Dust Sand Denny

*Please excuse the lack of tender details. Tour ended for Cruelster over a week ago. I just didn't want this blog to be left hanging.*

After our movie day, during which some of us opted to stay outside due to fear of legal consequences, we played a dim show in a dim, sludgy nameless place. It is not actually nameless, it was just very long ago so I cannot remember its name. It is also not dim or sludgy, it just appears murky in my memory because I can't remember what it looked like. There were people there, that is certain. It is also certain that we were homeless that night, and all but jaded where sleeping in the van or driving over night is concerned. I remember the band Callaghan. There was also a band that played before them, a young, middle school-aged band. I recall their exact words:

Guitarist: This song goes out to my girlfriend. Today is our 3-year anniversary.

(This is a nice thing to do. It is also scary if you are in middle school and/or if your friends are judging you. His girlfriend was likely touched, unless she was emotionless, which she may very well be.)

Bassist: That was gay.

(This was not okay with me. I stopped watching their band at this point. However, this time, it wasn't because he used the word "gay" in a derogatory manner - it was because their music was loud and detrimental to my ears. I decided not to confront this young fellow about his language because he was too young and would have likely smeared my name on FourSquare or Kik, or perhaps another tween-riddled social networking site.)

Anyway, Cruelster played, but I can't remember the quality of the performance. I do remember tensions being high between the all of us, so the theatrics were likely placed on Yes-Yes' imposing shoulders. Ages played well, also.

We decided to drive all night once more, and I was able to sleep in the sliver next to the sliding door, the "Well," and I slept thoroughly. We stopped at Denny's and played "Assholes to Assholes," which is like "Apples to Apples" only we make our own cards and it only makes sense to us. There were legions of Lutheran teens wearing solid-color camp shirts at Denny's, and our game disrupted them, for they disrupted us. One of the L-teens spilled water on herself and her face turned beet red. This ended up as a card in the game. Afterwards, we continued to drive to Denison, Texas, where Brownrabbit and Rhubarb awaited us in a fancy LaQuinta motel room. We slept until noon, swam in a blue pool for hours, went to a mediocre pizza restaurant, then attended our own show in the basement of the Rialto Movie theater. There was also some drama surrounding an oil change and whether or not we should get synthetic oil. Tears were shed, people died. Yes-Yes watched with blank eyes.

The Rialto was entertaining. We performed skits on the large stage to a crowd of each other. Standard show-goers walked by, and, noting our theatrics, were likely doubly shocked by our performance, which was likely our most daring yet. Yes-Yes and I switched clothing. It was preordained, but Yes-Yes still seemed very uncomfortable with the idea. He has not been the same since. To be continued. The time is too late for wakefulness.

The Blank Exchange // Yes-Yes's Close Encounter // Fun and Death

This blog will detail our closest brush with death. Many people have come close to death, but, out of all eight of us, none of us could think of an experience more dangerous and frightening than the one we endured in the middle of the night in Yosemite National Park. 

After San Francisco, we intended on spending the day at Yosemite, where Symptom hoped to relive the ethereal thrill of jumping from a bridge into clear, green water in front of perhaps the most intimidating natural rock formation in the country. This sounded like an important experience to have, so we all agreed that Yosemite was a priority. The show that night was revealed to be located at a strip club with many other bands. Feeling like a burden to those who had booked this show, we decided to drop the show and instead release our tension into a day-long exploration of Yosemite.

The drive was longer than expected. It was relatively free of interesting scenery, so we were eager to enter the isolated, untouched earth of the park. We stopped at a gas station to refuel both our vessel and our biological structures. I was waiting in line with a family of strangers when a leather-skinned, white-mustachioed cowboy angrily and slowly emerged from the doorway of the station. He accused a member of the family of stealing ice cream, or, in other words, taking ice cream without paying for it. The family did not respond. They either did not hear him, comprehend English, or were too scared or shocked to respond. The cowboy and the family stared each other down for a solid five minutes. The tension was high. I watched from a dangerously close distance. I intended to study both parties – the cowboy and the family – in order to develop a hypothesis concerning their intentions for not speaking to each other, but they both looked so blank, empty, dry, and tired, that I, for one of the rare times in my life, was at a complete loss as to why these humans were behaving in this manner. There were no verbal arguments, no physical conflicts, and no police interventions. I would have come to the family’s defense, or even the cowboy’s, if I knew who was right and which was wrong, but it was as if they were all frozen in their own skins, incapable of expressing verbal thought or even slight emotion in their face. It was a phenomenon I can only refer to as “the blank exchange.” They were most certainly human – the cowboy had even spoken initially, their stomachs were moving up and down as to indicate their abilities to breathe properly, and their eyes blinked as often as anyone, but they lacked meaning, emotion, and intention. I reentered Vanzig and advised Symptom to advise Timebomb, who was browsing the candy isle in the gas station, to chalk his hands as to limit their stickiness inside the store.

There is little to say about Yosemite other than it was as vast in scope as Uncle Shoegaze had said: “I don’t want to talk it up too much, but it’s hard not to; it really is a humbling experience.” Symptom was the first to leap from the aforementioned bridge of his dreams, and it was much like watching the baptism of a lifelong Christian into an even more vast, spiritual existence free from petty human confinements like story, parable, and beliefs, like a person leaving the “I” and entering the metaphysical “all.” He emerged from the green depths a new entity with a refreshed interest in everything. His head, tearing against the river’s surface, seemed to grow from a canyon, for the unsizable cliff before us was reflected as clearly by the water as a high definition digital photograph developed by the finest of 23^rd century image-capturing technology. Connor’s mundane human head juxtaposed against the clarity of the cliff was an image too real and too serene to replicate on even the most expensive photo-editing software. Symptom had transcended software and entered a reality beyond reality as a young, eager agent of the unreal.

If Symptom’s dive was not a transcendent enough exchange between man and nature, then Yes-Yes’ descension into the crystalline liquid of Yosemite National Park was an actual paradigm shift of one physical and spiritual dimension to another. The sight of his sun-freckled, imposing figure glide into that clear, shallow depth would be treason against all for which he so silently works; while it remains largely unspoken, Yes-Yes’s primary purpose is to lead us to our most excellent functioning capabilities. I have theorized that this will arise in the form of a Utopia, one that will be eventually and gloriously reached by human society, one utterly under his firm but forgivably unstable control. The river welcomed him. He made himself at home in its icy embrace. He reemerged from the surface with slick blond hair and one big breath, reconnecting himself with our crude earthly dimension. He did not speak for 12 hours afterwards. It was as if the sea had spoken to him, or someone or something had spoken to him in the sea, and he required an enormous time to ponder accordingly. I did not enter the  water for a variety of reasons: 1) I did not wish to convey an attempt to imitate Yes-Yes’ majesty 2) More of an intellectual type, I have a natural and nurtured aversion to full submergence in any liquid, and 3) My purpose at this moment in time was to document, not to potentially alter history.

It was only fitting that after experiencing Heaven we traveled the thin, dark road to Hell. Desiring to leave Yosemite before the sun fell behind the mountain, we entered the following show’s address into our simple human technological device known as a GPS and obeyed its directions like blind slaves. Before we knew it, the mapping device had led us to a fork in the road: both dirt roads, but one was indicated as the proper route on the GPS. We chose this one, despite multiple signs saying “DANGER” and “NO GPS.” The signs looked old, so we decided not to trust them. We entered the road, finding it to be a dark, thin path with just enough room for an inch of road on either side of our van. Creeping trees leaned around us, transforming the road into a tight tunnel of sorts. It wasn’t until we noticed the enormous cliff to our left that we realized we were likely on the literal road to Hell. Panic ensued: Symptom experienced tunnel vision, our heart rates generally increased, our voices quivered, and our sweat glands overcompensated for the stress. Consequently, our van was plagued with the actual scent of terror.

The GPS knew the path well, but there was no pavement, no traffic cone, no flare, no reflector, not a single sign of human civilization. We were edging the side of an enormous mountain. It is nearly impossible to convey the true danger of this situation, but we were so close to the edge of a deep drop-off that the only view to the left of our van was an enormous wall of stars. No sign of Yosemite’s vast wilderness or even rocky pile-ups were visible at this altitude. As panic increased, I continued to guide our vessel with a steady hand, not for lack of fear, but because I was the only one in the van with any sense of control; everyone else had no choice but to trust in my driving. The path was to continue for five miles according to the GPS, but we could only spare a measly 10 miles per hour; any faster would lead to our certain demise. One mile of travel down this sliver of hell had taken us almost one hour. At this point, Yes-Yes made a desperate call for help by calling Yosemite’s emergency hotline (his power was likely weakened during his transdimensional encounter in the river, resulting in limited control over the current situation). They informed us that Yosemite’s guests are advised to never use GPS devices within the park, for they lead visitors to forbidden and unused roads, more often suited for loggers and off-road ATV adventurers; these roads lead to a dead-end at the bottom of the mountain. We were neither; we were simply a gaggle of scared boys. The park ranger advised us to turn around at our earliest convenience and find our way back to the main road.

Turning the van around on a narrow mountain road is a near impossible task, but, due to my heightened dexterity, I was able to accurately calculate the process and successfully returned us back toward the main road. This time we were headed uphill, and the nature of the road was that it slanted toward the mountain at 45 degrees, as if we were almost certainly going to teeter into the mountain’s rocky side. Some portions of the road involved one road not even touching the surface. Some of the rocks on the road were so large that a tire blow-out could happen at almost any time. It did not happen. Instead, our upward trek proved mildly safer, as we were now familiar with this path.

However, this loose knowledge did not prevent the loss of one of our most valuable artifacts: Qrunque Witch (pronounced “Crunch Witch”). Qrunque Witch was an eerie figurine I had purchased at a Goodwill in Milwaukee. Her role was to be placed in the hands of whoever fell asleep in the van. She watched us at all times. Unfortunately, she rattled violently in the dashboard of the van, to the extreme anger of Airick. In a blind combination of stress and rage, he grasped Qrunque Witch’s small figure, unrolled the window, and, ignoring my pleas and screamed, launched her from the side of the mountain. Devastation struck my heart like a Lilliputian’s arrow, but I decided to mourn later. I was responsible for the safety of an entire gaggle of boys (gaggle = more than 6, but less than a dozen). We escaped to safety, and soon found our way to the comfortable arms of a Denny’s in Merced, CA. Here, we played our own version of “Apples to Apples,” wherein we create the playing cards ourselves. We soon reentered the van, drove a few more hours to another Denny’s, where we slept all night in the van. Timebomb, an adventurous sprite, opted to sleep atop the van. 

The next day was to be one of our most interesting shows to date, for it involved performing within an empty underground swimming pool in Sylmar, California called “Poolside.” I would have called it “Pool Inside.” We were welcomed with kind words, glasses of water, and opportunities to shower. (I am shy, so I did not take our host’s offer to let me shower, instead preferring to do it next time we went to a motel, which did not happen again for the rest of our tour. I realized the next morning that I hadn’t showered in a week, and, despite my positive scent, my body seemed to be engulfed in a thin film of unescapable filth.) There is little to say about our show at Poolside other than the guests’ refusal to engage us within the pool. Instead, the many party guests opted to sit in lawn chairs around the top of the pool, while we performed in the hole like enslaved gladiators. This show was packed and diverse: we saw a metal band who announced each song in a spooky voice but demonstrated extreme kindness otherwise, a joke-punk band with ska elements, a deathcore band, and a few Title Fight bands, for lack of a better genre descriptor (our host’s band was Liberty, which was described as “Title Fight with breakdowns”; they also covered a song by Stick to Your Guns). We slept in the van again that night.

We spent much of the next day exploring the internet at Panera Bread and Fordundo Beach (that isn’t the name of an actual beach) before playing a garage in Riverside, California with mycatsteve, Desperate Living, and Zissou, all of which demonstrated competent and entertaining musicianship and creative songwriting skills. I encountered a true Setbacks fan named Kyle, who had tweeted at me earlier in the day, and, that night, asked me to sing him the Setbacks song “Losing Balance.” I chose to instead tell him that I will send him a recording of me singing that very song acapella at a later date. I have yet to do so. Otherwise, the crowd was receptive to Cruelster; they enjoyed engaging Yes-Yes, who is generally harmless, and a seven-person dog pile, to our misfortune, occurred during “Inchworm.” Some also sang along for our cover, which was more refined than it had been in previous nights. We slept at the Dial that night (a venue near Riverside) and enjoyed drifting to sleep as pop-punkers in the other room blared their harmful music from the other room. 

The next day’s drive began our journey to Mesa, Arizona, a hot, dry place of dust and dander, during which we spoke, listened to music, and read things. This was our second show with Adventures, who were kind enough to add us to three of their shows. Cruelster was received well here, and more tapes were sold. A dust storm blew in from an unknown direction, and, after the show, we were advised to load our equipment quickly as to avoid a dramatic climax that would almost directly resemble the wall of sand in “The Mummy 2,” a film I had never seen and never will see. We obliged, and slept and showered at the apartment of a kind young woman by the name of Stumpy. She allowed me to connect to her Wifi network, and we all spent some time charging our phones, configuring our technological devices, and discussing the secrets of Symptom’s past (his true name is James). I discovered, with the help of her full body mirror, that my body, like Yes-Yes’s, was of an overwhelmingly pink hue, likely due to our quick adventure at Rodundo Beach.

We played at the Gas Works in Albequerque, New Mexico last night, which was the best-sounding place we’d played our whole tour thus far, but the crowd was not amused by Cruelster. Adventures, Ages, and Drifter then played, and the show ended abruptly. We visited the house where “Breaking Bad” is filmed, and there was a large “NO TRESPASSING” sign. Yes-Yes and Airick took pictures in front of the house, only to watch a woman in the window dial a phone number, possibly the police. We left quickly. I initiated our 13-hour drive to San Antonio, Texas and only lasted 7 hours before Symptom and then Timebomb took my place. We are driving straight to a movie theater, where we will watch movies until it’s time to go to our show. 

UPDATE: We watched "World War Z" and "This is the End." Both were subpar.

If you would like more immediate details about our tour, follow @tiboonda (me) or the hashtag #LIMMIASOM on Twitter. There is only one tour date left, so I don't know what will happen after that.

What we are doing, featuring a Transplants album review

On June 25^th, Transplants dropped their third album, their first in eight years: “In A Warzone.” We were especially anticipating this album after we had seen Rancid and Transplants live in Detroit and their album was not yet available, despite what Skinhead Rob had promised on Twitter. Suckers for anything Tim Armstrong records, we were all surprised to find that Skinhead Rob, the rapper of the band, took center stage in this album. It was evident that he was on lyric-writing duty as well. While the T-Plants’ previous records largely concerned criminal activity, dealing drugs, doing drugs, drinking beyond comprehension, mourning lost loved ones, and not caring about things, this album’s lyrical content is more along the lines of “fuck the President.” An avid follower of Skinhead Rob’s online activity, I am aware that he is a big fan of anarcho-punk and anti-government but socially liberal ideals (for years, I thought Skinhead Rob was named thusly for his baldness, but I have found that he is a true fan of Oi! music). He acts on these views through his raspy-voiced spewage in songs like “Silence,” “See It to Believe It,” “War Zone,” and “Gravestones and Burial Plots.” However, that does not defer Rob from discussing drug addiction, changing socio-economic landscapes, devolving moral codes of California gangland, and other issues important to the man. Nevertheless, the lyrics have more gravitas than the previous albums. Compare: “Tall cans in the air, let me see ‘em: fuck you!” vs. “One push of the button, and everyone’s gone! You gotta see it to believe it!” One is about partying hard, the other about impending nuclear war. The album’s flaws are apparent and lovable. The riff for “Something’s Different” is absolutely ridiculous, but listening to the song itself is a transformative experience. We listen to it every morning of tour and it enhances everyone’s mood by roughly 30 percent. The sheer vagueness of the line “Something’s Different” is what makes it so special: it could literally apply to anything, and Skinhead Rob and his guest rapper (I think it’s Paul Wall) literally make it a point to apply it to separate issue in each verse. The initial line, “She loves me – nope! – she loves me not,” will make you feel like you are on a drug. Skinhead Rob’s vocals become uncomfortably tuneful in “Back to You,” thus making it one of the most unlistenable songs on the album. I would recommend skipping this track to maximize your enjoyment of the vastly superior remainder of the album. Another aspect worth noting about this album, which could be its best or worst quality, is Skinhead Rob’s varying vocal styles. He spews in two forms: his “Haunted Cities”-style (their second record) raspy, more punk voice, and his laid-back, talky rap voice, which is newer and most apparent in “Saturday Night,” a song on Travis Barker’s wretched solo album “Give the Drummer Some!,” which features the Transplants. Once you can accept that these two voices are coming out of the same man’s mouth, it shouldn’t bother you much. In my own personal opinion, the best elements of “In a Warzone” are: 

• Tim Armstrong’s first verse in “War Zone,” largely because this was the first thing he sang at the highly energetic Transplant/Rancid show
• The entirety of the song “Any of the Them,” a jammer so catchy that it took every nerve in my circulatory system not to hit the “repeat one” button on my iPod when it came on
• The psychotic bass-break in “Silence”
• The general impenetrability of the lyrics – the album featured no lyric booklet, but this couldn’t necessary be expected since the Transplants’ previous albums didn’t, either.
• The Egyptian riff of “It’s a Problem” is either genius or strongly indicative of a songwriter with very limited intelligence and moral conscience.

I would grade this album an A+. Although I addressed some things as flaws, they only serve to enhance the album’s vibe. It will undoubtedly become our tour’s 30-minute anthem, and whenever I hear “Something’s Different” after July 5^th (Cruelster’s final date of the tour – Ages will continue until July 16^th as they scale the East Coast), I will remember driving through the rocky Idaho landscape with the windows down in a half-asleep daze.

Other albums I’ve and/or we’ve played to death on this tour (if I don’t list “best songs,” it probably means that either all of the songs are good, or none stand out as especially better than the others; that’s not to say that the songs that are not “best songs” are necessarily bad songs):

• NONA – “Through the Head” (best songs: “Now and Then,” “Give,” “Jack Chan,” “Bottles”)
• The Ramones – “End of the Century” (best songs: “Danny Says,” “The Return of Jackie and Judy”)
• Cocteau Twins – “Treasure”
• Cocteau Twins – “Heaven or Las Vegas”
• JEFF the Brotherhood – “We Are The Champions”
• Rancid – S/T (1993)
• The Smiths – “Meat is Murder”
• Dislitch – Demo (We haven’t actually listened to much of this, but the song titles are stuck in our collective head, i.e. “God-Sized Hole in Hell” and “Withering Cunt”)

I’m also in the process of trying to get a hold of Kurt Vile’s new album. I should also mention that whenever a band is mentioned in this blog, it means that they are worth looking up and listening to. Except Strike Force. I strongly encourage Strike Force’s reputation be tarnished.

As far as books go, I have been doing much more reading than writing, though I have read a lot of comics, including:

• Valiant Comics’ entire revamped line, including “Bloodshot,” “XO-Manowar,” and “Harbinger”
• “Jupiter’s Legacy” by Mark Millar, who I usually can’t stand, but it seems like he’s really trying this time
• Paul Cornell’s new “Wolverine” series, which, despite a terrible fourth issue, seems to be the first real examination of Wolverine’s personality and humanity
• Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo’s “Batman: Zero Year,” which is a more creative approach to Batman than Snyder’s previous run, which just recycled old Joker ideas and secret society intrigue
• Brian Bendis’s “All-New X-Men,” the best superhero comic I’ve read that is 100% comprised of emotional conversations
• I’m currently reading Sean Murphy’s “Punk Rock Jesus,” a science fiction atheist manifesto that is insanely better than its cheesy title suggests
• I also bought a new Fantagraphics release “The Last Day of the Rest of Your Life,” which I haven’t read, but Piss really seemed to enjoy
• Piss also read “Rage,” an out-of-print school shooter novel by Richard Bachman (a.k.a. Stephen King), and he didn’t like it. I read it a year ago and thought it was acceptable.
• I’m letting Airick read my copy of “VALIS” by Philip K. Dick (probably my favorite book of all time), which he is absorbing next to me as I type this
• Kid Gone Crazy is slurping up Joe Hill’s magnum opus “NOS4A2,” a psycho horror novel that Yes-Yes also recently finished and liked a lot
• The only novel I’ve read on tour is “Train to Pokipse” by Rami Shamir that I picked up at Copacetic Comics in Pittburgh. It's short novel that examines the depravity and uselessness of our generation through New York’s nightlife subculture and strong sexual imagery. It’s one of the best independently published novels I’ve read, and my only criticism is, despite its brevity, it could use some revision, especially regarding narrative clarity and the clever but often overused train metaphor.

I did not end up updating the van line-up as often as I had intended. I actually forgot about the idea until five days into tour, and by then it was too late. Airick’s van, Vanzig, technically seats twelve, but we seat one in the driver’s seat, which is usually filled by strong drivers like me, Symptom, Piss, Yes-Yes, and Kid Gone Crazy, one in the “shotgun” seat, two in the second row as long as one person lays atop the three giant comfy laundry bags stuffed with Ages and Cruelster shirts (it is much more hot and uncomfortable than it sounds), two more sit in the third row, which tends not to incite many problems, and one sits in the “Halfway House,” which is the half of the fourth row that isn’t being occupied by bass cabs or luggage. We call it the “Halfway House” both out of respect for institutions that support criminal reform and out of humor in the fact that it is half of a row. It is roomier than any other seat, but it tends to result isolation from the rest of the van’s conversation or festivities. Those who are in low spirits often request this seat. Those who are in good spirits often request this seat often because of the comfort it offers, but its inherent isolation quickly turns good spirits into bad. Depression is easy to fall into on tour. If you are mad at everyone, there is nowhere to go. If you want to be with one or two people and not everyone, there is nowhere to go and no one to tell. Therefore, it is best to hide one’s feelings or to ignore them until home is reached. When you are sad, smile at someone, even if it’s fake, and it will make you feel half an ounce better. 

Here is an account of the current status of the van:

• Yes-Yes is driving us through Death Valley. His shirt is off, exposing his bright pink sun-kissed body. We have encountered legions of windmills, all of which enhance Yes-Yes’s power, control, and attitude a millionfold. This is both great and terrible, but why, when, or how he will utilize this rejuvenation is unknown and foreboding.
• Maple is asleep in the front seat listening to crack rock. He is wearing his trademark red plaid flannel shirt, swimming in his thick, cream-colored comforter and red Northface jacket, which he received from our friend Adam in Utah, to hide from the blaring air conditioning.
• Airick is next to me in the second row alternating between iPhone exploration, sketchpad doodling, and reading “VALIS.” I have witnessed him taking several selfies, which will likely end up on the internet at a later hour.
• Timebomb is taking an uncomfortable nap on top of the aforementioned shirt bags, an area we call the “well.” He often sits up to readjust his sore, weathered body or to change the song on his iPod. I have not seen him close his eyes yet.
• Kid Gone Crazy is directly behind me in the third row. He recently fell asleep while reading “NOS4A2” on the refurbished Nook e-reader he bought at a store in San Francisco near the Sub Mission. When KGC sleeps, he leans entirely forward, pressing his weary, psychotic forehead against the back of the seat in front of him, thus preventing the one in front of him from being able to lean his or her (in this case, it would just be “his”) head back. It is neither right nor wrong, but just simply one of the many inconveniences of modern American life.
• Next to Kid Gone Crazy slumbers Symptom face-forward in his dirty, off-orange pillow. He sleeps like an angel, and he deserves the comfort he so rarely receives. He is garbed in his brand new Nirvana – “SLIVER” shirt, likely listening that very album in his black headphones.
• Piss is staring out the window from the Halfway House. He is both ecstatic and furious, but, at the same time, he is neither. He is listening to his iPod, either trying to enjoy the barren landscape or trying to sleep it away. 

I will post the next blog about the scariest experience of our lives hopefully later today. You can follow our tour more directly by following @tiboonda or the hashtag #LIMMIASOM on Twit. It is very hot. I feel light.

Golden Gate Conspiracies

Our contact in San Francisco was Symptom’s uncle, who we came to know as Uncle Shoegaze. It seems Symptom has an aunt or uncle in every state – last summer we stayed with his aunt in Georgia. Uncle Shoegaze was a kind-hearted man with a wife and a son. He owns a vineyard, like many Californians, and had worked on preliminary animation on several classic Pixar films. Perhaps most impressively, he did preliminary special effects on Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace, which easily makes my list of Top 1,000 Movies of All Time. I regret that I didn’t ask him about Jar Jar or Boss Nass, my favorite Star Wars character, but perhaps knowing behind-the-scenes information could have taken away the magic of the film (I am still convinced that Jar Jar Binks was not a CGI realization, but an actual living, breathing amphibious hominid!). I remember when my parents took Piss and I to Boston Market then the movies to see what we thought would be Toy Story 2 for a second time. Instead, the screen flashed, “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…” and my life flashed before my eyes. Jar Jar was my best friend, Lord Maul was my nemesis, and Qui-Gonn was my dear fatherly mentor. I soaked in the film like an ancient sponge. I got a Jar Jar action figure for my birthday and sucked its head until the decorative pink paint had all but faded. To meet Uncle Shoegaze was likely as humbling an experience as it would be for a low-profile priest to play backgammon with Joseph (from the Bible). 

After the kind man let us sleep, we ventured to Crissy Beach in San Francisco. We had heard the SF beaches were cold, sparse, and ultimately unworthy representations of the Pacific Ocean’s majesty, but Kid Gone Crazy is only ever truly, completely happy when fully submerged in salt water. He once said that he could spend his entire adult life within the sea. We were happy to oblige, and the beach’s water was dubbed by Yes-Yes as “the coldest water.” In the distance, we could see the looming red Golden Gate Bridge embedded in low white clouds, the site of so many dramatic suicides. The beach also had several slow-moving windmills to fulfill Yes-Yes’s mad desire to control. We made a quick trip to the Full House house, which seemed to have diminished in quality in the years since the introductory theme to the classic 1990s situational comedy was filmed. There were two shadowy figures peering at us from their frighteningly old car. We mused that perhaps they were drug dealing criminals that had overtaken the house – the neighborhood is not as nice today as it appeared on the shows decades prior – but that was a bold judgment based on very little fact, so it is more likely that they were simply peering disapprovingly at the strangers taking dozens of photographs in front of their home. 

We played at the Sub Mission with an adventurous band that night, Adventures, which is best known as Code Orange Kids’ side project. Aleutia, Leer, Indian Taker, and another band played. Half of the bands played on the floor, but Ages, Adventures, Aleutia, and we played on the stage. Cruelster is less comfortable and overall less appealing on a stage. The large audience stood many yards away from the stage. (I must reiterate: Yes-Yes is always, always more afraid of you than you are of him. He will not engage you. He will not harm you. He simply wants to play. He’s only a boy.) The audience did not seem to recognize our cover of Black Flag’s “Wasted”; it was our first time playing the song together as a band, and I literally felt drunk and high while we played it. Behind each band was a large projection of one of the most creative, interesting cartoons I’d ever viewed – “Paper Rad Trash Talking”; it was about an hour long, and it was repeated many times throughout the night. My favorite part was when a noseless, large-eyelidded young man named Horace sat in front of a television set with several silent friends, and the television began playing a video of Horace and his friends watching another television set, and the sequence repeated until the screen exploded, and an entirely new segment featuring entirely new but equally interesting characters began. 

At one point during this show, I went to the bathroom, and a security guard watched me closely as I entered that shadowed, private room. After spending several minutes in the room, the security guard flung open the door, stared at me while I pulled up my pants, and closed the door. I was deeply bothered by this intrusion, so I asked him, “Why did you open the door on me while I was in the bathroom? You watched me go in.” He replied in broken English, telling me he did not entirely understand what I was saying. Based on what my well-tuned ears could infer, the man’s accent seemed to imply that his primary language was Spanish. I wished at that moment that I knew his language so that we could properly discuss the issue of his deranged intrusion. 

Before the show, we walked the densely populated area surrounding the venue and discovered many shops selling refurbished electronics, tacos, and t-shirts. It was hot, sweat-inducing, and uneventful. I pretended to steal Timebomb’s beloved Chrome bag and he expressed a great deal of anger toward me. 

I will soon discuss the terror of Yosemite National Park, playing in an empty pool, and a seven-person pile-up in a suburban SoCal garage, but the next immediate blog post will discuss the music we have been listening to and the materials we have been reading. If this does not interest you, please do not read it, but please read the post after it.

Potatoe Boys Experience Human Drama

After visiting those two records stores, Portland really became the first day of tour where we really ran out of things to do, so much so that we spent a good amount of time parked on the side of the road gestating in our van. However, that night’s show requires some degree of explanation.

Ages was headlining along with Cruelster, and there were two local bands, one called “Strikeforce” or “Strike Force” and another I didn’t know, partially because I slept through most of the pre-show hang-outs and partially because we didn’t let them play. 

We played what I believed to be our most successful show so far. The performance was streamlined and our songs were free from errors. I ended up with a scratched face and Yes-Yes earned several new bruises. It was nice to have a carpeted floor for Yes-Yes to play on. After we finished, Ages played, then the Strikeforce/Strike Force band went on. From what I could hear, it was everything I hated about hardcore, so I rested in the van. A few fleeting punks told us there was a lot of crowd-killing going on, with several big boys moshing like monsters. More of an intellectual, read-a-book-over-going-to-a-party type, I have a natural aversion to violence of any kind, from moshing to military conflict. In a musical setting, it becomes a “survival of the fittest,” wherein only the strongest men can afford to partake. This naturally excludes smaller and more peaceful types like me. I am only 5’7” and I have soft skin. Their violence in a place that is founded upon the notion of respect and equality for all is what angered me first. What angered me second is what they said.

Strike Force/Strikeforce dedicated their final song to a unique pair of people: the singer’s “beautiful girlfriend and her faggot dad.” To say the word “faggot” in a serious context in front of a large group of people and especially in such a respectful venue implies participation in the type of behavior that has and continues to oppress and offend the queer community. Cruelster and Ages do not, have not, and will never support this or hate speech of any kind, so I decided to confront them. I first asked one of the workers at the store if they heard what Strike Force had said. They said, “Yes,” and that Strike Force will never be allowed to play at Laughing Horse Books again. Before last note of their last song had fully rung out, I unplugged the cord from the bass player’s guitar and turned off the amp, knowing they had borrowed our bass equipment. I stared at him in a psychological challenge and he offered a white-faced, “Thank you.” I was then approached by a fellow garbed in a baggy camo sweatshirt. He asked if the next band, who was comprised of the same line-up as Strike Force, could again use our bass equipment. My thin red shell of facial skin could barely contain my anger at such a request, so I asked, “Why did you guys say the word ‘faggot?’” He gave an honest apology on the behalf of the singer and his band, but I told him we cannot support that and that we did not want them to use our equipment. Unless you are known well enough by an entirely crowd, bands should understand that everything they do as a band is perceived as a collective action. I truly believe the other members of this band do not share the singer’s views, but because he has the microphone, because the audience does not know the views of the others in the band, and because nobody stopped him, all of Strike Force deserves to be condemned for what their singer said. The camo man asked if I would hear an apology from the singer himself, as if I was some sort of king of bass equipment, or, more importantly, as if I was the one who needed to hear the apology. It should be noted that this was not my bass equipment, but Airick Egan of Ages’; we were just sharing equipment this tour. Airick was kneeling on the floor nearby, organizing his cords and pedals. The singer, sweating, tan, and garbed in an American flag tank top, gave me a sweaty apology, throughout which he didn’t look me in the eyes. I noticed at this point that a lot of people were listening to us. I told him to think about who he might be offending, although I do think that what he said should offend everyone. He said, “I was just caught up in the moment,” so I told him I didn’t know what moment he was caught up in. “Wow, this is so awesome, I just feel like throwing around some homophobic slurs!” They asked a final time if they could use our bass equipment, so I looked at Airick, who said, “No.” Supposedly they were banned from the venue and given the option to legally repeal, but instead the band decided to retract their apology to me say, “That’s gay,” before leaving. Piss heartily fake laughed, then engaged in a stare-down with American boy. 

We blasted out of Oregon and drove straight to San Francisco. The scenery was enjoyable and we spent much of our time cutting through clouded mountains. It was too rainy to see the stars but driving through clouds was just as outer space-like. I drove with Symptom next to me, and we listened to Dropkick Murphys, NONA, Jeff the Brotherhood, and Cocteau Twins all the way there. I drank a Mega Monster – they apparently don’t make BFCs anymore – and Symptom bought a tall Red Bull and a Mountain Dew. I don’t know what he was thinking. Sugar makes him so apathetic. He eventually fell asleep and so did I. I knew I was drifting off so I sought a gas station in which I would either switch with Symptom or buy another energy drink. A police car started following me, but strangely never pulled me over. I pulled over to make a U-turn, but the officer had left his car. He told me he saw me swerving a lot on the mountains and that I was either sleepy or drunk. I told him I was sleepy and was looking for a place to get another energy drink, glad to be able to be honest to a figure of legal authority. He advised us to switch drivers and we did not. Symptom said he was awake but did not want to make me mad by waking me up while I was falling asleep while driving. He is courteous but also a potential murderer.