeling like almost dying with 5 of your best friends. “Did you see what you just did to us?!...you almost killed us you bastard!!!” “Well…I was trying to plug something in. I must have swerved”. I was so infuriated and irate. I wanted to grab him from the neck and toss him into oncoming traffic. Instead I ran to the nearest road sign to find our location and alerted the authorities, who sleepily arrived at the scene; taking pictures and reports as if people almost lose their lives all the time. The truck driver was issued a ticket (is there a fine for almost killing someone?) and our insurance information was exchanged---police report filed. Now I am sitting here on my bed talking to my insurance company trying to figure out how to milk this guy for all the money he is worth. I want to get paid for almost dying.

My Week In Review

Oh my goodness it has been quite the week. I have traveled the onerous changing of time zones, long drives, late nights and far too much stimuli. Waco; San Antonio; Dallas; Lubbock; Albuquerque; Phoenix; Barstow; San Diego---a cavorting quest across the savage desert of the United States. In each and every city we have played I have had the honor of seeing good friends, making the distance I feel being away from home tolerable. Waco was a great show; a warehouse packed full of enthusiastic kids who danced about the floor like carnival acts. I spent 2 days at my brother’s house in Austin, joyously playing with his gargantuan Labrador and devouring the lavish feasts from some of my favorite restaurants in the country. We visited the Alamo, stayed awake until the wee hours in Dallas playing beer pong, had a relaxing day off in Lubbock with friend, partied on the 3OH!3 bus in New Mexico, got in an accident with a distrait semi truck driver, munched on massive pizza pies in Phoenix with our amazing friend PJ, met the members of duck duck goose in Barstow who kindly housed all 3 bands, and ventured into the locale of southern California to play a house show that was published in the local newspaper. It really is too much to tell. This is one of the seldom times where I cannot convey my brain operation through my fingertips. I am sorry. But one day I will be telling these stories to my grandchildren in front of a fireplace with steaming hot chocolate and a dog asleep at my feet. Until then, ask questions and I will answer them in a staggered manner. Mahalo

December 5

I woke up to the warm beams of light cast down upon my body in dignified measured lines like notebook paper; the effort of the auspicious sun pushing its thawing energy through the closed blinds and massive frozen window next to me. I rolled up my sleeping bag—careful not to wrap up any of the junk littering the rest of the bed—and dragged my sleepy legs through the trampled yard to our van. Flattened beer cans and smashed plastic cups lay lifeless in the dewy frozen matted turf, as if a herd of giant marching centipedes in rain boots passed through during the course of everyone’s slumber. I fumbled from house to house identifying my band mates in the piles of sleeping bodies everywhere, calmly waking them and advising them to hop in the van; it was time to start our drive to Lafayette, LA. We graciously shook hands with those who were awake early enough to bid us adieu and thanked them for housing such an unforgettable event. The drive was a straight path West, through the lush wooded trees of Mississippi and onto the elevated roadways of Louisiana, towering high above the swampy stale marsh on sturdy columns like birds nests in elm trees. I watched as the sun slowly burnt away over the Earth’s wet silhouetted ocean, its rays dancing about the glassy surface and then reflecting off as they dissolved into the milky clouds; the sun soon tucking itself behind the planet’s shroud and letting the moon take over. We arrived to the venue and loaded all of our equipment in and soon the other bands did the same. Soon the night would turn into the most incredible story of the tour, an outcome no one was expecting. The show ran smoothly and there was a comfortable back room for band members---and only band members. There was a dubious character hanging about, being very social with the bands and interacting like he had befriended the entire tour. As the night went on, he and his girlfriend inhabited the backroom and came and left from it like they were in a band themselves. After the show the guy was helping us load out and I had a bad feeling that some of the items he was grabbing weren’t exactly making it to our trailers. I ran back into the band room and realized that 2 laptops were missing (yes, one was mine…stolen twice in a week!) and there was a bass guitar and backpack missing as well. I warned everyone outside to look for the items and the first place we thought to check was the car belonging to the irregular character hanging about. Robbie from Heavy Heavy demanded that the guy pop his trunk so we could inspect. After much hesitation from the character, force was used and we made him show us his trunk. There it was…the bass guitar sitting atop a twisted pile of clothes like a prized jewel. Busted. Robbie and Thuggy charged for the kid and knocked him down into a pile of leaves, pummeling him with fist and foot repeatedly as his sturdy frame whimpered in, deflated by the assault of strikes. I knew my laptop and the other missing items were somewhere to be found, so I watched with satisfaction as the kid was nearly being broken in half. I could feel the vibrations in the ground from the wet fleshy thud of each punch. I felt so satisfied that justice was being served and wanted to orchestrate the slaughter for hours. I despise anyone that calls someone a friend and then steals from them. He deserved every bit of damage my friends were giving him. Soon a policeman who was running security for the dance club next door came over and asked us what was going on. He was the size of a pro wrestler and had the short patience of one as well---so when the kid was not cooperating with his questions he handcuffed him and threw him to the ground. We were all surprised and very satisfied that even the police knew that beating him up was the only way to teach him a lesson. We found the laptops buried in leaves next to his car and the backpack in his car. All items were retrieved and we left quickly with permission from the authorities that had the kid in the back of a squad car bleeding and defeated. Too bad the film crew for Cops wasn’t there, it would have been quite the spectacle for all of America to see.

December 4

I have to thank all our friends in Auburn, AL for putting the “party” in house party. I was slightly ambivalent before our arrival of playing the show, knowing that we were to be performing outdoors and it had been morbidly raining all day. We pulled up into a cul-de-sac of woody cabin-like party houses, nestled between solid towering trees and a hilly cemetery with worn headstones jutting out of the ground like abscessed teeth. We were warmly greeted by an eclectic group of the cul-de-sac’s inhabitants, college students with firm handshakes and an earnest enthusiasm to show us a good time. The plan was to set up our equipment in the main yard facing the cluster of rustic student houses, isolated by the vacancy of the graveyard and massive empty field behind where the party would be held. The outdoor stage was composed of large plastic pallets stolen from a grocery store, which plotted the wet leafy ground like hopscotch boxes. They had hammered together a drum riser about knee high with left over wood from broken furniture that had not gone into the fire pit yet, and had us run power from the kitchen of the house across the yard. The whole operation was beautifully provisional. In order to evade the constant light drizzle of unfortunate rain, we hoisted up a large plastic tarp over the yard and tied it overhead to the loose branches of trees in the surrounding---making the whole façade of the stage’s completion look like a junk yard jam festival. It felt like we were erecting the set of some scene in a teen movie; live bands and kegs with the clamor of an abstruse drunken crowd sloshing about the wet yard nodding their heads and swirling their hips to the commotion. As the sun was setting and students were finishing up any remaining homework before bleaching their brains with keg beer, the first band took the makeshift stage and let out a booming electric wail. The party had begun. Kids started showing up with briefcases of canned beer and oversized plastic bottles full of miscellaneous liquors. The cavort commenced and we all played long into the night. It was a beautiful scene; the deep sea of onlookers clenching their ruby red plastic cups, swaying back and forth in wonderment to the crunchy sound of live music as their breath rose up into the cool ebony sky forming a hazy liquor-soaked cloud above the ivory beams of shop lights. The jubilation eventually was thwarted by the arrival of campus police, who encircled the scene and yelled demands for the bands to stop playing; their hands cupped around their squawking mouths as if they were performing duck calls. We cut the music and sadly wound up cables and packed the gear back into our trailers, but the avidity of the audience would not perish. The crowd stayed and did not follow the police as they withdrew. I ran behind the stage and put on some dance music at a reasonable volume and the festivities resumed. For the rest of the night I walked around the setting with a massive smile stretched across my face, elated with the fact that your college years are the best years of your life…and I get to celebrate them at dozens of colleges across the country--without the homework. It was about 4:30 a.m. when I decided that sleep should be next on the agenda so I wondered into one of the neighborly houses and found a spare bed buried in junk. I quietly pushed the mess aside, enough for me to stretch out my sleeping bag and fell asleep to the sound of some girls in the other room on acid listening to prog rock. Stay young college kids.

December 3

It was the first day off since we had left and our bodies were feeling it. We rolled into the tranquil town of Beverly Hills, FL around 2am, causing little disturbance to sleeping elderly in rows of single-story houses locked up and glowing with the calm light of humming television sets playing Matlock reruns. Adam’s Aunt and Uncle let us stay in a clean empty house they own, conveniently neighboring his sweet Grandmother; who requested that we drop our dirty laundry over the fence and insisted on washing it for us---having it clean and folded before our heads ever lifted from our pillows in the morning. We woke to the sizzling sound and smell of fried eggs, coupled with sausages, toast, coffee and cereal. It was the first time since I could remember being able to eat a well-balanced breakfast. Our agenda for the day was to eat, drink and rest and we did just that. We went over to Adam’s uncle’s house and played some serious garage ping-pong sessions while ogling over his shiny hog of a Harley motorcycle and sports car. We sipped on beers in his garage adorned in Nascar posters and tools hanging from the walls, and listened with smiling faces as he told us stories of his youth and the devilish things he had done for fun. “I sure went to a lot of bars and had a lot of drinks and came home with a lot of women. I never did come home with an ugly one though…but I certainly did wake up with a few.” ~Hilarious~ After a few hours over there they took us to a pizza buffet. $4.99 all you can eat turned from the best decision to the worst decision as we made passes back and forth from the buffet like worker ants. Dave tapped out at 20 slices of pizza, a remarkable accomplishment; beating anyone else by over twice the amount. We made it home and sprawled out all over the empty living room carpet, watching thriller movies and romantic comedies until we were all in hibernation. I love days off.

December 2

All 15 of us woke up at the same time and had the dire urgency to pee, a very inconvenient happenstance seeing as how there was only one bathroom we were all sharing. After the line (similar in length to a woman’s restroom line at a ballgame) dwindled down and everyone was washed up, we started the drive to Tampa, the final show in Florida. Jeff lives in a town called Winter Park, Fl; a jazzy conglomeration of fine shops and restaurants married with the hip urban feel of a college town. We navigated our dirty oversized van and trailer through the ornate streets like the RV full of redneck cousins that show up to a formal family reunion. On the way out I spotted a Pita Pit and got a sandwich almost the size of a watermelon; chomping down on it as I steered one-handed until we hit the interstate and pressed onward with a steady cruise control. We arrived at the Brass Mug, a simple bar with a stage that features free pool and $5 pitchers at happy hour. The clock struck happy right when we arrived there and I treated myself to several friendly games of free pool after we loaded in. It was a pretty normal night. The show ran smoothly and we all were packed into the bar, which unfortunately allowed smoking. There was no ventilation and towards the end of the night my vision was more blurred from the heavy smoke than if I had been sucking down the $5 dollar pitchers all evening. When we were playing I wished I were the guy in that band Slipknot that wears the gas mask on stage because that would have been the only way I could have comfortably breathed. After the show we said bye to our Florida friends and took a massive group photo with them next to the dumpster. We drove an hour or so to Beverly Hills, FL to spend our day off at Adam’s relatives. The next day would be very low key, but the perfect set up for how absolutely crazy the following 2 days were to be. Stay tuned.

December 1

December 1 was not a good day for me. The night before---after falling in dirty creek water, I arrived back at Orlando’s house to find my laptop missing. The whole day I felt so miserable. The idea that someone would come over to a party and socialize with people whose possessions they were planning to steal makes me sick. Stolen along with my laptop were our friend Jaki’s video camera and Dave’s hoodie. I couldn’t sleep after I had found out. Thoughts of peoples’ profiles were whizzing around in my head like rampant bees, buzzing and pricking my brain with their untrustworthy stingers. It was a case of mental “whodunnit?” that continued all night and to no avail. I woke up and finally called the search party off; those items were nowhere to be found in the house. Orlando promised that he would call everyone he knew and get to the bottom of the matter. He was very kind for letting us stay at his house and he felt very bad for being the host of such misfortune. After rolling up our sleeping bags and waiving goodbye, we went to eat lunch at this amazing restaurant called “Mellow Mushroom”; a psychedelic infused atmosphere with a menu full of delicious pizzas and sandwiches. I tried to stay hopeful as I waited for my gargantuan sandwich to arrive, sucking back a few strong beers like tears in the process. They had this massive mural of Dr. Gonzo and Raul Duke from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas tearing down the savage desert of Eastern California in the red shark, but the characters were mushrooms with twisted eyes and limbs; one of the best paintings I have ever seen. The drive to Orlando, FL was easy and I jotted down some things in my notebook since I had no laptop to capture them. We played a club called the Social---a well-kept and hospitable venue very familiar to us. It is right on this drag of bars and restaurants with towering downtown buildings just further down. It is so interesting to walk the streets and see the wild mix of people interacting together there. You can count on seeing slick business-suited men with shiny penny loafers waiting at stoplights next to the hunched over crumpled souls of the homeless, jabbering quietly to themselves through their crooked yellow teeth or Bluetooth cell phones. None of these people came to our show, but they could be found at any time weaving in and out of the businesses like construction cones. I was delighted when some of the kids from Gainesville arrived at the show with all 3 stolen items. They had found the crook, a female that I remember vividly showing up to the house the night before. They said she was known as the “klepto” of Gainesville, and finding her guilty of such injustice was not hard to do. So thankfully I am now back, plugging away at my keyboard with an appreciation for all those who helped me get it back. The show was a lot of fun and there were some really cool Fear fans there that we talked with. When we play the Social we always eat at this tasty pizza place connected to it, and we did just that; munching away at gooey slices of thin crust and listening to the diverting stories of passing vagabonds. We stayed with our friend Jeff and his very attractive girlfriend in a single room with 2 cats and all 3 bands. It was quite the slumber party.

November 30

The day started off in a very lackadaisical manner. The drive from Jacksonville to Gainesville was short at best, leaving us another opportunity for a gregarious banquet of sorts. We all pooled our hungry cravings together and decided on Olive Garden---a place where you can feast on unlimited wands of buttery breadsticks and slurp up buckets of choicest soup and crunchy salad for the mind-boggling price of $5.95. I felt very tired and dizzy; the inside of my head bobbling around like a buoy upon wind-kissed waves. I had been up until the stiflingly late hour of 5am yet again, putting my body and mind through more taxing endeavors than a “ninja warrior” obstacle course. We all arrived at the restaurant with the teeming stench of starchy motel blankets and porous liquor fumes, ready for endless indulgence in Italian dining. The two waitresses were very kind and tended to our group like butlers, bringing armfuls of ice water and specified bowls of soup and salad repeatedly. After gorging ourselves like the Renaissance era, we left the two kind souls a hefty tip and a CD to jam out to. So if either one of you is reading this right now, know that we thoroughly enjoyed your service haha. After eating, I hopped in the van and sprawled out on the plush floor mattress like a sugar glider in aerial descent. I slept for the whole drive and woke up to the jolting reverberations of the trailer being unloaded. Gainesville was dreary rainy and cold. The whole night I did not feel like myself and just wanted to sleep. We played a very quaint little bar called “1982” which featured video games and cheap beer, two of my favorite things on Earth. We got real weird on stage and wore costumes; Goose jamming on the drums with a batman ski mask and I with my Mexican wrestler mask and sombrero; Dave wore his Halloween outfit---a power outlet costume and buggy sunglasses. We met some kids at the show and they knew someone with the ironic name of Orlando who had a house that all 3 bands could stay at. We loaded the equipment up hastily and drove in a massive caravan as long as a funeral procession to his house. We had a great time hanging out with our new friends and eating pizza in the kitchen listening to Queen. Orlando’s house was surrounded by thick twiggy marsh and we learned of a nature trail that started just outside of his driveway, continuing for a mile or so and leading deep within the canopy of towering trees. A group of 12 of us decided to investigate the trail. We grabbed a couple miniature mag-lights and ventured blindly into the inky black caverns of the wet forest. I had never been anywhere so dark. The few lucky explorers that had flashlights navigated the way as the rest of the followers tripped over brittle twigs and twisted vines that tasseled your feet like snakes in tar. Our quest was halted when we came to a flooded muddy creek, but our determination could not be extinguished. We found a fallen tree that bridged across the rancid water, a sure way across for any overzealous team of night navigators. We slowly mounted the fallen trunk and balanced individually, like a group of tightrope walkers in some savage forest circus. I had grabbed a can of ravioli from the house in case we got lost in the woods and needed food for the night, which was hanging heavily from the pocket of my sweatshirt. I traced the surface of the tree with the wet soles of my shoes, blindly pressing onward with the unwavering guidance of just a miniature flashlight clenched between my teeth and fickle twigs to grab onto. The can of ravioli inside my jacket was swinging over the ominous dark water, pulling on my balance like it was magnetic. Soon enough I was overcome by the power of the ravioli can and it caused me to plummet into the creek water like a boulder. I kicked with spasm-like thrusts and pulled myself out of the water, dripping wet and embarrassed. I managed to make it across on my second try and walked back to the house like a sorrowful soldier; the sounds of my squishy wet shoes and bantering jokes of my peers echoing in my head endlessly. I will never eat ravioli again.

November 29

Our day started off with the leisurely inclination to get a good southern cooked meal, seeing as how the drive to Jacksonville would be relatively painless and minutely time consuming. When I think of the words “leisure” and “southern”, no appropriate destination for food constituting both strikes my fancy more than Cracker Barrel. We were still hanging strong with Dr. Manhattan and they agreed that a feast of southern proportions was much needed. We cruised for an hour down the interstate as the golden Floridian sun lit up the aquamarine sky with its opulent rays; our stomachs aching for the fortifying fullness of a home cooked meal. Cracker Barrel is basically a restaurant chain of rocking chair lovin’, lemonade sippin’, life lovin’, kindred souls---there to serve persons of any race, lifestyle, age or political preference with open arms warmer than the piping hot endless plates of biscuits they serve. It was time to chow. After a harmless 10 minutes spent in the gift shop decked out in sparkling Christmas decorations and animated snowmen singing heavenly choruses of carols, our table was soon prepared for our hands to be clenching knife and fork, hungry as orphans. We passed the heaping piles of buttery biscuits and crisp corn bread around and feasted like Grecian gods, all for a very appropriate and affordable price. My favorite part of the table conversation was the radical idea of waitresses from Cracker Barrel and waitresses from Hooters switching positions and the absolute humor that would ensue if they were to do so. If you have been to either restaurant chain, you know where I am coming from in saying that no two profiles of waitresses could be more completely opposite. Hilarious. After we were done eating and ready to be rolled out of the doors like tubs of butter, we finished the drive and arrived in Jacksonville, FL. We loaded in and found ourselves with nothing better to do and nowhere better to go than behind the venue where our vans were parked and bust out the acoustic guitars and makeshift percussion instruments of sticks and foot stomps, playing out our favorite 90’s hits as we danced around like drunken sailors. The show was pretty mild and not much for a remarkable turnout, but we had a great time playing. During the middle of the show I was lucky enough to be outside as downtown Jacksonville celebrated their annual parade of lights. They set off a skyline of breathtaking fireworks over the towering buildings. My jaw dropped as I watched the fizzling dazzle of florid explosions fall to the earth like comets. After the show, the owner was very nice and let us stay after hours, giving us gratuitous pints of fancy brew and stories up the wazoo about Jacksonville folk. Soon after we boarded our vans and made destination to a local motel, all three bands sharing two rooms to be economical. We were blessed with the kind gift from a friend of ours that had been at the venue the night before; a towering shiny bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey and a good-natured hand written note on the label saying how much he misses us. We took numerous shots of the brown elixir in his honor and played card games until our bellies and brains were full of too much stimuli and drink. We all fell asleep scattered everywhere about the hotel rooms and welcomed in another successful day of rock n’ roll.

November 28

My eyes were heavy when I was jolted to consciousness by the vexing tenor of my phone alarm. I rapidly began to piece together my surroundings like a first detective at the scene of a crime. Bodies were littering the floor all around me, bound tightly in blankets and draped covers. I flipped on the light and witnessed the full pledged aftermath of a hotel party. There were bottles blotching every surface like a glassy rash and plastic cups caked with coagulated cheese sauce piled up from the impromptu easy mac feast we all had. I managed to make a batch of 14 easy mac packets in the plastic ice bucket the hotel room provided; a culinary accomplishment most worthy of stating. Dr. Manhattan and we had arrived back at the hotel and because of the lurid nature of our Thanksgiving house party night, decided to continue the calamity and have some drinks. I was up until the wee hours of the night fraternizing with them, thus making the necessary early morning of taking our van into the brake shop for repair a very daunting task. The brakes took almost 5 hours to be finished, so we wondered around the businesses clustered together at the intersection of our hotel. It was black Friday, so everything was busy and bustling, even the run down K-mart across the street. I spent many hours there just walking down the isles and people watching. Eventually we were able to leave for Savannah, GA, arriving to the show late and having to frantically load through a pizza parlor and down some creaky back steps into a low hung basement with chalky brick walls and sparse glowing light bulbs. The place looked like a dungeon and when the 200 kids showed up and crammed the quarters wall to wall with no room to move it felt like a mass killing that would have occurred in some grim German hostage camp in the mid 1940’s. The show ended up being a lot of fun, despite the chaos of the 8-band bill and the mountainous piles of equipment and guitars in the basement that would have given any fire marshal night terrors. The pizza parlor above the show gave us free pizza, which was delicious and hot, warming me up from the cold rain that had been drizzling on me the whole night. After the show we found a nice guy named Garreth that let us stay at his house and I was up late once again, playing video games watching TV. I fell asleep wrapped up in my weathered sleeping bag on the kitchen floor. Another day of life on the road.

My Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has come and gone but left many a story to tell. This year may have been the most remarkable Thanksgiving I have celebrated away from home. I owe it all to obese lethargic southern folk and kids with motivation to get off the couch and come to a show on a holiday. For here is why…
To get straight to the point, I had my Thanksgiving feast at a buffet called Golden Corral. It was conveniently located directly across the street from the plush $60 dollar a night hotel we boarded ourselves up in and offered endless amounts of piping hot fixins prepared with duty and passionate servitude by migrant workers in hairnets. I was in the company of individuals who came to this establishment because they were either too fat/old to cook for themselves or had no family to celebrate the holiday with. It was absolutely the best people watching experience I have ever had. There were cannonball-sized golden agers maneuvering their electric wheelchairs through the buffet lines, piling up heaping amounts of steaming buttery holiday delicacies and quickly woofing down monster-sized fork loads in anticipation of the next fresh turkey to be served. They were dressed in their comfortable and homely attire of sweat pants, XXL cotton button up shirts wielding brawny American flags flapping in the wind, and reebok sneakers worn thin from years of carrying their heavy load up and down buffet lines. I feel bad being so insulting, but there seriously could not have been a sadder batch of Thanksgiving feasters. I was there because it was my only option; they were there because it is more affordable to buffet dine than grocery shop due to their unbounded appetites. I did the best I could to get my $10 worth of savory servings and then left these people to their plates piling up and waistlines engorging. I was knocked out after the Golden Corral. I got some much-needed sleep on the feathery motel bed and then hopped into the van for the turkey bash house show we were to play. The show was seriously something straight out of a teen movie. We played in the front living room of a single story house with all the windows and doors sound proof insulated by trusty mattresses and couch cushions. We set up a mountainous wall of amplifiers and made that room vibrate and floor undulate, singing and swaying with shoulder to shoulder sweaty kids; all our bellies stuffed full of turkey and taters. The show was a blast and the kid Chris who lived there was mystified how he was able to get some of his favorite bands to play in his living room. Everything was running smoothly until someone thought it was a good idea to remove one of the mattresses smothering the loud sound from escaping the house and hoisted up on top of the crowd, sending it careening it across the heads of the congregation like a ship in a storm. The hefty mattress plowed into the chandelier above where Dr. Manhattan was performing and sent glass and light bulbs everywhere as the unit spun around like a dreidel. Soon after, amongst all the chaos and noise, an unknown culprit fire hosed pungent mustard all over the crowd and walls and repulsive stench of sweat and bitter mustard seed left everyone in the room comatose. The show was called off because the floors and walls were splattered with the dandelion yellow condiment like modern art. The police showed up and sent kids running into the shadows of the night as the front yard of the house was lit up with flashing blue and red like a disco hall. We quietly loaded the trailer with all of our equipment and shook hands with the hosts of the house, thanking them for making our Thanksgiving a memorable one. Sure beats eating and watching a football game with awkward aunts and uncles.

I miss you Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving for my family was a holiday that revolved around my Great Grandmother because her birthday is always within near margin of it. The holiday meant boarding a narrow jet plane and flying into the quaint airport of Springfield, MO, renting a mini van and staying in a hotel room with my siblings and parents. It was always such a strange sensation to me---being in a hotel room with my siblings and parents. Everyone’s morning habits, sleeping habits, eating habits and bathroom habits become quite evident when executed all in the same room. I was used to living in a house divided by walls, intended to mask such behavior. It was a different element for those 3 or 4 days. Family humor and favorite stories were always revisited, lifted up and kicked around like dust that had settled between times that the whole family was together.
The best part was visiting my Great Grandmother at her house, an antiquated estate tucked deep within the hearth of massive oak trees and green yards. Her house had always been a mansion of mystery to me; from the locked doors of rooms I was not allowed to enter to the mechanical chair lift that carried one up and around the main staircase. I was fascinated with everything the house held ever since I could remember. I have so many memories of running around the house and playing hide and seek with my cousins, hiding in massive wardrobes of musty clothes and always finding new discoveries the old house offered. My Great Grandfather had passed away during the years of my visits there, but his closet was still stuffed full of his long coats and hats. I remember hiding in that closet one time and finding a secret door that led up into the attic. I had myself convinced there were other secret passages lodged deep within the house but my efforts to find them were always curtailed by my Grandmother’s request to not snoop around.
Another favorite memory of mine during my visits there was sitting on the textured rug of red and black patterned diamonds in front of the fire place, pushing around my hot wheels over the bumpy surface of the rug. The fire would always violently pop and shoot flaming pieces of dried wood that to my relief extinguished themselves on the polished golden screen stretched across the den of the fireplace like an extended accordion. Football was always on. I would watch as the players with their broad shoulders and polished helmets wove in between each other and crashed into piles upon the vibrant green grass. Their meticulous formations and play executions never interested me; I would quietly root for the team whose color combination I favored most.
My Great Grandmother was always a caring and involved host. I remember back and forth in between my Aunts carrying baskets of dinner rolls and large porcelain plates to the table, eventually making it to the back of the dining room to peek in the bustling kitchen and see my Great Grandmother standing over a pot the size of her torso, calmly stirring as billows of steam rose up and danced out the window. She would look over at me with a comforting grin, knowing my excitement to feast upon towering plates of her devout cooking.
Then came the food. It was hard to even find a place on the large stained oak table to place your own plate due to the myriad of dishes bowls and pots; all offering sensations of taste that resurrect their intoxicating savory flavors as if the feast from the previous year had been eaten just the day before. We would pass around the mirrored stainless steal dishes of gravy and cranberry sauce, covering our steaming plates of stuffing and juicy roasted turkey like icing on cake. I would eat and eat, then place myself in a comfortable chair and let my stomach go to work. The evening always ended with all of our tired souls fumbling out of the front doors, ready to sleep soundly in our hotel beds.
Yesterday marked 5 years since my Thanksgiving has been like that. I have been on the road for the Holiday every year since then. My vivid memories of my Great Grandmother’s house have comforted me with each year I have been absent from the Thanksgiving feast. This year I felt I needed to write them down.

November 26

Yesterday was a day of little remark or astounding occurrences. We had to wake up at 8 am in the freezing dead fall weather of Wisconsin, petrified from the arctic moisture of the great lakes. Our trailer has a bent axle so the front right tire on it wears away faster than wal-mart shoes. I noticed the tire had done so and had little hope of lasting the 20 hours of driving we would have to do in the next 2 days. Additionally, as we were descending the hill in the van, it let out a crude grinding noise telling us all very rudely that we need new brakes. When it rains it pours. We drove all day, tracing essentially the same route we had taken to get up to Wisconsin. I knew that the following day would be Thanksgiving, making it impossible to get a new tire or new brakes. We tried stopping at 2 different places on the day’s drive, both revealing the startling fact that it would take several hours wait time to get what we needed. Everyone was out yesterday getting their cars tuned so they could drive across the state to grandma’s house for her famous pumpkin pie and family recipe gravy. We weren’t though. We had shows to play. We made it to Mt Vernon, IL for load in and played a pretty normal show, other than the fact the kids moved less and looked more dead than zombies on Xanax. We loaded out and fortunately Heavy Heavy let us borrow their spare trailer tire in case we were to have a blowout on the overnight drive. I drove from 11 pm till about 6 am and had some entertaining fatigue hallucinations while cruising the dark highways alone at the wheel. My good friend Erin kept me up with silly text messages about her night on the town with her friends, drama and cheese steaks. That in combination with bottomless sunflower seeds and McDonalds coffee made me wired, weird and work-focused. I also thought about how I want to take out a loan and go to Hawaii and write an introspective book about the trip, also a few songs. I did a lot of thinking on the drive. We also listened to an audio book about a lone fur trapper and his adventures in the wild west. It was entertaining but in a very laughable sense. Eventually I made it to a somber closed down gas station and traded drivers, finally able to rest my burning eyes. I woke up to the most eerie fog, something straight out of Tim Burton’s world. It was beautiful and twisted. We had to switch out the tire and made it safely to South Carolina. Next…my Thanksgiving adventures at Golden Corral.

November 25

I was jolted out of warm slumber to the sharp cold tone of my alarm, requesting that I descend the long flights of stairs and stumble outside to the frosted streets of Chicago to pay the meter a few lonesome quarters for where we were parked… at 8 a.m. sharp. We had a slow exit but soon found ourselves on the road once again. I drove to the next show in Wausau, Wisconsin; a town I had never heard of nor could accurately pronounce. It was a calm drive, lines of frail ailing trees tracing the highway with their naked limbs holding a thin layer of frozen morning dew, like dying vagabonds on street corners with coins in their hands. I had a lot on my mind and the drive went by fairly quickly. Thinking is what I do best when I am guiding the van on tour. After 4 harmless hours, we pulled into the town of Wausau covered in glitter and Christmas lights. It was rather becoming and the décor and layout reminded me of England when we were there in 2005 around the holidays. Traditional clocks and street lamps followed the slender roads through 4-way stops and pedestrian crossings, while the warm glow of small stores and restaurants closed for the night illuminated the subtle rise of the hill the downtown area was nestled on. The show had an impressive amount of kids for it only being booked 10 days in advance. Most of them were very young and all smoked---illegally. 4 bands opened the show and I was actually really impressed by one of them. Their music was too shred metal for my taste, but they were all only 14 years old and could play their instruments really well. After a few hours of walking around and visiting the local mall, it was time for my friends to play and I watched both of their groups jam out. The sound guy was terrible and had more of a fascination with his BMX bike than actually getting the stage to sound good. So we all just did what we could and got through the show with relatively little problems. We loaded up after and it was absolutely freezing. We had the offer to stay at the house of the promoter’s friend, and we gladly took it. It was only a few miles from the venue and soon enough Heavy Heavy and us were shacked up together in a warm basement with some beers and cheese curds to share. I was up very late tossing and turning with the puzzling and frustrating phone conversation I had with my friend before bed. I really don’t want to elaborate much further. But I hope she has a good birthday today.

November 24

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November 23

Last night we successfully arrived in Lawrence, KS, the little brother version of Boulder, CO. It is full of hippies, bicycle freaks, good food and girls everywhere. We pulled in around 12:30 a.m. and because of the long drive and late hour, we were unable to visit the couple of bars there that I hold very dear to my heart. One of those is the Bottleneck. We have played there more times that I can count and I have loved that bar ever since my first tour, when I didn’t even drink. We have been there for karaoke night, dollar pint night, played first day of tour/last day of tour shows…I have even gone to a show there before. It is one of those places where you walk in to and you are bombarded with memories; total sensory overload. So dear Bottleneck, sorry we could not hangout. On the other hand, last night did end up being a corybantic evening; showing me only the tip of the iceberg of all the adventure this tour is going to be. We stayed at my friend Brecken’s house, which is inconspicuously tucked behind a modest little animal hospital—making it impossible to find. She welcomed us in to the best party environment one could ever ask for after driving 9 hours. There were plenty of people to meet and even more cold beer to drink. Some kids were even playing the drinking game called “landmines” which is a staple to my profession of recreational beer consumption. Goose and I got free haircuts in the kitchen and played with her sluggish oaf of a dog named Maddie. All of her friends were really nice and eventually the Jack Daniels and beer set in and we found ourselves laughing around the table playing a never ending drinking game and jamming out to our favorite songs. After a couple rounds of Mario Kart on Nintendo 64 I realized it was almost 6 a.m. so I called it a night and passed out on the floor downstairs. This morning we woke up and left impressively quick to meet up with our friend for lunch and pick up some merch that we had sent to her. The new designs look good and I’m excited to see kids wearin’ them. First show is tonight in St. Louis and we are going to finally meet the Dr. Manhattan guys. I am giggly excited. That’s it for now.

November 22

The sun has set upon the last day of our homely habitation, ushering in a wildly different but familiar lifestyle of travel, late nights, long days and purpose. Life on tour is a series of experiences that gleam and flicker in your memory like burning stars in a constellation, always appearing in my consciousness as if I was looking into the sky nightly. I love to rattle my brain and see what memories fall out. I have been to so many thousands of places and can connect experiences with simple things of reference. For instance, on television the other day there was an advertisement for one-way deals on flights. All the prices were listed with their respective cities, an eclectic mix of destinations that would spot an atlas of the United States like chicken pox. I realized as the cities flashed before me that I had been to every single one of them, and most of them more than 5 times. Who can really say that? Flight attendants, businessmen, venture capitalists opening franchises…none of those sound very fun. I really feel a great sense of accomplishment and appreciation when I sit here in the dark with the wheels underneath my feet rolling yet again; taking me to distant places I have been to before and am excited to see. Life will be much different when I return home. The ground will be covered in powdery snow, grocery stores will be playing Christmas carols, and I will be with my whole family sharing dark beer and eating cheese and crackers. Home will feel like home again. That is why I am happy to leave it today. Everything will be there when I get back and it will feel good to miss it for a month.

Dear and the Headlights

We made the loathsome conquest of a travel to southern colorado springs to witness Dear and the Headlights create intoxicating harmonies via strings and rhythmic banging. They pulled it off spectacularly well, just like every one of the 27 odd times I have seen them. Most importantly, they are our buddies and it was even better hugging their sweaty bodies in their plaid-clad. Now I am sitting here on an ugly sofa with my puppy tugging on my ear and a swirly cerebral sensation. Here is to late nights. And stupid drives. God Fuckin Bless 

The necks of cobras

It was an unexpected invitation

Which left me behind the wheel

Gripping it like the neck of a cobra

Accelerating as the dashing ivory lines

Paced straight forward

Sober and hopeful

I spotted her there in the crowd

Walnut flowing hair and the figure of a flower

Expecting me

She lit up when our eyes met

Every memory and recognition

Racing circles through our glance and glands

Our bodies connected

I wanted to tear her away from there

Pulling a flower from its roots

And place her in my garden

Where I could care for her under the sun

And watch her maturation 

But we soon parted

And I left her under that dark roof

I once again gripping the necks of cobras

But no backbone to be found

My walnut flower

Crickets and Solitude

Chirp chirp

As those insects rub their legs 

I set my tempo of consumption to their rhythm

A steady pulse while I find the bottom of my glass

Alone

I hear them calling out to the night

Beckoning

A somber cry to the dark sky

Pleading for fellowship

Are we much different than the pests that hide 

In those blades of grass

Aching for companionship

As their bodies wear thin through the night

Maybe I  need a call of my own

For someone to answer to

But perhaps this is why I wrote this down