Tour Day#2: Philadelphia

June 21, 2005.

Part I. Leaving NYC

Anne was kind enough to have us stay at her apartment after the gig. I got to bed at 3am and slept until about 7:30am — since Anne needed to leave her apartment for work no later than 9am. She offered me some coffee and powdered donuts (she’d bought them specifically to add some flair to our black clothing) and I gladly accepted. And man, did I need that coffee too.

Anne and I took a brief walk and it appeared that the van was missing. “Huh”, I said to myself. “I was sure Anne had likened her neighborhood in Brooklyn to Duluth. Car theft could never happen here, especially not in NYC.” Decidedly, I finished my walk and would address the issue when I got back to the apartment.

Sure enough, James had gotten up earlier and had moved the van to a better location. This was a wise move on his part, since it would’ve been ticketed and/or towed had he not. Problem solved.

We hit the road at about 8:45am and with traffic arrived in New Jersey by 9:45am or so. I required more coffee, oh, and I unleashed a fury (which some in the band might refer to as a “daisy cutter”) in the men’s room. After Operation Enduring Relief was completed, we hit the road. We’d be staying in South Jersey and driving to that evening’s performance in Philly.

Part II. South Jersey

I’ve concluded that when your motel (a Red Roof Inn) looks like something you’d see on an episode of “COPS”, you’re probably staying at a pretty sucky motel. Further, when your hotel won’t let you check in until 2pm, you’ve got to wonder why. Did they need extra time to abate the dead bodies and shampoo blood and skull fragments from the carpet? Seriously, if checkout time is by noon but you can’t check-in until 2pm, why can you only stay in the room for 22 hours?

Unfortunately for us, we had about 4 hours to “spare” in South Jersey between when we’d arrived and our check-in time. Since we’d had two girls with us (Kerry and Cruella), it was determined that we’d go shopping. Checking our wallets, we’d surmised that a buying spree at Tiffany’s and the Jaguar dealership were out of the question. Er, okay, that’s a lie. We were in South Jersey, so our choices appeared limited to Wal-Mart, and…

Aww yeah. You on the rag, beeyotch? They can hook you up at the Rag Shop, yo. Sheeeit. Yes, a picture of me apppearing to hold up the “Rag Shop” sign with my sub-superhuman strength.

Rag Shop. No. Make that the Motherfuckin’ Rag Shop. Apparently, in South Jersey, Rag Shop is quite the phenomenon. They even have a Rag Shop Camp (for kids) — as advertised on the front windows. One can only hope that the joys of things rag are not limited to females. At times, but not frequently, I am a man-bitch. I can only sit and sob that I did not have something important in my life like Rag Shop Camp when I was growing up. I only had a Commodore 64 and BASIC programming and software piracy to keep my periodic man-bitchy emotions in check back in the day.

Part III. Wal-Freakin’-Mart

Right, so we were on tour…

And decided to shop at Wal-Mart instead. I’ll keep this bit short because it’s not worth expounding on more than to tell you that:

1. Martin got the Rag Shop picture developed, as seen here.
   
2. I bought:
   1. Two black t-shirts (on our gothstravaganza, you couldn’t have enough!).
   2. One baseball cap (not pictured) with a metal, New Jersey emblem on it.
   3. One baseball cap (pictured above) with a picture/ID pouch built-in!
   4. One pair of pajama bottoms with AC/DC emblem displayed literally hundreds of times on them (not pictured).
   5. A WWE (Word Wrestling E’whatever) Championship Belt, as shown here:
      

      That’s right. Fear me. Fear the tall, shiny-headed Indian man. P-h-e-a-r. Or, date me. I’m available. I’ll piledrive you, if you’re nasty (or maybe even if you’re not).

   6. A set of Bic lighters that said “NASCAR” on them.
3. I later learned that Cruella had (allegedly) shoplifted a bunch of makeup, which would certainly explain why people with walkie-talkies were following us all over the store.

Finally, we checked into the Red Roof Inn and collapsed for a couple of hours.

Cruella was the first to assemble herself, and we erred when she’d asked if attire was “restricted” and we’d said, “no”. From the bathroom emerged Cruella, and she was wearing something pink on top and a tight pair of black pants. But these were no ordinary pair of black pants. In white lettering was the word “fuck” written over and over and over. And over. In rock ‘n’ roll terms, they were, well, a fantastic fucking pair of pants. In 33 year old terms, they were kind of embarassing, in the way that you’d hope a gallon or two of black paint would drip from the sky and completely cover the pants.

Part IV. Philly Hijinks

By 6pm, we piled into the van once again and headed to Philly. We were playing at this club on West Girard Ave. After we’d established that the neighborhood (“Fish Town” as it’s known) was completely free of middle class denizens, yuppies, meterosexuals, and gays/lesbians, we became extremely pleased to have the opportunity to play for people who’d shower us with beer bottles and cigarette butts. Am I being a douche? Take a walk on West Girard Ave. and get back to me… if you survive.

We went in search of food and ended up at Johnny Rocket’s. Cruella and her “fuck” pants were a big hit. They made many a passer-by giggle or comment. I daydreamed about diving behind a parked car to dodge a tsunami of black paint. Instead, we ate burgers, fries, and tried to put the “fuck” pants in perspective.

Martin figured it best when he did a drum roll on the “fuck” pants and pointed across the table at us. So, for the rest of the night, someone would do a drum roll and point at someone else, as if to say “fuck you”. For this contribution only, I gave Cruella some style points.

The club? Can be summarized by this placard we’d found in the entrance:

What on earth is Puppet Karoke? If it happened before, during, or after our set, I didn’t see any puppets.

Or maybe you’d be interested on one of their delectable appetizers?

Part V. The Show

Oh, the show. Yes, it was quite awful. Our playing sucked. I hit my head on a stage monitor… that was suspended from the ceiling, which in and of itself is ironic since it is a stage monitor, which suggests it should be resting on the stage. Or maybe it was a speaker. Who the hell knows. Someone in the audience thought that the perfect “light show” would be to shine a slide projector on the stage. So, during our set, I probably had a series of family vacation photos being displayed on my big, shiny head. That picture of your dad sitting in the canoe and proudly displaying a can of Old Milwaukee? Didn’t help my playing at all. Kindly don’t go with that form out light show again. OK? Thanks.

After the show, we had “fans”. Seriously. A couple of dudes told us how great we were and started chatting us up. This made no sense, because, and I’ll say it again; WE SUCKED. We had a series of family photos displayed on our bodies during our set, and we sucked. Simple as that. So, naturally, I was suspicious of this burgeoning fan base of West Girard Ave. One dude claimed to be in a band — let’s call them the West Girard Avenue Players (WGAP) — and the other claimed to be a photographer. The dude from WGAP insisted that we played a Saturday show in Philly to get exposure. That made sense. Did he have a show on a Saturday in which he’d put us on the bill? No. But it was a nice idea. Thanks, Mr. WGAP!

Oh, the other band was pretty good, but kept having technical difficulties. This made their guitarist/singer particularly surly. I can relate.

As for the photographer dude, he insisted on doing a photo shoot with the band — outside of the club — near this magnificent bumper sticker:

Riiiight. So, our dear photographer positioned the band atop this vent, in front of the previously-mentioned bumper sticker, next to an ATM machine, and began to snap about 100 pictures. After he took a picture, he’d say, “oh, that sucks.”, and he’d delete it from his digital camera. “Oh, that sucks”. I was sure that someone was stealing our gear inside: sure of it. Finally, he relented and took two last pictures. I was pleasantly surprised that, upon loading the gear shortly thereafter, nothing seemed to be missing.

While we loaded the gear, the photographer separated Kerry and Cruella from the group and began to photograph them — hugging each other. Soon, I saw the looks on their faces, and the disappointed look on the face of the photographer. Apparently, he’d wanted more “intimate” shots of them.

Given Cruella’s level of craziness, and the fact she was currently “self-managing”, this series of events only caused to bring her over the edge. She began throwing punches at James (the drummer) and I. I mean, hard punches. What was wrong with this chick?

We finished loading our gear, gathered our $40 from the club, and vowed to never return to that city’s clubs ever again.

To date, we have not received pictures from the photographer, either.

Tour Day#1: New Yawk, New Yawk

Part I: The Trip

June 20, 2005. New York, New York. The Big Apple. Gallery @ CBGB. Goth Night. Two great tastes that, well, whatever. To get to NYC for a 9pm load-in, we left Boston at 1pm. I picked up a snack pack of 10 mini-Snickers bars, two big-block Hershey’s dark chocolate bars, and a Diet Vanilla Coke. We hit the road.

Unluckily for me, I ran out of Snicker’s bars by the time we hit the Mass Pike. The Hershey’s big-block was probably quaking in its foil wrapper just watching my predatory glances. My blood sugar was insanely high. I was banging my bald noggin to the Gogol Bordello CD Martin was playing in the van. The weather was great. Band chemistry was great. We were talking about music. Oh, and we were joking about farting and sex, although not in the same context.

We reached NYC by 4:30pm or 5 and had to find our “merch” helper who’d be with us for the duration of the tour. After weaving our way through Manhattan, and making a pit stop at the cleanest, safest public restroom NYC had to offer, we met up with our “merch” person — let’s call her “Cruella” — by Penn Station.

Lucky for us, she’d packed light. Her four suitcases and backpack fit neatly into the back of the van after Martin unloaded and reloaded all of the gear on a sidewalk in Manhattan. Funny how everybody who actually was in the band limited themselves to a single suitcase.

Part II: Be-s’merch and The Dating Game

Cruella played the part of goth girl really well. She was pierced and wearing too much makeup. Her clothing showcased fishnet and spandex. I think her shirt had a kittycat picture on it. She seemed affable enough. She was pretty intelligent, and had a good sense of humor. And for a little while (more on this later), I pictured myself having sex with her. In the van. Next to her four suitcases and backpack. And my new bass guitar amplifier.

As we rode through Manhattan, Kerry decided we should find a woman for me from the throngs of women in NYC. This was a marvelous idea. Thanks, singer Kerry!

She turned her head and shouted, “look! there’s one! Future wife for you, Nate!”

“Where? Where?!”, I demanded.

“Her!”, she said as she pointed her finger at a woman who appeared to be no less than 75 years old.

“Oh”, I sighed. “This is some kind of sarcastic, New England game, isn’t it?”

“Of course”, she laughed.

Thus began the game of “Future Husband, Future Wife”.

For me, singer Kerry picked women who were senior citizens, frumpy women, obvious crazies, and women who were clearly lost in the city.

For singer Kerry, I picked men who were wearing Members Only jackets, Hassidic Jews, obese men who were wearing tight clothing, and men in flourescent shirts.

The game ended, I think, when we ended up picking only vagabonds for one another. At that point, we’d peaked, so it was time to move on. Besides, we were hungry and we had to find the location of the club.

Part III. The Gig

Apparently, Goth night is a long running event at CB’s. Given that NYC has all sorts of people, there seemed to be potential for a respectable crowd at one of the legendary clubs of the world — if only by accident.

After some really awful pizza, we arrived at CB’s and unloaded at around 9:30pm. James and I agreed it was time to unload in the men’s room. Cruella decided it was time to steal my pack of cigarettes.

By 10pm, it was time to start. We were the first band. Anne was kind enough to come see us. Unfortunately, barely anybody else was, except for the other bands. And I was disappointed that at goth night, nobody seemed to be goth! Sure, there was some dude in a leather coat and tophat, but everybody else seemed to be just like me: they had careers and liked to be pretty un-gothy afterhours. It was kind of disappointing. I was hoping for a spectacle. All we ended up with was enough gas money to get to Jersey. And Cruella had kindly smoked all of my cigarettes.

We didn’t play badly that night, but it wasn’t exactly stellar either. It was a building block, which is what you look for in a tour. The other bands (who also failed to provide a spectacle, except for the goth-like girl who played a solo on a triangle) seemed to like us, even though they didn’t know — or couldn’t pronounce — the name of our band. Is it “Plumer-I”? Is it “Plantane”? Is it “Poontang”?

Yes, of course. I play in a band called “Poontang”, and yes, my parents are very proud. My Mom rounds up phone numbers of all the bachelorettes in the audience and they, in turn, jettison their panties onto the stage in my general direction.

Or.

The band is called “Plumerai”. I knew that your band was called ___ ____ (right name of band here). Why can’t you read a poster that lists the bands who’ll be playing that evening? Good grief.

Part IV. Going, going, gone.

Now, back to Cruella. Earlier, I’d noted an interest in a roll in the hay. I’d begun to lose interest when she’d smoked all of my cigarettes, and then when we’d had the following dialog:

She: I’m kind of crazy, you know?

Me: Umm, how?

She: Well, I have blah blah. I’m on medication. Well, I’m not taking it now, because I’m self-managing.

Me: I’m sorry.

Self-managing, huh?

She: It’s not your fault.

And finally, Cruella would just not stop talking. I mean, it just went on and on. Oh, and on. That was the end of it. There would be no sex and no further thoughts of it, because I was certain nothing good could possibly come of it.

We got into the van and headed to Anne’s apartment where we’d be staying. My brain tried to calculate the probability of our van being broken into that night. We unpacked our bags, including Cruella’s large assortment, and pulled up a place on the floor at Anne’s.

The next day we were to head out to New Jersey for that evening’s show in Philadelphia.

De-Tour (and poop)

Well, we’re back from the tour. I was on the road for 7 days with three totally excellent bandmates and one totally unexcellent “merch” girl ([1]). And you know what? It was a fucking blast. Seriously. It was the best time I’ve had in my life, and I can’t wait to do it again!

There’s so much to process and discuss (and rave about!) about our tour — which I’ll do at some other time — but here are a few points of interest to get you started:

1. Our band probably smells better than yours.
2. Wal-Mart is the sweetest store of all times, that is, if you can equate the word “sweetness” to the word “kitsch“.
3. Philadelphia sucks major donkey dick (or even brotherly dick). I apologize in advance if donkey love — or even brotherly love — is your kind of thing.
4. Folk singers are really quite annoying, in particular when they narrate. Seriously, I don’t give a flying fuck if your song is about Nicaragua or Nicotine. Just sing it and let the listener figure it out, for goodness sake.
5. You can, in fact, eat only pancakes, waffles, hamburgers, pizza, and lard for 7 straight days and lose 1.5 pounds. I’d make a joke about the South Jersey Diet, but I think someone else already has.
6. We played one good show, one awful show, and four amazing shows before returning to Boston last night and playing one so-so show. Oh well: anti-climactic. We did show lots of promise, tho, and that really made me happy. Our singer, specifically, has been stupendous.
7. I met a woman so stunning that my jaw literally dropped when I saw her. And then I heard her sing, and it dropped again. God, I’m so suave.
8. Yes, there is such a thing as AC/DC pajama pants. Do you really have to ask if I now own a pair of AC/DC pajama pants?
9. It’s not all about you.
10. Mmmm. Chocolate starfish.
11. There is much karma in music.
12. Definitely run — don’t walk — and check out these two bands: In Tenebris and Off Transmission.
13. The Trucker (CB) Lingo for voiding is “0-0-2″.
14. I have, perhaps unfairly, been labeled as the bandmate with the most vigorous, umm, metabolic rate.
15. It is possible for a song with the words “chocolate” and “potato” to exist. It is less possible that this song will make a lick of sense.

That’s it for now. I’ll start posting the daily shenanigans when I get a chance.

[1] In musicspeak, “merch” is merchandise like t-shirts and CDs and stuff. “merch” people keep watch of your merchandise and handle things like selling it, collecting cash, adding people to your mailing list, and stuff like that. See also: panhandling.

Gone Tourin’

Awhile back, Anne and I debated over whether or not I’m the bassist of a goth band. I argued that I was anti-goth. She was on the side of the band being goth. It was a stalemate, until… I learned we were kicking off our tour at “Goth Gallery” tomorrow night at (CBGB, NYC.)

Oh. My bad.

So, for the next week, I will be headed up and down the east coast spreading my preppy message of goth to many people in various states. One of our gigs is at this gallery in Raleigh, NC. Goth in NC? Who knew?

As for the tour itself, I’ve toured with a band before. It’s both fun and extremely boring. The shows and camaraderie are unbelievable. The lack of suitable food and just about everything else makes touring totally unacceptable.

Today, while buying all kinds of black clothing (you can’t be taken seriously, I’m told, by goths if you’ve only got one black T-shirt and everything else is blue or khaki), I laughed to myself.

“Doing laundry on this tour is going to be a snap. Who has to worry about separating colors?”

I’ll let you know how the tour goes. I have no doubt there will be stories to tell.

My Daily Soap Opera

I’ve been staying away from the craigslist personals, well, at least from responding to them. First, I’ve been really busy with the new band, preparing for our upcoming tour, drawing up plans for a drum room, still tracking songs for Jarvik-11 project, working, doing my extra programming projects, selling my house, traveling, running, and trying to start a new relationship. Second, I’ve learned my lessons about craigslist personals (yes, the hard way, but in the World of Nate, is there an easy way when it comes to dating? Exactly.).

However, this doesn’t mean I haven’t gravitated towards another area on craigslist.

On craigslist, Missed Connections (MC) is the gold standard of melancholy. In Boston, you can find it here. The theme of MC is as follows: if you (literally) missed a connection with someone, you can attempt to contact them on this board. Technically, MC is to say, “hey, I saw you at this location, thought you were cute, and wished that I got your number. Mail me if you’re interested.” However, in typical craigslist fashion, MC has evolved — into a collection of “you used to love me and now you don’t — boo hoo!” types of messages.

And that’s what makes it such an interesting read, because in all honesty, I’d have zero interest in knowing/reading about someone seeing me walking across Kendall Square with a burrito in my hand last Tuesday at 1pm. (By the way, I’m a notable specimen, and yes, that was me with the burrito last Tuesday. No, it wasn’t in my pocket, so, yes, I may have been happy to see you. Love me, love my occasional burrito. Boo hoo.)

Right. So, for whatever reason I relate to MC. It’s not that I miss anyone or want to be missed by anyone. It’s that I’m fascinated by one’s propensity to send a hasty generalization like:

I wanted to tell you goodbye. Now I’m moving to NY and I’m afraid I’ll never see you again. I don’t know if you’re angry still but I don’t know if I want to find that out before I leave either. I left you no way to contact me I know and I’m sorry I had to separate myself before I could bring it back together. I’m sorry that I’m a coward and that I f’d everything up. I miss your music, I’ll miss you.

anonymously, and to the entire world.

On top of its level of avoidance, messages like the above really don’t solve the problem their sender purports to be mired in. Did you catch up with the person before they moved? If you’re afraid that you won’t see them again, why not try to not emanate your feelings to the ether on craigslist — and try actually talking to the other person instead? Why did you not leave your contact information? What kind of music of theirs do you miss?

See what I mean? Soap opera. It’s fan-fucking-tastic.

Or even:

*sniffle* Why aren’t you being clear with me? Because I’m being clear with you, and I love you, and I just don’t understand if you feel it for me or not. *sniffle* OK, so I guess we’re through because you’re not being clear, but I love you and always will. *sniffle sniffle*

What’s the word again? “Fantastic.” Fantastic, indeed!

You see, this second type of posting really fits into the “___’s Just Not that Into You” category. I’ve asked a couple of senders of these messages why they didn’t just ask the other person if they were interested or not.

Me: Hey, why not just ask the other person if they’re into you or not?
They: Well, uhh, then I’d possibly lose out.
Me: Lose out on what?
They: Them.
Me: But they’re not being clear with you and you’d rather not know if they’re into you or not?
They: Why would I want to ask that?
Me: Because you deserve to know the answer?

This is new to me. Sooner or later you’ve just got to know what’s up with somebody. But I guess if nobody was avoidant, there’d be nothing to read on MC.