Eggs and Dianetics

We had a day off in Seattle today, which meant we had the option to do whatever we wanted to do. This is dangerous because we are so used to playing shows each night like mindless gray-eyed sheep that when we have freedom, we are as clueless as comatose babies. Yes-Yes, a master of control, is accustomed to his own freedom, but not to others’ freedom. He was ticky and tocky all day long, which increased the overall tension of the group, almost nullifying our rare sense of freedom. We chose to go to the park, where he would occasionally grip the back of my neck just to remind me how his firm palms feel. Enough about Yes-Yes – my hair is beginning to tremble! 

We visited Sub-Pop Records and Fantagraphics Books, both of which increased our hunger, ironically enough, for not musical or literary but nutritional sustenance. We entered two bars, both of which chastised us for being under 21, although it was day time and we had no intention of buying alcoholism. We managed to seek refuge in an expensive egg institution, which duly provided us with scramble, hash, and breading. Timebomb, our merch junkie fanboy, grumbled a bit, for he did not believe an egg could be worth so many dimes, but two helpings of fine hash eased his fury. He introduced us to his old friend Ausden, who was tall and spoke with a clear voice full of youthful vigor. Ausden took us to meet a stone troll, but, due to my fatigue and general lack of interest in the children climbing all over the trollic statue, I chose to enter slumber within the confines of our van, leaving the troll dealings to Piss, Yes-Yes, KGC, Airick, Maple, Timebomb, and Symptom. They did not provide me any further information  regarding the troll encounter.

My peers and I agreed that Seattle was underwhelming in every way imaginable aside from our positive consumption of egg and hash. The Space Needle turned out to be a mere forty feet in height. I climbed it twice – with ease. Before my hemp sneakers could touch the concrete ground, the group had collectively decided to go to Portland. It was only 5 p.m., and our contact wasn’t expecting us until late that night, but Seattle was a thing of the past, a bland, egg-laden thing of the past. 

Our first stop in Portland was Voodoo Donuts, mostly because it served well-made vegan donuts to satiate KGC, Airick, and Maple’s unique desires. A long line stretched two buildings from Voodoo’s entrance, and, due to my line-induced anxiety, I instantly lost my appetite for donuts and increased my need to urinate. I searched vigorously for a public restroom, but, due to an apparently high rate of dangerous Portlanders, I was consistently denied. I continued my travels until I reached the Portland Church of Scientology. It looked modern and attractive, yet cold like a museum from the future. I walked in, asked the man at the counter if he had a bathroom I could use, and I was again, but kindly, denied. I ended up relieving myself at KILLER BURGERS, all the while regretting having not explored the Church of Scientology further. I reentered the church, and the mustached man of yore was on the phone. I waited patiently and uncomfortably for his conversation to end before he asked me, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, sir, I would like some preliminary information about the religion,” I said, injecting my voice with blind devotion, innocence, and sincerity.

“Absolutely,” he said, pleased but skeptical, and led me to a series of large-screen TVs that played incessant introductory videos about thetans and dianetics. I found it terrifyingly interesting and interestingly terrifying. I did not believe what the blank faces in the videos said. At one point, the television gave me the option to listen to the perspectives of Scientologists in different career fields. A natural intellect, I elected to view the “Teacher” video clip. It was less than three seconds long, and consisted of a man, presumably a teacher, telling the camera, “I use the practices of Scientology in my classroom everyday.” 

After I consumed enough pure terror, I asked the man at the desk, Jeff, for additional materials, and he obliged. Before I knew it, I was signing papers, filling out forms, and shaking hands. I looked up to six or seven middle-aged Scientologists garbed in black turtlenecks, each equally as ecstatic at the other to have recruited such a fine young man to their ranks. Knowing how dangerous a Scientologist scorned can be, I regret to say that I gave them information concerning my band and my life. Perhaps it was their yellowing eyes that drew the truth from my soul.

My peers may believe I actually am a believing member of the Church. However, I am instead a nonbelieving member of the Church. I also fear Yes-Yes suspects my irrational, solitary escapades to be have resulted in my worship of a new leader. The counter to this argument can be summarized into one word: never. 

Portland is a bad city, home of the extrovert homeless and the angry Arts. My time here has been marked by strangeness, fear, and intrusion of privacy.  My peers either love it – the food – or hate it – the heckling. I admit much of our time here was spent late at night, exploring donut joints and hentai theaters. 

Our tour contact hosted another band at her apartment; however, due to my general distate for cramped quarters, I opted to sleep in the van, wherein Airick and I discussed nudity, religion, sex, and VALIS. An active man in a robe flailed his arms across the street, a sight that isolated my nerves and spanked them until I slept. I woke to the loud rambling of Kid Gone Crazy, who was eager for a vegan breakfast sandwich. Tonight we play in the Laughing Horse also in Portland. The café we are in is blasting the Specials! Lo, the sidewalk calls, “Walk me, Whiz.” After the show we drive to San Francisco, City of Angels.

"You're full of eggs in my head, you're full of eggs in my bed."

You can more directly follow our tour on Twitter by following @tiboonda, or by searching the hashtag "LIMMIASOM."