The Six Feet Under Swindle

Plan B Is Total Panic (Before The Fire)

2011-08-27T08:04:00.001-07:00

It’s Sunday afternoon and I am backstage setting up at the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival. Jesse leans over and says, “That’s my hero over there.” Feet away from us, Nas, is taking a breather during his 5:00 PM set with Damien Marley. He is smoking a blunt with one hand while cradling a bottle of Moët Champagne in the other. Suddenly there is a stir and a mass of rubber-necking among the side-stage viewing area. Apparently another of Jesse’s heroes has arrived, because before I know what’s going on, he is having his photo snapped with Clint Eastwood, smiling like a kid at Christmas.

This isn’t what I’m used to. Having toured on and off for eleven years in every type of tour van imaginable (shitty; in flames on the side of the Autobahn (a personal favorite); and VERY shitty), this massive production-style festival thing has never been my territory. On a riser beside me, Sebastien performs last minute tweaks on his drum kit. On the other side of the curtain, just beyond the stage, somewhere between 40,000 and 80 kadrillion people watch and wait. It’s time to punch the clock.

Hooking up Jesse’s ratty Traynor cabinets and aging Acoustic & Peavey amps, I say a silent prayer to the rock gods (or whatever) that they plan on cooperating for this, the very important first (official) set of Death From Above 1979’s hopefully triumphant return after a five-year hiatus. Of course, if something fucks up, rock gods (or whatever) forbid, there is always Plan B. And Plan B, naturally, is total panic.

How the fuck did I get here?

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The night Jesse told me I would be his Bass Tech for the upcoming Death From Above shows we were sitting at his favorite bar in Toronto’s Little Italy, excitedly kicking back drinks and discussing all the possibilities. I was already drunk before we cold-called our first hangout in well over six months, a fact that was painfully apparent by the time I threw up on the bar. Dejected and drunk, I moaned “Whyyy? WHYYY?” the whole cab ride home. As I stumbled to bed and barfed down the side of my sheets onto a pair of last week’s underpants, I agonized over my embarrassingly bad form.

Shielding my reddened eyes from the harsh afternoon sunlight the next day, I knew I had to make the call. “There’s barf on my fucking jacket!” he laughed as he answered the phone, before breaking into a short manifest of gear he’d like to get for the shows. Jesse seemed amused by the whole thing and it looked like my job was somehow safe after the previous night’s display of unfortunate humanity. I hung up happy.

A week previous Sebastien had spilled the beans on the potential reunion shows. We were traveling together on the almost comically inept (but tons and tons of fun) Bad Tits “mini-tour.” He as drummer, me as driver. Guitarist/singer Josh slept in the backseat as I almost drove the van off the side of the road upon hearing the news. The idea of DFA79 doing anything together again, ever, had been completely lost on me. The dissolution of the two-man unit five years ago came with more than a trace of acrimony, and the thought that I would be working for them in 2011 was completely unfathomable, and as far as I was concerned, absurd.

And yet there I stood. It took a long time for it to make any sense at all to me. I’ve been friends with Jesse for about ten years, Sebastien almost as long. I knew both of them well enough to know that they wouldn’t bullshit me, and yet the whole thing just seemed too crazy to be actually happening. Once I had to scan my passport for permit stuff I was thinking “Okay, maybe this is for real.” I was still, however, being cautiously skeptical. Once I received a round-trip ticket to Texas in my email inbox, I went to work and gave them four weeks’ notice and a written resignation.

That the now-fabled South By Southwest (SXSW) “secret” show ended in a near-riot and was the top story on the NBC News in Austin the next morning shouldn’t have been any surprise, and indeed it wasn’t. By 7:00 PM there were already enough kids lining the exposed side of the tent, only separated by a chain-link fence, to more than meet capacity once the doors opened. And that wasn’t set to happen for another two hours. Even after word got out that only passholders would be admitted to the venue, still they waited, bopping along in unison as the fellas played “You’re Lovely But You’ve Got Lots Of Problems” during a brief sound check. Thunderous applause came from the other side of the fence as the band finished. We all looked at each other and started laughing. Death From Above had just played to an audience for the first time since 2005.

The “warm-up show” ended up being a trial by fire, of course. The club was already in a state of impending chaos by the time Felix Cartal finished up his slot before the shit went down. It was just about 1:00 AM and some of these folks, many of whom were still on the other side of the fence, had been waiting for this for upwards of six hours. That tension combined with the fact that we had been waiting and preparing for this moment for upwards of three months set an atmosphere of impending “HOLY SHIT!” that no one person or group could have halted if they tried.

While placing Jesse's brand new, never-been-played-onstage Rickenbacker on the guitar stand, I turned to someone’s attention and heard "BRONGGGGGGGG" to the left of me. I had just dropped his brand new, never-been-played-onstage Rickenbacker. Replacing it quickly on its stand, I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply as my head dropped. I heard wild, unmistakable laughter above and behind me. I turned around and grabbed Jesse by both sides of his giggling face and screamed "AAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" at the top of my lungs. Later I would offer to let him punch me in the stomach as retribution for my clumsiness. He would decline in good humor.

When the fence came down after five songs, the club’s manager came screaming onto the stage. “Stop the show. The show’s over. We have to pull the plug.” Turning around and smiling at him knowingly, I said “This is their first fucking show in five years, man. If you pull the plug, you’re gonna have a riot for real.” My words registered immediately. Next thing you know the fellas were launching into “Romantic Rights,” but it was too late. Four riot cops stormed the stage and shut it down. Tour manger Darrin repeated his own promises that “If you stop this show, they’re going to tear this tent down, I guarantee it.” His words registered too. After a ten-minute break, the cops allowed the set to be finished, without one song left out.

The alley was a mob scene. Mounted police rolled through and kids were tazed, pepper sprayed, clubbed, and punched. Three people were hauled off to jail and someone punched a cop right in the horse. All in all, about four times as many people showed up as would be ultimately admitted. Triumphant that a mark had been made, for good or for ill, the management, crew, and band toasted to the first show, sent the gear away on its long journey home, and went to sleep before waking up and jumping on planes of our own.

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“Talk to me, Trevor!” I not so much asked as demanded of our amazing front-of-house sound tech, who had basically been schooling me on the responsibilities and realities of the job over the last several weeks. “We’re looking pretty good, I think,” he replied. Plugging in all of Jesse’s pedals, I looked out into the crowd and smiled. There were indeed 80 kadrillion people out there. The sun was starting to set beyond stage right. A gentle breeze whipped across the stage and I could hear pockets of the crowd chanting “DFA! DFA! DFA!” It was awesome.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as I flicked each of three switches. One by one, each emitted a small burst of feedback from the speakers. Breathing a sigh of relief comprised of every last bit of reserved panic and dread permeating my soul, I smiled toward stage left. Jesse’s relief reflected my own. Plan B would have to wait.

Entering the stage as the crowd went crazy, Sebby took his spot behind the drums and J threw me his requisite pack of Belmont Milds, to be lit by me at his request throughout the set, the last (and most amusing, to me) part of my job description. “Fuck them up.” I said as we slapped hands. “Okay!” he responded.

The set started as the album You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine does, with the thunderous beat and screaming feedback of “Turn It Out,” and the crowd went fucking bananas. Kneeling beside one of the massive Traynor speaker cabinets, I was directly in Seb’s field of vision and every so often he would look at me and smile almost to the point of laughing. Darrin, behind the other Traynor threw me a can of Heineken. Nodding at each other we held our beers up.

Kids were moshing, screaming, and going crazy in the crowd and onstage I was having a blast watching my friends destroy it for the kadrillions, not to mention countless more watching live around the world. The whole thing was being streamed live online. My dialer barely ceased buzzing in my pocket throughout the whole set.

And then it was done. No cops, no horses, and certainly no angry mobs. Just the final crashing blows of “Do It!,” six cigarette butts under my left shoe, a few empty cans, a half kicked-over drum kit, and a Rickenbacker bass thrown to the ground. Pile your shit on the drum riser and push it out the opposite way you pushed it in, the next band’s Gerry, Trevor, and Darrin are waiting to set up. Thanks for coming out.

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The impact made by the second of the two shows is harder to quantify, I guess. I can only really judge from my seat and at this point it’s gotten pretty difficult to view it objectively (as if I ever could have in the first place). I certainly had fun driving Jesse’s rented Mercedes around Hollywood running errands, and you’ll hear no complaints from me over getting paid to bake in the sun by the pool in Palm Springs before heading over to the festival site with a backpack full of beer. You’ll also never hear me lamenting the burden of drunkenly yelling “Getting my picture with you will change my LIFE!” at Danny DeVito or of watching Death From Above 1979 play from about the best spot imaginable. But that’s just me. Even though I’m a huge fan of their band, first and foremost I’m their friend. Or is it employee? It’s getting more and more difficult to figure that out. I think it’s the former, but at this point, the latter is pretty goddamn great too.

After SXSW, on my first flight home of what promises to be many this year, I sat by a woman, across the aisle from her two kids as they laughed at Darrin, Trevor, and I making fart jokes and acting silly. She asked if I was in a band and I excitedly said no, before telling her all about my job and the insanity the night before. Impressed, she promised she would be checking out the YouTube stuff as I sprinted off into the airport, desperate to find a bathroom after having a few too many beers on the plane. While throwing up on the bar didn't lose me my job, I wasn't ready to tempt fate by pissing myself in front of a nice family. Not just yet, anyway.

R.I.P. Allen

2010-12-10T14:18:00.001-08:00

The Ergs- Saturday Night Crap-O-Rama

2010-12-06T08:40:00.000-08:00

Asubury Lanes, December 5th,2010

Round One

2010-12-05T10:43:00.000-08:00

Friday night my friends Rob, Toni & I made our way to Asbury Lanes in beautiful Asbury Park, NJ to check out the birthday show for Mikey Erg & Jay Insult. In addition to seeing a bunch of folks from near and far, some very drunk, some vomitingly so, there were also a ton of bands playing.

Unfortunately I didn't get any Black Wine or Measure footage, but I did get some video of The Hamiltons committing a hate crime against Canadians and a couple of songs by new Black Wine side project Young Skin, who were amazing. Check it.

Ergs tonight. Vee excited.

Have Gum*, Will Travel

2010-12-02T07:57:00.000-08:00

It took about a week and a half for my upper back and neck to stop hurting after the Buried Inside insanity, but now that I'm back in tip-top it's time for a last bit of punishment before I settle in for the first half of 2011.

First up I will be leaving tonight on my beloved Megabus for an overnight trip to New York City where I will spend the weekend, while traveling to New Jersey for between one and three shows, including.......

That's right the fucking ERGS are doing a couple of benefit reunion shows! For the uninitiated few, The Ergs were New Brunswick, New Jersey's answer to the question "What is the best thing to happen to pop-punk since the fall of Lookout Records?" Those in the know are aware that these shows were announced and swiftly sold out in about a combined 15 minutes. I was positively bummed when I didn't get through to get a ticket, but lo and behold, friendship has it's benefits and one Mr. Michael Erg came through a few weeks ago with the hook-up, so off to New York I go!

There are a couple of other great shows in Jersey this weekend, so in addition to the Ergs & Hunchback, if I play my cards right I'll get to see The Measure (one of my favorites), Big Eyes (another), some Mikey Solo stuff, Black Wine, and a ton of other stuff, in addition to a million pals, before getting BACK on the overnight Megabus on Monday night.

It won't stop there, though. Upon my arrival home on Tuesday morning I will take a swift nap before sitting back down in the driver's seat of my boy Sebastien Grainger's van for for four days to be the captain of the Good Ship Bad Tits. Bad Tits is Sebby's new two-piece powerhouse (along with my soon-to-be new friend Josh) and they are doing some shows with NYC's Phantogram that I'm pretty excited to be on hand for. Seb is seriously one of my favorite and funnest people to hang with and I'm incredibly psyched to do some traveling with them.

After that I am taking 8 days off before of course, bidding farewell to 2010 with a bang, getting in a rental and navigating the harsh Canadian winter highways out east for an old fashioned maritime family Xmas. I'll go hang with my folks, get fatter and of course co-host the THIRTEENTH massive edition of The Annual. The Annual is a Xmas Eve party that myself and a few of my closest have been hosting since 1998 in a rotation of locales. My boy Bob is taking the reigns for the second year in a row, and it promises to be another great one. Here is some of the shit that happened last year:

Ugh. That's my chest. I don't think anyone got stabbed. Maybe this year.

Lastly, I've recently purchased a Flip Ultra HD camcorder to bring along and try to capture a bunch of this stuff. Hopefully I'll take some live footage and whatnot this weekend and post it here. I'm sure I'll find SOME way to make use of it for y'alls benefit.

Happy holidays y'all! Someone get me a hot water bottle!

*I do not actually have any gum

V

2010-11-25T06:36:00.000-08:00

(3 songs, great quality)

Buried Inside "Last Three Shows" Photoset
(click image to launch, courtesy Paul Galipeau)

Buried Inside (1997-2010)
(click to launch, last show set, courtesy Dave Forcier)

One Last Goodbye

2010-11-15T05:45:00.000-08:00

"But planks of reason are deceiving and time wars must continue to be waged. As every calendar makes clear, our days are numbered."

Buried Inside, "Chronoclast" liner notes

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After thirteen years, four albums, hundreds of shows and thousands upon thousands of miles, the almighty Buried Inside were calling it a night for the last time. My back said "No!", but I couldn't argue with my mind. Scoopy was spending his rent money to go. Jim and KLC were flying in from Halifax. There was a kid flying in from JAPAN for the occasion. Pack your shit, find your ride. It's time to go to Ottawa, wellness be damned.

Of course, I've traveled just over 20,000 kilometers in the last four months myself. Just over two days home after my latest excursion, my back and ass were in no mood for more torture. The prospect of another four hour drive in another small compact car left my body screaming "What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you crazy?"

"We don't have a choice on this one," my mind told my body, "Absence is not an option this weekend."

Our driver graciously allowed a little pre-gaming during the ride, which was nice, so it was a little bit stoned and drunk that I showed my face at Scott & Erin's house. I was welcomed with another beer and the night was set in motion. It started with a beer and after many more, ended in typical Ottawa fashion with an Elgin Street Diner poutine. We went to Ottawa's semi-regular "Bored To Death" night at Ritual and it was jammed with folks, many in town for the show.

Emmanuel was running around being the life of the party as per usual, I stood feet away from Nick and traded lots of excited smiles during a set by amazing Ottawa band Pregnancy Scares as people moshed and lost their fucking minds. Later on I would meet up with Mike, who I had been texting to come out to the party all night, outside. It didn't feel like the end of anything. Just another weekend in Ottawa with fun, friendly, familiar faces. Jim and Kelsey were posted up too, of course. The beers went down easily and sleep was just as effortless once I put my head to pillow, which was good. The next night was shaping up to be an epic send-off.

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II.

At 20 years old in the year 2000 I went on my first punk rock tour. The Plan made their way down the east coast to Florida, across to California, up the west coast to Vancouver, across to Winnipeg, back down south into the mid-western states, and finally back through Ontario and Quebec, home to Nova Scotia. We were gone ten weeks and we met what seemed like a million people on that tour, many of whom I kept in touch with, some of whom I still know well today.

As The Plan's official online tour diary writer, I figured I would have had something fun or interesting to write about meeting Buried Inside at the tail end of that long and harrowing tour, so I dug out the photo album from the tour where I keep a print-out of my stories. On May 18th, 2000 in the last edition of the tour diary, I wrote as follows:

"Buried Inside were awesome. They were really nice guys too."

Hmmm. Hardly the meaningful insight I was looking for.

One of the things about our meeting at Club Saw in Ottawa ten years ago that I remember is that they indeed were really nice guys. They were in their hometown and already starting to be a bit of a big deal in the local scene. I was a confused kid from Halifax sitting alone at the merch table, and they were instantly really awesome dudes. They ordered a vegan pizza to eat while they waited to play and once they had all taken their respective shares, offered me a couple of slices. By then they had taken their first stabs at touring and probably knew what a sometimes hard-fought commodity food becomes on the road when you are nobody.

Now, when you ask them what they remember about meeting me, they will all invariably say the same thing... That I was really excited about the band Hatebreed. Now, I'm not going to sit here and diss like I am above liking that band by any stretch, because I'm not. That doesn't change the fact that for some reason or other, I just never really got into them back in the day. I think the fellas may have had me confused with Lance. Or maybe I was fronting because I was meeting these new, obviously cool scene dudes and wanted them to think I was cool like them. Time erodes many things, the memory being just one of them.

Make no matter. Whatever the details of the past, friendship had been sealed. The Plan camp drove out of Ottawa thinking that Buried Inside were one of the best bands we had seen on tour, and when we came back through a year or so later, they had released "Suspect Symmetry", their second full length and probably the record that cemented them as a definite contender and band to watch out for in Canada. By this point I had started booking shows in Hali and went home determined to get Buried Inside out to the east coast.

Matias & Nick, Ottawa, 2002

On a hot July night in 2002 we made good on it. At the very top of the million stairs leading to The Khyber's "Turret Room" we opened the windows to let the air in and the noise out. Philip Clark hung out and helped me tweek the P.A. before heading to his job as sound engineer at the Marquee as the fellas prepared for their set. He was later quoted as saying that you could hear Buried Inside all the way up the hill, past the Liquor Dome, towards Citadel Hill and that throughout downtown "sounded like the fucking apocalypse."

We did it again just down the road at the Ceilidh Connection in 2003, and in 2004 when there weren't any proper venues to do the show in, I gave myself a late birthday gift. The day after I bid adieu to my 23rd year I had a Buried Inside show in my living room on North Street, inviting the whole city out. By now we were all old friends, and this night would prove special in many ways. Squeezing their stacks, gong and now a sampling station into my living room, about 60 people (at the only headcount I did all night) squeezed out of the livingroom and down the hall to the kitchen, everyone clamoring for space.

Buried Inside were now making a name for coming to town and playing almost exclusively new, unheard stuff, and tonight would be no different. I had a war going with the downstairs neighbors and they must have known something was up once all the people started milling in. The sampler and the guitars started out real low, with those few droning notes and then BANG, they started "Chronoclast". Except no one had heard "Chronoclast" yet, save the band and probably Mitch. We just knew that our minds were being blown. I drank and pounded on the ceiling. I looked back and Scoopy was lighting a huge joint. Transfixed, I don't think anyone in the room noticed, or cared. The show would be cited as one of Halifax's "Best Concerts Ever" in a 2009 Coast article.

Buried Inside, Connolly Street Living Room, June 2004
(ph: Paul Hammond)

Later, chatting with Nick while lying on my bed in a house full of chaos, he would tell me that their set was comprised of most of their next album. I asked him what label it was coming out on and he replied "This label from the States called Relapse Records." and smiled just a little. My mouth plopped open in somewhat shock. I was actually proud. The band deserved it more than anyone I could think of, and I was overjoyed for them.

When "Chronoclast" came out, it blew everyone's expectations of the band out of the water and re-set the bar, as far as many of us were concerned. Me, Jim, Scoops, DaveK, Mark Gillis..... basically everyone I hung around with in Halifax who listened to heavy music came as close as close to wearing our a record we could get. It was, and remains a mind-blowing work of art and what many of us consider to be a pure musical masterpiece.

Buried Inside, Moncton, August 2009
(ph: Kelsey McLaren)

Over the years the shows would continue, long after I stopped booking, and the fellas would always stay at my house, some of us drinking and laughing til the early hours of the morning, watching Kids In The Hall or Sealab: 2021 or just generally trying not to let the party end. In 2005 Steve, Mike and I would get thrown out of Cheers in Halifax for heckling the house cover band. In 2006, recently departed guitarist and designer for almost all the B.I. artwork Matias and girlfriend Karen came to Halifax for vacation and spent most of the time hanging with my then-girlfriend Holly and I. We would team up (with Mark Black & Dave Harrison) again in 2007 for a Florida vacation. I subbed on bass in Mark's band Die Brucke opening for B.I. at the same year's Pop Explosion.

Myself & Mike, Cape Breton, August 2009
(ph: Nick Von Shaw)

More time passed. In August of 2009 my stupid band, Minivan Halen got lucky enough to be asked to open for the fellas on their eastern Canadian tour. Work commitments got in the way and I was heartbroken to not be able to do all of the more central shows, but we got to do six of the shows throughout Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and New Brunswick, and had a blast. More of a rolling party than a tour, we kept everything loose and fun. They were with us in Mark Black's basement the night our friend Alex took his own life. Though it must have been extremely difficult for 5 strangers to this person who we in Halifax all missed so much, they not only stuck the last leg of the tour out with us, but were of great comfort during a heart-wrenchingly sad time for us.

Buried Inside & Minivan Halen, August 2009

It was around April when the fellas invited me along for their show in Montreal later in May that I started getting the feeling that shit was about to change. Matias had re-joined the band for their recent European tour after the departure of Emmanuel, and I just had this inkling that this was kind of a last hurrah. A few days before leaving for Montreal I texted Matias and Steve something along the lines of "This is the last time you guys are going to play in Montreal, isn't it?" I got confirmation from one or the other, and within days it was announced online. Toronto and Montreal would be an early lead-up to a last Buried Inside show later in the year.

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III.

Walking into Babylon early Saturday evening during soundcheck it felt like preparing for a funeral. Various show staff and opening bands and friends all stood around quietly watching the fellas check for the show. The long since retired gong was back, and longtime recording partner Mark Molnar was on stage with the band playing a cello. The backline set-up was unreal and it was extremely loud. Everyone on stage was dead serious and deliberate in their preparations. I grabbed my tickets from Mike, said a few words to each of the fellas and headed out to meet Scoops, Jim & KLC for dinner.

The Final Soundcheck

Some food and some pre-gaming later we all posted up at the club. Now quickly filling with familiar faces, it was virtually impossible to walk more than five feet without running into more pleasant conversation. Drinks were shared and people got caught up. A lot of the Ottawa kids were heard to remark that the show was a virtual high school reunion for them and there was definitely a very warm feeling in the room. Everywhere I turned, I saw smiling faces.

By the time Crusades went on, the sold-out club was just about teeming with people, an amazing feat for 9:15 at night. Being that they are one of (many of) Emmanuel's post-Buried Inside projects, Crusades were a great opener to the night and played an amazing set. Short, sweet and to the point, they were on and off stage within about 20 minutes, playing just about seven songs, including the four that make up their absolutely stellar debut seven inch.

Crusades

Up next were Barrier, from Montreal. This was rumored to be their final outing as well, and having seen them just once before I made sure to get back in for their set as well. Featuring Paul O, the touring B.I. guitarist from their summer '09 tour, they were also pretty much amazing, playing a pretty well flawless set. The openers were definitely killing it and everyone in the crowd was having a blast and were very appreciative.

Barrier

By the time Mark Molnar's classical noise unit Kingdon Shore took the stage, you could cut the tension. The hour was close to being at hand. Months of preparation, hours traveled, and a sold out club in Ottawa. Fetching some show beers and making my way to the front with Scoops, we didn't fret that we could only get as close as 4 or 5 people from the front of the stage. Everyone that was here was here for one reason, and no one was more deserving than the other to see the show. A crowd of friends new and old, strangers and acquaintances alike.

As Buried Inside hit the stage for the final time the crowd tightened up. In typical short-spoken fashion, Nick talked about playing shows "fron Los Angeles to Moscow", greeted and thanked the crowd, followed by "We are Buried Inside" and that was it. With a crash the insanity began for the last time. The metronomic march of "V" from "Spoils Of Failure" had the crowd pulsing back and forth in unison straight away, instantly transfixed with the volume, the intensity and the spectacle of it all. Instant butterflies. The gong and cello had once again taken their rightful place on stage, straight behind Tweedy on stage right. Stage left Matias and Steve banged their heads in unison. Mike destroyed the drums and Nick worked the sampler station when he wasn't shrieking into the mic.

Watching B.I. in recent years has really become a full on mental freakout experience for me. The sounds take over and it just all melts into itself. The set itself was beautifully constructed, the samples were unreal and it was really well-paced. Nothing about it seemed rushed or out of place and it was really apparent that they put a lot of time and effort into putting every aspect of it together. Having seen the band play almost ten times in just over the last year, the whole set was completely re-vamped as far as I could tell.

At one point I looked to the right and Emmanuel was dancing beside me, a huge grin stretched across his face. I put my arm around his shoulder and we danced back and forth together, pumping our fists. Scoops was to the left of me, drenched in sweat, losing his fucking mind.

Before long Emmanuel took his spot on stage as the third guitarist. In true old-school style, longtime roadie Mitch stood at the edge of stage right, periodically taking the second mic to scream the responses to Nick's calls during the old jams, songs that I hadn't seen performed in well over six years. By the time they got to the album-ending "Death comes with time" refrain at the end of "Time As Resistance" bodies were flying off the stage as everyone worked themselves into a fucking frenzy. As they broke into "Social Skingraft" from their first album, I got kicked square in the head, losing my glasses. Barely thinking the word "concussion", I quickly laughed it off, squinted my eyes toward the stage and continued to lose what was left of my shit. What's done is done. The present is never going to happen again.

And just like that, it was over. Buried Inside was part of the past.

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IV.

Once, back in the day, when The Plan played what was to be their last show at the Pavilion, prompted to say some words into the mic, I remarked how special it was to me that I got to be friends with one of my favorite bands. On top of that I was able to travel all over the world with them as peers. Today I feel exactly the same. We are all lucky enough to be part of this amazing culture where we all have the chance to do anything we can dare to hope for. You can start a band. You can start a label. You can work with your friends and watch them make amazing, mindblowing music and art and do things that will never stop meaning the world to you. Things you will never forget, as long as you live.

At twenty years old, I was a confused kid who just wanted to not say anything too stupid on the way to making some friends I could hang out with in a new city while I was on tour. Ten years on I have the luxury and honor of looking back over the friendships and bonds I have built, and continue to build, with so many special people and give thanks. It still blows my mind every day that I'm lucky enough to be friends with so many amazingly talented, and amazingly amazing people, and all of the guys who made up Buried Inside without question fit into both of those categories, so thanks homeys. Your band will be missed, but your friendship means the world to me, and countless others.

Driving home, my neck was stiff. My head hurt beyond belief. My ears were ringing louder than they have in years. I sported a lump on my right temple. And Buried Inside was dead.

"The seams will split. The myth will spoil. The monolith will crack. The soil will turn. Death comes with time. Death comes with time."

Buried Inside

1997 - 2010

HPX Part 4: Keep It On The Download

2010-10-27T06:52:00.000-07:00

The harsh, sobering realities of Saturday fell upon us like a ton of bricks. I walked into the living-room at North & Windsor to see Colavecchia curled up on the couch, staying relatively warm in the cold, late-October, Too early to turn the heat on juuuuust yet morning. I could hear Jim & Kelsey stirring in the master bedroom, just barely over the sound of my long-suffering stomach rumbling. I fired a text off to each of them:

"BREAKFAST"

After a bunch of poking around, we decided on getting breakfast at my favorite Hali morning spot, Cosy Snack Bar. Now, Cosy isn't your typical greasy spoon.... Okay, it pretty much is, aside from the facts that it is nestled in the outskirts of a particularly residential part of the west-end, and is sole employer of the greatest waiter/waitress combo of all time. They are wonderful enough that even though Catano had already eaten, I received a text from him saying that he would come anyway, "for the hilarity of it".

What I look like at breakfast after a few days of HPX...

Leading the group into the front doors for the first time in over a year I immediately recognized almost everyone eating before hearing "Ohhhhhh nooooooo, what are YOU doing here?" from behind the counter. I looked up and saw Johnny smiling at me and Mouna looking at me like I was a piece of garbage. Remember when I called them "wonderful" in the last paragraph? Well, by "wonderful", I mean that they treat us, and me in particular, like complete and utter shit as soon as we walk in. I've seen a tinge of it with the other regulars, but I've never seen them treat a table with quite so much disdain as they treat ours. And we love it.

"What grade you in this year Mouna, eleven?" I asked.

Dropping menus off at the table, Mouna looked at me and smiled sarcastically before replying "Second year of university, Gerry. What are you doing here, did you move back or something?"

"No."

"GOOD."

And she turned around and walked away quickly.

Now, the false animosity is pretty much the end of anything that could be construed as negative about Cosy. A year on, both of my young student breakfast pals still remember what Jim and I are going to order, and the food is just about the best standard breakfast fare for your buck that you're going to get anywhere in the northwestern part of the city. You want another cup of coffee? There's a big can of Maxwell House sitting right by the coffee maker, they'll put on another pot. What you see is what you get at Cosy, and aside from the fact that we for some reason enjoy being treated like scum with our breakfast, the consistency in both atmosphere and food quality is what kept Jim, Kelsey, Mark Black & I eating there a few times a week for the year-plus that we all lived in the neighborhood.

Johnny & Mouna - The 2 Best Servers In Halifax

In spite of my usual physical intolerance of coffee, I drank two cups, which I would come to regret later in the day. The breakfast, as usual, was perfectly tailored to my liking and after a moment of pleasant conversation with my favorite wait staff in the whole world, we were off. Jim, Cola and Catano had more work to do, and I would absolutely NOT be tagging along on this day. I needed some serious couch time, and looking at KLC, she seemed to need the same.

What a couple of lazy, disgusting pieces of shit. Retiring to the living-room at about noon, Kelsey leaned back in the armchair while I lazed out on the couch, both in front of the glow of a massive 52 inch TV I sold them before skipping town a year ago. We would still be there 7 hours later when Jim came home, complaining that he took too long and we were HUNGRY. The idea of going out for barbecue had been thrown around, but the laziness took control and we ordered thai instead. We had been living an existence of eating beige-colored food exclusively the last few days and decided that it was time to have SOMETHING with some vegetables in it.

The massaman curry from Chaba Thai in Halifax is just about the most delicious thing on the face of the earth, but I couldn't stomach the whole thing. After beer, vodka, rum, whiskey, sausages, eggs, potatoes, bread, coffee, and now thai food and gin in the last 24 hours my body was straight REVOLTING against this process. I was physically failing. I tried to drink some water to gain some semblance of equilibrium, but to no avail. So I admitted defeat, called it a night and wrote off the last night of Pop Explosion.

Wait. You didn't seriously think that was true did you? Are you CRAZY asshole? The Norts were playing at the goddamn SEAHORSE with Rockets Red Glare! You think I'm gonna roll over and put cucumbers on my eyes with THAT shit about to go down? After travelling a thousand miles in a van full of people I don't know followed by an overpriced sardine can? Give your head a shake, motherfucker.

My girl Maggie and her girl Alex were in town for the night and, being that they were going to a show at Gus's, I wanted to meet up before we all went our separate ways for the evening. Twitter to the rescue. I saw a bunch of folks tweeting about a party at the Khyber featuring Rich Aucoin and, more importantly, free booze, the latter phrase being about all I had to say to KLC to get her ready and out the door. Jim was gonna get his nap on, and realistically, we'd have liked to have continued being lazy pieces of shit, but the show was DEFINITELY gonna sell out, so bass-girlfriend and merch-asshole be damned, we had no choice but to get downtown and get our stamps early.

Having procured said stamps, we hustled up the stairs at the Khyber and lo and behold, the tweeters were right! Three booze tickets each were thrust into our eager hands, and back to the bar we went where orders of draft and Sailor Jerry were being placed like crazy. Free booze! I ignored my stomach woes and, meeting up with Cola, downed some beers before meeting up with Mags and Alex.

Rich Aucoin @ The Khyber

(ph: KLC)

Before long Rich would start his set, and though I think what he does is great, the madhouse "FREEEEEE BOOOOOOOOOZE" atmosphere going on was a little much for 7:30 in the evening for all of us save Kelsey who was by now an initiated member of the mob. Me and the girls opted to try some wine bar at the corner of Sackville and Barrington, where I met Ron & Christina on their way out, giving it their seal of approval. Sitting in the display window and drinking wine and judging/recognizing people on Halifax's busiest(?) downtown street was a good way to relax, but my stomach was still entirely unhappy upon leaving and, bidding the ladies adieu for the evening, I ambled my way toward the Paper Chase for a much needed pack of Tums.

Meeting up with ya boi James Reid, Stephan MacLeod (of Windom Earle fame) and various other miscreants on the way, I walked up to the Seahorse. The home of punk rock for many years in my early twenties, it is begrudgingly that I admit that the renovations and overhaul that have taken place in there over recent years make it light-years more conducive to watching live bands. I got sidetracked by a bunch of pleasant conversation at tables headed by local actor-of-note Shawn Duggan and hardcore kid-of-note Chris Murdoch, respectively, but before long was at the bar opening my tab, having eaten a few Tums to somewhat pleasant results.

The place was filling up quickly and by the time the second band took stage the word went out that the place was at capacity, just another in a long line of sell-out lineups for this year's HPX. The swell and sway of the crowd was a bit too much for me, and grabbing a couple of MGDs I retired to the sanctity of the band room where I would meet up with the Norts and the Rockets fellas. Evan recognized me right away, noting that I had gone back to my natural hair color and added some glasses in the eight years since he had last known me as some sort of loud-mouth, raven-haired hoodlum, presumably.

Catching up with the RRG guys was great and we all sat around drinking beers and enjoying the night. I snuck a bunch of extra Norts well-wishers into the band room, as I am known to do, and continued downing beers. By this point any notion of any stomach problems was out the window and I was ready to go by the time Rockets hit the stage.

James Reid & LDK, Backstage @ Seahorse

Being that I hadn't actually seen them in eight years, I had almost completely forgotten what an amazing and captivating show it is to watch Rockets Red Glare play live. Evan is an absolutely mindblowing guitarist, which is to take nothing away from Jeremy and Gus, who are among the most solid, pummeling rhythm sections I've ever seen. They don't so much play their instruments as completely manhandle them. Watching them play makes you feel completely insignificant, as a musician. Even using that word to describe yourself after seeing them pour everything they have into a show so flawlessly brilliant seems like a farce.

Rockets Red Glare

(ph: Matt Packman)

Rockets done, it left only the Norts between now and the end of HPX. Spreading across the stage, the once-again reunited five-piece looked out into a blanket of heads and faces at a Seahorse that I don't think any of us have seen this packed, ever. It was definitely a good feeling. I camped out on the side of stage right with James, DaveK, Matt, Ian, Nathan and I'm not sure who else, watching the set and singing along.

It was absolutely amazing, familiar faces in the front pumped their fists and jumped around, screaming the words. Noel MacDonald stole the show at one point, doing what I think may be the only stage-dive I've seen at a North of America show in over one hundred times seeing them here and on the road. At one point Jim turned to me between songs and said "I think someone in the crowd yelled 'fuckfest' at me!"

"Whhaaaaaaat?"

"Yeah!"

Jim turned back to the audience at which point I yelled "FOUR-WAY FUCKFEST!!!!" and that was all James needed. Being an old-pro at starting audience chants, before long our whole side of the stage, save for me, was leading a chant of "FOUR-WAY FUCKFEST! *clap-clap clap-clap-clap* FOUR-WAY FUCKFEST!" UGH.

Catano, getting ready to do some of his songs, leaned into the microphone.

"Apparently someone turned 19 today. And that person is Gerry Hubley!"

I buried my face in my hands, laughing and groaning. Jim had started it! James had finished it! Later on Catano would remark "Ohhhh..... so you were just the enabler!"

The show went late, and the Norts were unceremoniously shown the door when they tried to attempt an encore of Archers of Loaf's Fabricoh, definitely a bummer, but perhaps a fitting end to the night. The Pop Explosion had to end sometime, and what better way than to violently and without warning snap everyone back to reality. It had been a long, long week, and it was all over but the tearing down and, perhaps, the crying. You don't gotta go home, but you sure as fuck might get your head mashed in by the pieces of shit running security if you try to stay!

Cola, preparing.

Standing in the now almost-empty club at the end of the night I talked with fest insiders Steve Lutwick and Jeremy MacNeil about the time that the Norts were supposed to play at the Pavilion but couldn't when after trying to break up a fight outside, Mark Colavecchia was smashed over the head with a full bottle of the now all-but-forgotten Frosted Frog beer. Steve was at the show at the time and having been lifelong friends with Mark, jumped in on his homie's behalf.

"Steve kicked the ever-living shit out of this kid and next thing you know Mark is waiting in the emergency room and this fucking punk kid who mashed his head in is sitting across from him, giving him dirty looks!" I squeezed out, struggling to breathe beyond my laughter. The Norts were onstage signing some autographs. Security was yelling "EVERYONE OUT!" and the three of us were standing in the middle of the dancefloor, laughing our asses off. It was awesome.

NoA

(ph: Matt Packman)

HPX Part 3: It's Not The Band I Hate

2010-10-25T10:18:00.000-07:00

On the way home from the Seahorse on Wednesday I looked over at one of the Yo Rodeo designed Coast boxes, looked at Paul and was like "Hahahaha! You guys are on the cover of the Coast!!!"

"Oh shit! It's out!" Paul exclaimed as he had me empty the whole box into his arms... Okay, he took like five copies, but the story is better if he took them all and mailed them to everyone in his family for Xmas, right? Still, a pretty great cover/Sloan rip, and a fitting continuation of the "Dom In A Picture Frame" series that the Cold Warps fellas have had going on the past few months since he moved to Ottawa.

On Friday I would be seeing the Warps play at least two sets, but first I had to get through Thursday which, while not jam-packed, was still going to be a full, busy evening. First up was Dog Day at my long-beloved CKDU. I was staying with Jim & Kelsey and she had graciously offered the loan of her beloved Bianchi bicycle for the week, so hopping on it, I glided through the streets of Hali toward Dal. Much lighter and smoother a ride than my 1977 Raleigh at home, I cruised over there pretty fast. It felt really weird to be riding without a bell, which is a necessity for any rider in Toronto, and about the only thing the cops will ding you for not having, safety-wise.

Dog Day at CKDU

Meeting KLC in front and running into fellow festie and actual reporter Stephen Cooke along the way, we squeezed into the tiny CKDU lobby with about a trillion others to check out the still newly two-pieced Dog Day's set. It was super hot in there and in no time we were dabbing sweat off our foreheads as we waited for Seth and Nance to start up. I dabbed a bit off KLC's forehead to be funny and some young girl gave her the "Yeah, that's right!" look as if I were her well-trained, whipped boyfriend. Ugh.

We ran into Ron & Christina as well as Dale and a few others. By the time they started the set, it was well packed in there. Dog Day were pretty much amazing and it was definitely far superior to the first set I saw them play as a two-piece back in August at Sappyfest. The new songs sounded just amazing, and the familiar ones worked really well in their transition to the new format. Nancy's drumming has come along quite a bit and they both looked like they were having a blast playing. It was great, I can't wait to hear some new recordings.

Afterward we cruised downtown to meet Rachael and James for dinner at Dharma, my favorite Hali sushi spot. Unfortunately, Dharma has apparently been having some issues with stinking lately, and commenting that I hadn't really bargained on eating dinner at the "Sewer Store" we instead opted to head over to a new spot in the old La Cave spot on Blowers. I think it was called Fujimoto, but I'm not sure. What I am sure of is that it took them an assload of time to deliver our food, almost an hour and a half. The food was great, but they definitely and quite clearly have some kinks to work out in their kitchen.

KLC & James At Sushi

Being that we sat around waiting for so long, we had time to down a few beers and sake and whatnot each. It was getting pretty late and being a bit buzzed, we decided on pre-gaming some more before our respective nights out. KLC and I biked back to their place in the north end, picking up some booze along the way.

After some more drinking KLC and I decided to get down to the Paragon earlier than late so we could get in for Sloan before it sold out. Unfortunately we were not early enough to catch the Quivers, featuring our friends Lyle and Josh, but were early enough to beat almost all door traffic, which was great. The two bands that played directly before Sloan didn't do too much for us or any of our homies, so we mostly hung downstairs with James, Justine, Matt, Ian, Max and a few others drinking official fest-sponsor Molson products and getting ready for the show.

Sitting on the john, Maddy BBMed me asking me if I wanted a free beer from the band room. "Sure, bring it to the stall with the door." I texted back, and next thing I knew Lyle was knocking on the door of the toilet and delivering me a fresh bottle of Sloan's Coors Light, before sticking his cell over the door and snapping a photo of me, mid-dump. Wonderful.

KLC, Maddy, Lyle & Myself, Double-Fisting

Before long Sloan were launching into the opening notes of "Penpals" and our crew, positioned at stage right directly in front of Patrick, completely lost our shit, pointing in the air, singing and rocking into each other. The crowd away from us was pretty tame for the most part, but we were definitely shaping up to be the party section. We were all very excited to be seeing Sloan play Twice Removed in its entirety and I don't think you could have smashed the smiles off Lyle and Josh's faces with a brick.

Aside from a couple of notable duds, 2x is pretty much Sloan's best work (though some defer to One Chord To Another, which I'm sure there is a solid argument for) and we all rocked it non-stop for the hour-ish it took them to get through the show. Aside from one local photographer who needed to be put in his place with a timely "Shut your mouth, no one wants you here" (I can be so charmingly blunt after ten beers) the whole show was a virtual love-in.

Patrick Pentland & A Bit Of Murph

After an encore of "I Am The Cancer", "500 Up" and "Underwhelmed" we were on our way back to the north end. Well...... KLC was, I took a detour down to the Khyber to see if there was an afterparty on this night. No dice, so I went back to J&K's house and drank for another hour or so with K while J rested up for the next day. Jim works super early at the golf course and on top of that the Norts had been recording tracks for their upcoming album all week and would be going at it for the whole day on Friday, so he wanted to be fresh, or some reasonable facsimile thereof.

Being that I had no plans for Friday during the day, I decided to head out to J. Lapointe of NoA's studio, The Archive, with the rest of the Norts fellas to hang out while they practiced and recorded some new stuff. I hadn't seen any of the guys aside from Jim yet, so it was good to hang out and joke around with them while they worked for the afternoon. The practice sounded great, if a little shaky here and there, but we were all pretty sure at the end of it that the shows would go just fine.

Jim, Catano & Mullane At The Archive

Catching a ride back with Colavecchia, I grabbed the Bianchi, since I had a real busy Friday night planned, with Norts, Cold Warps, White Wires, Burning Love, C'mon and a whole lot more playing at four different venues, and headed for the Pavilion. The Warps would be starting their first set of the night at seven and I rolled up right in time to shoot some shit for a few minutes in the band room before their start.

Cold Warps, Set One

The set was great, with them rolling through all their favorites and throwing in some awesome covers, including the Mean Jeans' Stoned To The Bone, which Paul sent out to me as "The only person in this room who probably even knows this song". It's weird, because for just about any other band I would probably frown on them covering an existing band's song, but the Warps are such a loose, slackerish (even though they are EXTREMELY active and on the ball, ESPECIALLY for a band whose main songwriter lives a thousand miles away) group, that I feel like they are exempt from most "band rules".

Being that the Pavilion is an all-ages venue, there is of course no boozing inside, which means no pre-gaming, or so it would seem. Not for us though, and before long Jim, Cola, Kelsey, DaveK and I headed out to steam up Jim's car drinking beer and talking bullshit. The beer was taking up the fifth seat, so Dave and I jumped in the trunk area and cracked some delicious Olands.

Mike, Jim, Cola, Kelsey. Tester Dongs.

At about nine Les Norts took the stage at the all ages show, and killed it right away, with a whole room of kids rocking out. It made me smile to see two little dudes who must have been about 15 years old pressed up against the barricade screaming along to the words and air-drumming to Catano's every beat. It's pretty remarkable to see how twelve years in NoA remains relevant, even seven years after their last record. After hearing some rough copies of some of the jams for their just-announced next record on We Are Busy Bodies, I'm pretty sure they will remain so for a long time.

Since I would be seeing the Norts play their bar show on Saturday, I bailed about two thirds through their set to head down to Tribeca and catch my friends the White Wires from Ottawa. Heading up over Cogswell by Citadel Hill, I was hitting a pretty good stride and was easily within five minutes of the venue when SNAP!!!, before I knew it, the left pedal had fallen of KLC's prized bike, wrenching me violently to the right where I hit the back of a parked car before flying over it and onto the sidewalk, my glasses spilling off my face.

Pacing back and forth, I yelled "FUUUUUUCK!" a few times to sort-of calm my nerves. I gathered my glasses, my phone and the unscrewed pedal and noting that I had precious little time to feel sorry for myself, got back on the bike and coasted down toward Tribeca, whizzing by a cop directing traffic outside the Metro Center who yelled for me to stop about five times. You want me to stop, you're gonna have to come fucking take me down, pig.

Arriving outside Tribeca I met up with superstar Hali painter Mitch Wiebe who braved the journey into my pants with me..... Which is to say that he stood by as I painfully rolled up my left pant leg, revealing a nasty 7 inch gash from my fall. It looked very bad, but didn't seem overly deep and I was walking ok, so I decided I'd deal with it later. Or more accurately, I decided I'd let it work itself out. The White Wires were about to start up, and I had to get inside.

Taking a shot and a beer to calm my nerves, I made my way to the front to rock out during the Wires' set. I've seen them twice previously and though they definitely had fun, they seemed a bit restrained this night, though still great. There were some definite sound issues, but they made their way through it and definitely put on a solid set, to a mostly unfamiliar, but I think very appreciative audience.

THE WHITE WIRES!!!

The White Wires being finished made way for the Cold Warps second set of the evening, which ended up being a mad affair in contrast to the rather restrained Pavilion show earlier. The crowd was going fucking insane and before long the vocal monitor was turned on its side, mic cables were a tangled mess and people were falling down everywhere as the crowd surged back and forth in the small room. Paul was pretty on with his stage banter, remarking that he weighed "about as much as a new, unused sponge" when he was asked by security not to lean on a pipe above the stage, before remarking one song later "I was just kidding, actually. I weigh more than a sponge."

Apparently the drinks and the excitement of the crowd had done its work on me, because before I knew it the guys were launching into their smash hit "Stupid Tattoos" as I launched off the aforementioned monitor, and into the crowd, stretching my arms out and screaming the words at the stage as young Cody did his best to jump on top of me. Amazing, amazing set.

Cold Warps, Set Two

Getting word that the Seahorse was at official capacity for Burning Love and C'Mon, I primed Kelsey for my arrival back to the hood by texting her the news of her now-defective bike. She seemed to take it well, mainly concerned about whether or not I was okay. It was a long, cold walk back to the hood, and I was nowhere near drunk enough for it. Upon my arrival I drank three beers and a schtickle of whiskey in short order with Jim, KLC and Cola, in preparation for the night's afterparty at superstar film-maker Laura Dawe and superstar grrrl-rocker Jenocide's house.

Once again, Jim was exhausted and opted for the bed, but it wasn't hard to convince Cola to come out for some late night fun, much as it wasn't hard to convince him to put Jim's jacket on for warmth. Jim probably has a good five inches or so on Cola, with a proportionate amount of weight over him as well, so it pretty much looked like Mark was wearing Daddy's jacket.

Cola, Dressed Up Like Daddy

By the time we got to the party I was feeling pretty well shitfaced, the booze was definitely catching up with me and I started taking nips out of a bottle of rum in KLC's purse here and there. I was standing talking with a group of who knows who when I took another swig that refused to go past my windpipe. Anyone who was reading the No Joy tour updates last month knows about my booze problems late-night in New York and this was no different... It definitely was not going to stay down. Slyly, mid conversation, I turned my head, hurled all over the back of someone's shoes, turned my head back and continued the conversation. Could it be that no one had noticed? It seemed so at the time, but I was loaded, so who knows?

Once inside, surprise surprise, the Cold Warps were getting ready to start up again for their THIRD set of the night. The house was absolutely PACKED, I am talking massive numbers of fatalities if there is a fire, packed; Hundreds of people spilling out of the back of the house, most of whom I had to push quickly past to get to the front of the uhm..... stage (living room?) to see the band. Meeting up with Cheryl from quickly-approaching-legendary status comedy troupe Picnicface en route, she hoisted a bottle of vodka in one of my hands and my friend Sarah placed a bottle of beer in the other. I love this city! I drank the beer heartily and kept the vodka down, and before I knew it the band was starting and the whole living room fucking ERUPTED into complete and utter madness.

I don't remember what they played, or for how long, but I remember it being very difficult for me to stand up and I remember a LOT of pushing and singing along and jumping up and down and laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. I was re-finding my love for Halifax quickly at the pop explosion, and even with the revoltingly cold wet weather, a disgustingly bloody leg, and more impending vomit, I (am pretty sure I remember that I) had a smile on my face.

Cold Warps, Set Three
(ph: Matt Packman)

HPX Part 2: Catano Is A Tiny Man

2010-10-25T09:14:00.000-07:00

Photos graciously provided by Ms. Kelsey McLaren

Elegant Hot Dog

2010-10-21T08:47:00.000-07:00

It's weird how much you can pack into one hour during Pop Explosion week.

My first foray into hitch-hiking in my thirties was extremely unsuccessful, in that it couldn't have been any less successful. Back in the day I pretty much had a hundred percent achievement rate in thumbing free rides, even having hitched to and from places as far as Montreal, riding on backs of motorcycles and in big rig cabs along the way. Those memories served me as nothing more than that as I watched car after car whiz by me standing alone on the onramp to highway 20 out of Montreal.

As the morning sun stretched itself high into the early afternoon sky, I threw my sign on the ground and said "Fuck it." I had been offered a cheap-ish ride the next day straight to Halifax anyway, and traveling cheap, had kept it in my pocket as a failsafe. I lugged my backpack of relatively light packing back to Mike's place. We had drank til 4am the night before and he was clearly in bed and clearly not hearing the buzzer. His downstairs neighbor let me in and I lay down outside his apartment door, put my hat over my face and napped in the hall with my ear to the door, waiting for signs of life.

Eventually Sleeping Beauty would awaken and hearing stirring inside, I knocked loudly with Mike opening the door and looking down at me leaning agaisnt the wall with a chuckle. Lunch was on the immediate agenda, and Mike and I are starting to get into a little tradition (ok, 2 times doesn't really constitute "tradition", but humor me) involving a Beaubien-area restaurant by the name of Elegant Hot Dog. Elegant Hot Dog is exactly what it sounds like - An elegant hotdog restaurant. I suppose elegance in this case is subjective, but I think the place has a little something resembling a little something that may be construed as a little something resembling elegance.

Elegance

The real elegance is in the prices, and Mike and I don't need a menu when we go into Elegant Hot Dog; Three hotdogs and fries on a big platter for $3.25 is all we need to know. Elegance? Clearly, I do not understand this word. What I do understand is that hotdogs are fucking delicious and they know how to do them right in Montreal. They put the coleslaw RIGHT ON THE HOTDOG. Some of you readers know how I feel about coleslaw and sandwiches, and for the sake of this anecdote, lets just consider a hotdog a sandwich and say that the coleslaw belongs ON the fucking sandwich. Amazing. Can we consider a hotdog a sandwich? Can I make that decision?

Lunch with Mike was as per usual hilarious, with he and I trading barbs for the whole of the meal. Anyone who sat next to us while we ate would be pretty certain that we hate each others guts. He makes a pyramid out of his fries and points at it, matter-of-factly as I reply "What? You think you're the first person to ever make a beaver dam out of french fries?" "YEAH." Then we probably call each other "fucking prick", "faggot" or something similarly intelligent and biting to the casual listener.

We were both pretty fucked up from the night before so we took some afternoon naps, with me drifting in and out of sleep while watching the Phillies get their asses fed to them by the Giants. Homie was going to see Helmet, and still trying to save money, and not being a fan, I opted to stay in, make a frozen shrimp alfredo dinner, drink a box of wine and listen to the Best Show On WFMU, the first in 8 weeks with the beloved Tom Scharpling manning the hosting duties, something that was stressing me out to no end.

More drinking and smoking til the wee hours, which included smashing pumpkins off the sides of trees in the streets of Montreal, just two thirty-something year old men stumbling around drunk on a Tuesday, stealing fucking pumpkins and trashing them. Sophisticated, we are not, but we have some kind of fun, in the middle of whatever the fuck it is that we're doing. There is something about the hollow thudding sound of a pumpkin meeting its demise that fires the synapses in me. Nothing ever replicates that sound and it stirs up some sort of sick nostalgia deep inside my soul. Today I looked down at my right sneaker and it was covered in dry pumpkin guts, a traditional trophy in the merry making of trouble as old as the jack-o-lantern itself.

"BUDDY. You acting like you never seen a fuckin BRICK before."

Another 4am bedtime and another 8:30am wake-up call for ol' ger. Rolling out of Mike's absentee roommate's bed with a mouth that tasted like I drank a glass of spare change before bed, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and hit the road, this time meeting up with the aforementioned ride. Arriving I discovered that it would be five of us cramped in a very small car, and my heart sank just a little (by little I mean a LOT). Twelve hours in a fucking sardine can. Still, I was getting to where I was going, and that's the main thing, right? Sure my ass would be cramped, my extremities would fall asleep, I'd have to carry my bag on my lap the whole time and it would basically suck, but I was getting to where I was going.

Twelve hours of driving, four gas stops, a Big Mac meal, a gas station hotdog and a cheese danish later I was on my way over the Macdonald bridge. Back in Halifax, the city I profess to hate yet can't stay away from. I really do despise it for a lot of reasons, but there is something about the things that happen here and the way they happen that can be kind of magical in a way, and the Halifax Pop Explosion is definitely the biggest example of that I can think of. Being that I'm not going back to work til January and am trying my best to ride out this traveling bug until then, I decided last week that I wouldn't miss it for the second year in a row. The minute my press credentials were confirmed the deal was sealed. I was coming back to the fucking east coast.

12:30am is not a bad time to roll into town on the second night. Rolling up to the Seahorse the first group of people I see is the now-former long time festival organizer (and my former boss) Waye Mason, new festival organizer Jonny Stevens, festival head-of-sound Sean MacGillivray and all-around helper outer and total prick Andrew Neville. I will see all four of these faces at every venue, all week. A round of hugs and I'm back in the thick of the shit, as if I'd never left.

"I think I'm gonna go in and watch Ty Segall."

"No you're not. They're at capacity. They wont let anyone else in." replied Neville.

"Well, the party's pretty much out here anyway, isn't it?"

"Fucking right."

It didn't take long for the show to finish up and before I know it friends and loved ones are coming out of the club in droves, and I'm throwing hugs around like they don't mean nothin. Some are surprised to see me, some though they didn't know I was coming just give a kind of "Well of course YOU'RE here" look and others who knew I was on the way ask me what the fuck took me so long. I didn't see one note of the show, and it was still awesome.

Breaking away from the crowd I walked back toward the north end with some close ones, and was in bed shortly before two. You can do a lot in one hour in this city while doing nothing at all.

G&G'sBR PART TWO

2010-10-17T06:53:00.000-07:00

Check out how good my memory for food is.

Gar-Gar and I wanted to hit up Whataburger for sure. I think it is really just that amazing logo and color combo that sucks newcomers in, the place just LOOKS fucking cool. So it was upon leaving Dallas that we hit up a gas stop conveniently next to a Whataburger restaurant and chowed down on our meals while Laura went to Target to replace her forgotten toiletries.

Whataburger was first opened in Texas 60 years ago and is featured often in episodes of King of The Hill. It is distinguishable from a lot of other fast-food chains by its A-framed buildings, aforementioned amazing logo, and the fact that the food is FUCKING AWESOME.

I ordered a standard Whataburger and Fries (with Dr. Pepper of course) and was pretty goddamn smitten with it. As for comparing it to the other burgers I had eaten so far on the tour, I would put it in the same ballpark as the Jack In The Box burger, in that it was big, with lots of toppings and wasn't too greasy or junky, but I would say the Whataburger was even better. It was just very substantial and eating it I didn't feel like I was going to feel disgusting afterward. Also, it should be noted that Whataburger had the best fries I ate all tour.

The ladies had been irrationallly messing themselves over the prospect of eating at In-N-Out for days. As we rolled into Tucson, Arizona I was unknowingly preparing to nearly mess myself in finding out just why the restaurant is called "In-N-Out".

As has been general custom for me during this burger tour, I ordered a number 1 combo, which is a double burger plate, and I ordered it "animal style" which basically means they douse it in caramelized onions and thousand island dressing. Not at all an un-delicious prospect. The staff there were very nice and friendly, though I got a little annoyed with their constantly asking if I needed anything as I waited for my food.

I am going to be diplomatic. The food was not gross, or even bad. The hand had just been overplayed. All I had heard for two weeks was "In-N-Out this" and "In-N-Out that" and when I got there, I basically got a standard heavy, greasy, cheesy fast-food mess. It was definitely delicious, but it was also just kind of there. The only thing that distinguished it from say, Checkers was that they had put a bunch of other junky shit on it. And I didn't care for the fries, which I did not finish.

The two vegetarian girls' Beatles-style fandom over a burger restaurant was the most fascinating thing about this particular visit, though. Ok, a fast food restaurant that serves cheese sandwiches is cool, in theory, but I still wasn't buying it. Even in subsequent days when someone would ask what the best burger was on tour, Laura would be heard to chime out "IN-N-OUT!!!" even though she hadn't had a burger. I would constantly have to correct her on this, which she would not accept. My meat-eating taste buds had to be wrong.

Why were the girls so fanatical about this passable burger restaurant? And why was everyone there so goddamn HELPFUL? Perhaps the answer could be found on the wrapper for my sandwich....

For 30 years In-N-Out have been printing fucking BIBLE references on their wrappers! The place is a goddamn CULT, and the girls have been indoctrinated! To top it off, the In-N-Out name is painfully apt, since not 45 minutes after scarfing that animal-style down I was looking at a whole mess of caramelized onions floating at the top of the toilet bowl, having made the long trek through my intestines at warp speed, in DEFIANCE of GOD HIMSELF. AVOID AT ALL COSTS!!!

Oh, Paris. As if you eat a hamburger.

I'm going to combine Carl's Jr. and Hardee's into one review, because they are both owned by the same company and both feature that weird smiling star logo. What's weird and odd and completely illogical is that as far as hamburgers are concerned, at least in this instance, the similarities stop there.

Somewhere just past Las Vegas we pulled into a Carl's Jr. (at a gas stop, of course). The place was pretty empty. We stepped up to the counter and I ordered my standard number one combo then retired to the seat with Gargoyle with our little tent card with the number of our order. That's a weird thing in the south. A lot of fast-food restaurants actually bring your meal to your table after you order it. Pretty cool.

Anyway, upon biting into our sandwiches we were both like "This is basically Burger King." Is that a good thing? You are fucking RIGHT it's a good thing! I Burger King is great! Flame broiled deliciousness on a sesame seed bun? BK will always trump McDonald's times a million in my book, and we hadn't eaten any all tour, so this Carl's Jr. was really doing the trick. The only thing that really distinguished Carl's Jr. from BK was that they had "fry sauce", which is essentially a pre-mixed mayo-ketchup combo. Delicious! Carl's Jr., you have my vote!

...Which makes it all the more quizzical to me that Hardee's was kind of a piece of shit. I mean, I guess they're just "sibling restaurants", comprising the #4 fast-food burger chain in the U.S. (after McD's, BK, and Wendy's), but the disparity between the two was basically staggering. Carl's Jr. tasted like a fresh patty plopped down onto an open flame grill. Hardee's tasted like something they took out of the freezer and fried on a flat-top. Disappointing. I still ate the fuck out of it, but disappointing, nonetheless.

If I am going to have to choose my favorite burger for this journey, I'm gonna have to give it to Whataburger, pretty handily, with Jack In The Box and Carl's Jr. taking honorable mentions. I will surrender the "Junk Award" to In-N-Out, since it was likely the most delicious burger in the process of giving me violent diarrhea.

Jughead out.

The Tour Is Over When I HATE MYSELF

2010-09-28T18:02:00.000-07:00

Los Dungeneros

When Chris suggested we all go for some BBQ before heading out for our respective days off, I was down. I was feeling completely dusted and knew that a nice greasy delicious meal would be about what the doctor ordered.

I don't even remember what the place was called, but it was a barbecue shack in almost the most literal sense; the place was basically a trailer parked on a vacant lot with a huge lineup. Forty-five minutes was a long time to wait, but definitely worth it. I ended up ordering a greasy, oniony, deliciousy brisket sandwich that tasted like it was ejaculated by GOD himself. It was easily the best thing I ate all tour, which, if you have been following this blog, is saying a lot.

The best sandwich I have ever eaten.

As I eluded to, it was technically a day off, so after lunch the Dungen camp headed out and made their way to Marfa where the show the next night would be. No leisurely day drive for the No Joy camp though. Today was a day of recording for No Joy's soon-to-air Daytrotter session. Pulling in front of the studio, an aggressive bum came up to the window.

"Nothing! I have nothing!" I replied as he asked me for a dollar.

"Well, you have that computer." He pointed at my laptop.

"Yeah, pal. What, you think I'm gonna give you my laptop so you can go sell it? GET GOING."

Up the street he went.

Daytrotter is basically a recording band's dream. Tons of vintage Fender amps, guitars, drums. Just a bunch of great gear that you are free to come in and use for your session. Apparently it went well. I stayed in the van videochatting and napping off my vicious hangover. Eventually Jas came out to grab something from the van and our bum friend came back at which point I had to yell "DON'T MAKE ME GET OUT OF THIS VAN!" before he made his way up the street once more. I'm not sure what I would have done had I gotten out of the van in my state, but it seemed to work. I found out later that he had told Jas "Careful not to bend over." Jesus.

Stupid Cactus

Being that it was a late night for all, we decided to drive for a few hours, doing our best to cut the 8 hour drive to Marfa in half. I angled the Dodge down the interstate with a head full of shit, but it wasn't so bad. Starting to hit the long Texas flatlands, the highway suddenly had an 80mph speed limit and little to no turns, just straight, flat roads. Setting the cruise control at 90, we made good ground in a few hours, landing in Junction, Texas at the Sun Valley Motel.

The Sun Valley Motel was certainly something. It wasn't without its charms. It also wasn't without a set of lipstick lips left on the wall by a previous guest. Charm! Once we settled in we hit the grocery store for some supplies for the night. Some of the NJers wondered how I could even think about booze after the night we'd just had. I probably responded with something to the effect of my having worked long and hard to attain my level of alcoholism, but the fact of the matter is that it was a night that I didn't have to drive a van at 1am. The opportunity to have some drinks with no worries was a welcome one.

No one could really decide what to eat so we all stopped at a wonderful mexican restaurant up the road from our hotel for dinner on a whim. It was really fun and charming, the family who ran it sat around a TV to the side as we ate.

Sup, Cheese Plate?

The vegetarians didn't fare so well in their quest to have a balanced meal, settling for cheese enchiladas, rice and beans, but Gar and I cleaned up, being served delicious taco meals (with beans and rice, of course). I was pretty full and satisfied by the time we got back to the hotel where I drank wine and beers before going to sleep relatively early (for the last one to bed) at about 1am.

Sup, Cheese Plate?

The rest of the drive to Marfa the next day was pretty well painless. More 80mph roads made it a pretty easy cruise into town. Marfa is an artist driven community in southwest Texas not too far from the Mexican border. Arriving there I immediately marveled at how many galleries there were for a town of just about three thousand. It was Monday and for some reason, all of them were closed, so I settled on a slice of delicious pizza and some "ger-time".

Ger-time is basically when the whole gang decides to do something (in this case going to Dairy Queen) and I opt to instead wander around exploring by myself. Touring is awesome and fun and I love it, but like everyone else, I need my space here and there. I like ambling around places that are new to me with no direction or stated purpose, which is real easy to do on a solo mission.

Marfa, Texas

I wandered up the street past some kind of hay farm, through some dirt roads and tall bushes that sounded full of wildlife. I eyed the abandoned building beside the venue. I love running around old run-down abandoned structures, and though there was a film crew out preventing me from putting my explorers badge to use, I knew that by the night I'd be in there. I was right. As the sun set Gustav and I braced ourselves against the houseframe, walking across very weak upstairs floors while Gustav exclaimed "Shiiiit!" every 20 seconds. Fun stuff.

The show in Marfa was pretty fun, what with the small town and very appreciative folks, and all. It was a real varied crowd and after the show we all hung with the locals, drank beers, took shots and had fun. Mattias had been there the year before with his other band and excitedly told me about the cowboy that had served them food the whole week they were in Marfa, talking quicker and quicker as he told me all about him being very tall with a very big mustache and getting into a fight and pulling a meat cleaver out of his back pocket in the middle of it.

At the Padre, Marfa

I had just been wondering to myself if Mattias was talking about the same big tall cowboy who had been involved with the film production next door when he started in with the hitman stuff. Apparently Mattias had found out after the fact that that cowboy had indeed once been a killer for hire who had over FIFTY kills notched up. As he was in the middle of telling me all of this his face suddenly turned suddenly to an expression of shock, amusement and fear, as our cowboy walked into the adjoining room.

"That's him! He's killed people! A bunch of people!" Mattias whispered.

"AAAAAHHH!! Don't talk about it! Don't talk about it!" I whispered back.

"Over fifty people! Can you believe it? He's killed over fifty people!"

"DON'T. STOP it!!!"

Marfa is a weird small town. The show had to be over by 11 and the bar closed at 12. Still, we all managed to get a good drunk on in that hour, but it being relatively early, we all still wanted to party. Luckily for us, the Dungen hotel was both close and deserted with the exception of our crew. In addition to having the hotel to ourselves we also had exclusive use of the hotel's very accessible pool and before long we were all diving in and horsing around under the beautiful Marfa sky.

The party came pretty close to getting out of control when Mattias pushed me in the pool and Chris and I chased him over the gate, threatening to throw him in fully clothed. Or when Johan played drums INSIDE the No Joy van. Or when Chris tried to piss on Mattias from the roof. Or when Garland wanted to jump onto the Dungen Uhaul from the roof. About six in the morning I crawled into bed with Laura, coming so close to making all of her dreams come true before sleep-farting the morning away.

Johan, In-van Drum Style

The drive from Marfa was beautiful. Another day off for us and we made it to Tucson, Arizona, stopping only for a meal at Wendy's and to check out Prada Marfa, which is a permanent installation about 30 miles out of the city. Basically, it is a mock Prada store in the middle of the fucking dessert. The shoes on display are bound not to be tried on, the doors are bolted shut. Pretty weird/hilarious/cool.

Prada Marfa

Tucson was pretty low key. I drank some beer and we watched Poison Ivy. Some of the kids had never been to Olive Garden before, so we hit one up before rolling out of town. Olive Garden may be like a more pretentious East Side Marios, and everything may be greasy as hell, but I still find it to be delicious in nature. Once again, would eat way too much.

Laura & Gar, at the Olive Garden.

Arriving early in Phoenix, the Dungen fellas invited us to their swank hotel to hang out by the pool, which we of course took full advantage of. I sipped on lemonade and watched baseball with Paul for a bit, while No Joy made a new friend in a fan of theirs and professional in "The Biz" who kindly bought them all sangria and invited us to stay at his oversized-for-one room for the night.

My homie Ryan came out to the show and we hung out and got caught up. We watched No Joy and he seemed pretty into it, though we missed Dungen for hanging out in the parking lot, chatting and smoking. By all accounts the show went pretty well, and before long we were all getting beers for the hotel.

Ryan was under strict self-direction not to drink, so we got totally shitfaced. Erin's hotel room was indeed quite crazy, and we hung out in there for a good while before locating the Swedes on the hotel's rooftop living room. Couches, lamps, tables and comfortable chairs, this hotel was swank as fuck. We drank all night, but kept it low-key this time, just hanging and chatting and having a good time. Eventually it was me, Yan and Ryan, deciding to fall asleep on the roof under the stars.

Angry Ryan in Phoenix

When you fall asleep on a roof under the stars in Arizona at 6am, before long you are awoken about 9am on a roof under a fucking boiling hot Arizona sun. That we woke up was lucky, otherwise we'd have been burnt to a goddamn crisp. Relocating to the pool deck, I fell asleep while Ryan swam around for a couple of hours.

Waking up, still drunk and wanting to hear the reggae that they play UNDER the pool, but not having my trunks didn't seem like a problem at the time. Off came my clothes and into the pool I went, once again naked. Mattias looked down from his balcony and described the scene as follows.

All was peaceful, until........

"I looked down and saw a woman sunbathing and was like 'Oh!'. Then I looked across the pool and saw Gerry in the pool and was like 'OH!!!'"

He then described watching me scramble out of the pool and try to grab one of the oversized chair-towels from one of the loungers. I had much trouble getting the towel off as Mattias watched me, laughing and hoping that I would have more difficulty and have to move on to the other chairs, in desperation. I make great friends, worldwide. Ha!

About the time I had succeeded in covering my nudity a guy came out and told me that the towel wasn't for drying off, and why wasn't I wearing my trunks. I knew that my time at the hotel was going to have to be cut short. I was juuuuuuust about dressed when the hotel manager came out and asked where the guy without the shorts was.

"He ran off, I don't know where he went."

"You sure it wasn't you."

"No, it wasn't me."

The guy who saw me using the chair towel arrived, "No it was you."

Asked if we were guests ("Nope! We snuck in!") and then asked to leave, Ryan and I got out of the place. I decided to bypass going to the van as I didn't want to put any heat on my party and was off the property walking down the street when I was asked to "Stop and come back here while we call the police."

Now it was the hotel owner. Blah blah blah, liquor license, blah blah blah, nudity. I ended up talking my way out of being arrested with the promise that I would leave and not come back on the property. Being thrown in jail for public indecency in Arizona wasn't my idea of a dream ending to the No Joy tour, and this was indeed the last day.

"To the border! Now!" I shouted as we all piled in the van with Garland assuring me that I was, indeed, a "dirty sex offender". A food stop later, we got the fuck out of Arizona. We were on our way to San Diego, California, and tonight would be the last show of the tour.

In San Diego we went on a short walk on the boardwalk, checking out tourist junk and buying the Swedes a goodbye gift of lucha libre masks on the boardwalk, handpicked to match the persona of each member. The Dungen girlfriends had arrived for their leg of the tour with their fellas, and they were all very sweet and excited to see their guys. A bunch of us had an amazing sushi dinner while the lovebirds (and Mattias!) hit an italian restaurant to get they candlelight on.

The San Diego show was great. Some of the No Joyers had friends in town, and the crowd was really responsive to their set. Apparently the sound on stage wasn't what it could have been and it made the set a bit difficult, but I was still able to observe how much tighter homies had gotten since the first show in Charlottesville.

This being the last night with the Swedes I parked myself in a nice leaning spot, once again directly stage left beside Reine, to watch the Dungen fellas throw the fuck down. They were presented with their gift masks, which made for a pretty funny moment of stage set-up with the fellas twiddling away at gear as their new lucha libre alter-egos (except for Reine, who didn't want to "ruin the hairdo").

El Gustavador

Homies once again threw the fuck down, playing what for me was their best show of the tour. Everything was just completely on, the sound was insane and the improv parts were just out of control. I started the tour not being to sure how I exactly felt about Dungen, and just over two weeks later, I was sure that they were a band that I loved.

Afterwards we all hung out and chatted, made plans and laughed for a long time. Mattias exclaimed to me that he liked his mask best and that he wanted to get a whole suit to match it with webbing under the arms and a big fin down the back. I dubbed his alter-ego the "Party Fish".

Me with the Party Fish, exposed.

Before long it was time to say goodbye, or so long, or whatever. Dungen would be in Toronto in about three weeks, and were likely to take their day off in Montreal the day after, so we knew we'd be seeing them soon enough. Our stay-spot for the night turned out to be some manner of a party-house, and knowing that we had about 6 hours tops to sleep before a long drive in the direction of home, I camped out in the van for the night and had a relatively easy sleep, preparing for the drive.

The tour had been pretty great. I had traveled to the southern states for the first time since I went on tour with The Plan just over ten years ago. I got to know ten people who were basically strangers to me previously really well and make some good friends that I'm sure I will be close with for a long time. And Laura. Ok, Laura too.

The sun came up on a beautiful morning in San Diego and I pointed the van in the general direction of "Eastern Canada", setting the cruise control at 90, keeping my eyes peeled for an unsampled burger shop along the way.

The Meal Is Over When I HATE MYSELF

2010-09-22T18:02:00.002-07:00

So yeah, I had three hamburgers the day of the Nashville show, and not much else. Being on tour is often kind of a take-what-you-can-get type of thing, food-wise, and unless you buy a buncha shit and plan your meals ahead of time (which you often have no space or time for), you're gonnna be eating fast food a whole bunch. I just had Wendy's for breakfast. Yesterday morning I had a big bag of Lay's kettle chips. It's a miracle that I haven't eaten at McDonald's once in the last 12 days.

In Nashville Garland gave me the night off, which is to say that I didn't have to drive after the show, which is to say that I was free to hang around, enjoy the show, and get completely fucked up. I haven't been working since the end of August, and I've been drinking quite a bit at home. Like, every other day. It's never a problem, because I know when to turn it off, and all this touring has been kind of cool, because being the driver means that I basically have to keep it turned off most nights. Some people would assume that I would have a problem with that, but I really don't.

As for Nashville, the fucked up switch was definitely flicked to the "on" position. Immediately following dinner I popped a Red Stripe and smoked a joint in the band room while watching Gustav of Dungen fuck about on the turntable. He actually brings a Tech Twelve on tour with him so he can scratch backstage before they play. Super cool, and he completely throws the fuck down; He is absolutely amazing, and NEVER spins in public, which is pretty outrageous to me. He's been spinning at home for years as a form of relaxation, he says it's almost meditary. I'd kill for a fraction of the musical talent Gustav has, the man is brilliant.

The show was packed and everyone was really excited. Dungen had been recording with Jack White the past couple of days and regaled us all with stories of homeboy's home recording studio, likening it to going to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Super exciting stuff. No Joy went on and completely killed it. The sound was great, people were really receptive, and to top it off, while standing at the merch table a real nice dude named John came up to me and offered us a place to stay. Everything was completely coming up No Joy.

More and more and more and more and more and more (and more) beers as the swedes got ready to take the stage. Chris, the Dungen tour manager got some Dickel whiskey and I had a few belts of that too. I camped out on stage right and watched the fellas tear the Mercy Lounge a new ass, completely whipping the crowd into a fucking frenzy. I later commented that the whole of the front of the stage was a sea of bearded dudes with huge shit-eating grins on their faces. It was an amazing set and definitely all-in-all the funnest show to that point.

Everyone was feeling real good afterwards and upon discovering a whole nother cooler full of band beers everyone was feeling real better. Laura, drunk off her ass, started rapping at one point and I remember crawling under the backstage bar, hiding from her sick rhymes. A whole assload of joints and weed pipes were going around and, much too drunk to say no I was smoking a ton of pot. I really was taking advantage of my night off and well, you know where this is going. Before I knew it I was in straight-up spin town trying to keep my burgers down.

My cause unfortunately, was lost. Sooner than you could say "violently puking retard" I was a violently puking retard, leaning out of the passenger side door, hurling all over the parking lot. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. It was all bad. Yan was loaded as well and was taunting me, "Gerrryyyyyyy! Why are you PUKING Gerrrrrryyy? I haven't puked since I was a little boy and I ate too many MUNCHKINS. I ate too many CHOCOLATE MUNCHKINS and I PUKED!" I had a sense of humor about everything and tried to make cracks in between splashing chunks all over the place.

Off to John's place we went, me with my head outside the window like some kind of over-enthusiastic dog. I vaguely remember the kids being excited over the size of the house, but that's about it. Against their pleas I decided to take a bit of a nap in the van. I needed some fresh air on my face and though I was pretty well empty I still had the spins real bad and knew that standing up would just result in more bad craziness.

I woke up at 8 in the goddamn morning, wondering what the fuck I was doing in the van. Looking out at the gigantic yard and driveway with 6 or 7 vehicles in it only made things more confusing. I was still pretty fucked up, but ok to go inside whatever this big brown mansion I was beside was. I mean, this place was huge. Situated on 4 acres in what must be one of the swankier parts of Nashville, it was an amazing 7 bedroom house that 8 people split the rent on. And the rent? FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH. Their next door neighbor is Emmylou Harris. What the hell.

After a much needed nutritious fruit and vegetable laden lunch at Bongo Java we hit the road to Memphis. We arrived early so we "visited" Graceland, which is really just to say that we drove by it on the way to Checkers. Still, it looked pretty cool from the roadside, and if I am ever back as a tourist, I'd love to visit.

Jas in Dallas

The show in Memphis was fun but weird. It was good that I had had the burger, since we were served an absolutely disgustingly undercooked pizza at the bar that I took all of 3 bites of before pawning it off on Yannick. Gar-Gar and I played some wacky pool, wowing the whole bar with our tricks. I was really pretty tired and kind of cranky at this show, actually, it was DISGUSTING levels of humid and I just kind of wasn't feeling it. The crowd seemed to follow suit, thinning and growing, in turn. No Joy played to a bunch of people who were afraid to come close to the stage, and the Dungen fellas seemed quite put off by the crowd.

A nice lady took us in after the show and we went to bed pretty soon after getting to her place as we had a seven hour drive the next day to Dallas. The show there was ok-ish, with the sound being completely botched during No Joy's set. Dungen, having brought their own sound person Paul on tour fared better. The crowd at this show was also kinda weird, very college-hippie style and apparently most of the people that go to shows like this in Dallas are super coked out, which in retrospect made sense.

The main event in Dallas, for me at least, was the meal. There was a restaurant under the venue where we were to get free meals, and big, rich, southern portions were definitely in effect. I ordered chicken fried chicken with gravy, loaded mashed potatoes and spiced green beans, and well, it was an insanely great meal. I was well full half way through, but forged on, refusing not to finish up. It was too delicious to let go to waste.

Chicken Fried Chicken

The view from the upstairs deck was amazing and we all spent a lot of time out there during this show. This was the first night that I really got to hang and chat with the Swedes at length and spent a good portion of time smoking and chatting with Mattias before the show started. He told me all about Sweden and I decided that I want to go. Someone take me to Sweden.

No Joy in Dallas

Johan had been asking us on a nightly basis when we were going to come stay in the Dungen hotel rooms and party with them, so in Dallas we all decided that the next night in Austin would probably be a late-night anyway, and would probably a good time to get the party portion of the tour underway. I was excited to get to Austin anyway, I had never been and by all accounts it is a party city with good food. I hadn't had much in the way of bad food outside of fast-food anyway, but I was still ready for more.

Dungen Soundcheck, Austin

We got to Austin and the venue was, as promised, insane. The Mohawk is an amazing two storey bar, where the whole of the top floor is the band green room, with pool tables, couches, animal skulls, stuffed trophy kills and a fucking buck hunting video game. Outside of the band room is the viewing balcony, which overlooks the main performance stage..... which is OUTSIDE, paralleled to one of the busiest party streets in Austin.

The Austin Bandroom

We got meal buy-outs (instead of going to the trouble of feeding us, the venue just gives us some food money) and I immediately set to draining that and my per diem in the buck hunting machine, shooting at all different kinds of weird video game animals. I got a high score on one thing, which means that (hopefully) next time I am in Austin, my initials will still be there.

Johan & The Bear

Everyone else had eaten burritos, but I held out for BBQ, venturing across the street to Stubbs for an amazing pulled pork sandwich with mac and cheese and coleslaw. Amazing. I love southern BBQ so much, and Stubbs was definitely the real deal. For the second night in a row I rolled up into the venue during soundcheck with a belly full of deliciousness and a serious case of the meat sweats, still wanting more. Luckily, it would not be the end of BBQ for me.

As promised, the show at Mohawk was completely off the fucking hook. The place was packed and everything about it was just amazing. It was probably the loudest and best sound for No Joy during the whole tour; the sound was actually ridiculously loud and amazing, which was pretty surprising (at least to me) for an outdoor stage. Dungen played an absolutely fucking amazing set to a huge amount of very appreciative people. It was a great, great show all-round, and everyone seemed quite happy with it afterward.

No Joy, Austin

It was party night, at and away from the venue, and it took goddamn near AGES for the bands to load out, with all the well-wishers and friends about. Wandering over to the bar next door we were at first excited to see that there was "pudding wrestling" going on. The reality of the situation was a lot more harsh than the concept once we got there. It was basically a buncha rough looking broads tangling in a kiddie pool containing barely an inch of "pudding", which was more of a brown colored water. Watching women slam each others heads on the ground in a pool with a small amount of some old lady's diarrhea in it is barely my idea of sexy or fun.

Finally at the hotel around 2:30, Chris and I set about setting up the party room with coolers full of iced Tecates before everyone else showed up and we all dove into it. Randoms came and went for hours and everyone chatted, bonded and had a blast. In the end it ended up being Mattias, Johan, Reina, Garland and I, finishing off our last beers, whiskeys, etc around seven in the goddamn morning, before saying goodnight with Gar-Gar tripping over Johan's luggage and exclaiming "JOHAN TRIED TO KILL ME!!!" We were in rough fucking shape, and we had a great night.

Garland & Mattias, competing over who could keep their hand in the ice bucket the longest (I don't remember who won).

It felt like I had only been asleep for three hours when I was awoken. Probably because I had only been asleep for three hours when I was awoken. Still drunk and running out the door in my underwear not two minutes after I opened my eyes, I tore them off on the way into the courtyard pool, back-floating and giving whoever was watching a royal view of ger. jr. before loading the troops into the van and getting the fuck out of dodge.

Dungen, Austin

G & G's Burger Report

2010-09-18T07:27:00.001-07:00

The No Joy tour has unwittingly become the stage for something I've kind of wanted to do for a long time, that being, the sampling of various hamburgers across America.

We're not talking about boutique 10 dollar burgers at some hoity-toity restaurant with waiters or napkins here; we're talking fast food paddies, and we are fucking serious. Which is to say that we are as serious as we can be without leaving the highway specifically to check out a new one (though the temptation has been great).

When I say "we", I mean Garland and I, since we are essentially the only two people in the No Joy camp that eat meat (Laura eats fish, but, you know, what-the-fuck-ever).

ANYWAY, so far we've gotten to sample three different places, so, for the first (and possibly last) time, I present to you Gerry & Garland's (Super, Awesome, Wacky, Funny) Burger Report.

The first place we visited we didn't really visit, per se. Pulling in for a gas stop after an Atlanta breakfast of sausage and biscuits, I saw a Krystal restaurant across the interstate. Before I knew it I was throwing Garland the van keys, saying "I'm going to try a Krystal burger, do you want one?"

"Uhm.... hmmm.... uhhh."

"You're GETTING one."

Being that these were basically breakfast burgers, I decided to play it safe and opted to get three burgers (two for me and one for G) alone, no side, totaling about two dollars. Right away the clear bag and little box holders for each slider felt quite familiar, a thought that was only reinforced when upon inspection, Garland exclaimed "This is just White Castle". They really did seem quite similar to the eye, and indeed, the Krystal wiki claims that it is "often described as the Southern equivalent of the older Midwest American hamburger chain White Castle."

The comparisons do not stop there. To the taste these little beasts were pretty well comparable to the aforementioned value-priced burgers. Steamed-in onions, pickles, ketchup and mustard made these almost an exact copy; the only discernible difference I could sort out was that the buns did not seem to be sopping with grease, (which for those who don't know, at White Castle, is due to them putting the burgers back down on the greasy grill after bunning them.... I saw it with my own eyes. Grossalicious!) which maybe gave the Krystal burger an edge, or maybe not, depending on your level of inebriation upon consumption. Being that we were sober, we rated them just higher.

Next on our plate was Jack In The Box. Now, the unfortunate reality of this story is that we're still on day ONE of the Burger Tour, here. Upon loadking in in Nashville, Gargoyle and I immediately set back out in the van in search of another burger sample. What the fuck were we thinking? I don't know.... Ok, I know. We were thinking of hamburgers, that's what we were thinking. Maybe the girls (because everyone knows that girls LOVE crafting) can make us some Jughead crowns when they're done doing each others' hair.

If you're like me, you remember Jack In The Box as being the butt of many SNL Weekend Update jokes following the 1993 E. Coli epidemic that saw 4 children DIE from eating tainted food from Jack In The Box restaurants. How could we not try it? This is rock n roll, man! It's all about taking risks and living on the edge, dude! Uh.....

So Jack In The Box was basically the shit. We each ordered a combo, and rushing to get back to the venue before soundcheck, Garfield was basically finished his whole meal by the time I pulled into the lot. He would later be heard to remark that it was so good he had to leave the band room when I started eating mine because it smelled so amazing and made him want more.

A fairly sized beef patty filled a comparatively well-sized bun. My cheeseburger was absolutely delicious, it didn't seem particularly junky, and though I did throw up violently in the parking lot later, I like to think that had more to do with partying like a fucking maniac (Gar-Gar gave me the night off from driving after the show, opening the floodgates for a beer bonanza, ger-style) than my delicious meal. Homie was heard to remark that we "definitely have to hit up Jack In The Box again on this tour", and with a multitude of locations between here and San Diego, I don't see why not.

Last, and perhaps least (it's a tossup, I reckon) comes Checkers. Checkers is the "largest chain of double drive-thru restaurants in the United States", as if anyone gives a shit about that. Its old-timey appearance outside perhaps gives the impression that you are going to get a quality (old-timey!) product. Or maybe not. I don't fucking know.

Two double cheeseburgers for three bucks was an easy sell for me, with homeboy going for the "BBQ Bacon Champ" which is a bacon cheeseburger with BBQ sauce and an onion ring on it. I guess I would say that Checkers is like a medium between Krystal and Jack In The Box (whether the medium is happy or sad is up for debate). The burgers were definitely big (I was actually quite surprised at how heavy my bag, containing merely two value burgers was) and they were definitely DRIPPING in grease.

The Checkers burgers were rated pretty much just passable and neither of us came away from the experience talking about getting more later, though it must be said that these things are basically the epitome of drunk food, so there is always hope(?) I think due to content and value for money alone, they would have to be rated higher than the Krystal burgers, but then, it was two doubles for three dollars while I got three singles at Krystal for 2 dollars.

All in all, I am confused at this lack of a rating system for this report. Who organized this fucking thing anyway?

Bush Jumps, Stray Cats, Soul Food and Getting A Shotgun Pointed at Me: More Fun On The Road With No Joy

2010-09-16T18:04:00.000-07:00

After the main event of me eating some Alligator there was also a show. No big whoop.

There were only the two bands, which is cool because the show ends early, but not so good for the first of the two, of course. In spite of this, No Joy managed to play to a pretty fairly sized and appreciative crowd, including some guy in a leather jacket with Wolverine-style mutton chops completely losing his fucking mind. The drum situation was as of then still unresolved, but once again Garland held it down completely.

Dungen played a great set on my first night of watching them. I parked myself at the front of stage left watching Reina completely throw down on guitar. I write this with Johann sitting beside me, so in the case that he is reading over my shoulder I feel compelled to write that he also certainly completely destroyed the drums.

When we first showed up we had thrown around the idea of driving the three hours to Athens, Georgia to stay with my great friend Dave after the show. At first I was a little unreceptive to the idea (knowing that I would be the sober driver), wanting to try to find a place to stay in Asheville for the night, but eventually I warmed up to the idea, calling Dave and making all the arrangements. Knowing that the two band bill would be over by 11:30, it suddenly made all the sense in the world to hit the road and get to friendly, controlled sleeping arrangements.

Generally speaking, overnight anything (except for drinking) has never really been my forte. I recently even bailed on an extremely hard to get radio slot in Toronto because I couldn't deal with doing the overnight shift. Somehow though, over these last few tours I've realized that I am unexpectedly completely capable of pulling at least a bit of an overnight drive. I start to feel the fatigue 3 or 4 hours in, but then, I feel that in the broad daylight as well.

Asheville to Athens was pretty painless, and with relatively empty highways, I pretty much hauled ass. The GPS projected us to be at Dave's place for about 3:40am, with us actually showing up there just after three. This included an all-too-familiar unfortunate late night snack grab at a gas station.... one of the sad realities of the cross country rock tour. Laura was pretty hammered and had been mumbling about snacks in between bouts of passing out in the back seat, and I needed the fuel energy for the last leg of the trip. Thus, Hot Dogs, Taquitos, Chips and discount fireworks were procured. Gross.

Arriving at Dave's house pretty late, a few of us had a beer before bedding down. It was nice to see Dave, who i toured with quite a bit back in the day when he was in The Plan, and the promise of a day off on Monday full of hanging in Athens and boozing with my old friend was seeming pretty good to me, overall.

The next day we pretty much went straight to lunch with Dave at famous Athens vegetarian eatery The Grit upon waking up before being taken for a "swim" (that was more like a wade/bath) by Dave's neighbor Erica and a couple other locals. The drum issues also finally got solved which cleared the way for us to pig out and party the rest of the night away.

Ladies and gentlemen, David Harrison.

Dave didn't have to say much more than "taco restaurant where you can bring your own beer." and we were all pretty much in. It was after procuring the required Budweisers that I pulled in to a gas station for an ATM stop for a couple members of our crew. As soon as I put the van into park and checked the rearview mirror I saw what was the first (and I hope last) one of these on this tour.......

Fuck. I only had had two beers, so that wasn't it. I drive like a perfectly erratic asshole at times, but I was pretty sure I had been ok so far. I was pretty stumped as to why I was seeing flashers at this point, but I still had a bad feeling. There were fucking cops pulling me over, so of course I had a bad feeling. Mostly I didn't want to sit there for a half hour while they ran my record and whatnot. I was hungry, and more than that I was THIRSTY.

Apparently I had been spotted driving without my headlights on. They come on somewhat automatically, so I was frequently forgetting to turn them full on..... I don't get why if they're gonna come on automatically, they cant just finish the job and turn on all the way. The pig told me he had followed me for quite a few blocks like that and that he would have to run my license. Ugh.

Eventually he must have grown impatient, since he soon returned to the van and gave me a warning, letting me know that he didn't want to bother calling Canada to check up on me. What a swell guy, right? Well, the swell guy quickly reverted to his asshole cop persona, pointing to the beer in the van and saying something along the lines of "You better be careful with that stuff too. I can smell it in the van and (motioning toward Dave) this guy here already looks pretty plastered."

"Yeah. That one beer I had really got on top of me." Dave replied.

"Have a good night y'all."

"Suck my fucking dick, officer."

...was what I said in my head.

The night culminated in a whole assload of booze being consumed in a downtown Athens bar with Dave and his friend Jody. The folks working at the bar were the children of Moe Tucker. Pretty exciting to have the kids of a member of the Velvet Underground serving you shots and beers. Just as exciting to me was being able to buy a round of beers for five people for 15 bucks, including tip. God bless America.

The night ended in what is a ten year tour tradition for me where Dave is involved (and sometimes when he is not)..... Bush jumping. A gigantic manicured hedge in front of a frathouse is like a bull's eye to me when I've had just enough to drink, and in no time I was launching myself off an upturned garbage can headfirst into a huge bush. I am a fucking child. Garland even got in on the action, skinning his knee on the sidewalk when he completely overshot the bush.

Bushjumping

On the way home I saw a cute white and orange stray cat and drunkenly tried to befriend it. Its trust was tentative at first, but eventually with enough luring, he came over and lovingly rubbed his head on my hand as I petted him. Overdoing it, I bent down and drunkenly picked him up to give him a hug, much as I do with Orla when I am at home. He of course COMPLETELY panicked and started scratching wildly at my face, catching my collarbone and managing to give me three nasty puncture wounds before I could throw him down. Fuck you kitty! The night was definitely over.

The next day we met up with Dave and went to the famous "Weaver D's" soulfood restaurant, best known for being the restaurant whose slogan REM borrowed as the title for their "Automatic For The People" record. Weaver was real funny and nice while we were ordering, asking Garland "You want pork chops and gravy?"

"No, I want chicken and gravy."

And then to the lady working the grill, "Chicken and graaaaavy. CREATE him one!"

Then to Laura, when she dawdled at the counter "Communicationnnnn! You MAY speak!"

Chicken & Gravy at Weaver D's in Athens, GA.

This picture doesn't really do the chicken and gravy meal I got justice. It was so fucking goddamn good, I wanted to DIE. And if I lived in Athens, the food might well kill me anyway, but goddamn it would be worth it. I refused to give up on finishing my meal, well past the point of being stuffed, and chicken and gravy with two sides for five dollars is pretty much amazing. I bought Weaver's book for my mom and got him to sign it.

A short drive later, we were in Hotlanta, where the venue had a basketball net and ball out back, so that is pretty much what i did the first couple hours we were there, foolishly shooting hoops in the insane Atlanta heat, dressed in all black. Everyone at the club was super nice and accomodating toward us. We got fed amazing meals, and being able to have a cigarette at the table after my golfball shrimp platter was both odd and oddly satisfying. I will quit again when I get home. It's easy.

The shows were just getting better, and this one was no exception. The club was packed and everyone was very appreciative of both No Joy and Dungen. Procuring a few drink tickets from the band I propped my feet up on the table and sipped on merlot while watching Dungen. Once again southern hospitality prevailed and our next new buddy Adam took us home with him.

Adam's house was amazing. Or more accurately, his basement, where we were staying, was amazing. It is his recording studio and there were more amazing guitars and amps than I could count. We sat around for a while playing guitars and chatting before hitting the bed around three..... except for Yannick, who was busily pacing back and forth, drunk and mumbling about how we were all pussies for going to bed..... A maniac after my own heart.

Eventually I started drifting to sleep slowly. I heard Yan go outside. I heard Yan come back in. Still very much almost asleep. Suddenly I heard giggling at the end of the bed. Earlier in the night Yan, Garland and myself had taken it upon ourselves to take pictures holding Adam's shotguns (which he assured us there was no ammo in the house for) and now Yan was at the end of the bed, giggling and pointing a fucking SHOTGUN at me.

"FUCK OFF and GO TO SLEEP you FRUIT."

(Goodnight, Yan.)

Garland, Texas Ranger

What is that dog's NAME?

2010-09-12T17:57:00.000-07:00

The perfectly executed day consisted of me failing to repeat throwing up and succeeding in completing the driving for the better part of the journey from New York to Charlottesville, Virginia. Charlottesville was immediately a charming and sunny little college town, and the venue accommodations immediately eliminated any notions of being overtired and just plain hung over.

Pulling up to the venue, I immediately threatened (out of earshot of course) to kick a woman's teeth "down her fucking throat" to a round of van-laughs, after she angrily tried to steal our parking spot in the loading area at the venue. The nerve! Of her! It was about to be the first show of the tour, and we were definitely all quite excitable. And tired. I mean, I was tired. I was really, really tired.

The venue had interns assigned to help us load in, show us to our DRESSING ROOM, and basically take care of us (or whatever). I immediately commented that I definitely was in dire need of a shower (did I mention I had been wearing the same socks for three days straight?) to which one of the venue-minions replied "There's a shower in the venue!" I nearly gave him a hug before replying "Okay then! Let's see about getting me clean, shall we?"

Having a shower at the venue is just brilliant, huh? Motherfuckers do so much running around on tour on the WAY to and from shows, and conversely, so much sitting around doing shit all once we get to the show, that it is just a natural. More venues should do it. All venues should probably do it.

Being that I was running on fumes at this point I pretty much camped out in the dressing room all night at the show, emerging only for a much-too-late and sub-par comped burrito (which I basically inhaled) and to watch No Joy's set. I met some of the guys in Dungen and the tour manager Chris, who seems like a pretty funny guy. We had to share our dressing room with the opening band, who were nice enough, but in my tired state their drunk excitement at playing the show and the fact that they broke the "Don't feed the band beer to your useless friends (READ: USELESS friends. Any band can and should feed me band beer all the time, every time.)" rule made me hate them. Maybe we'll meet again in another lifetime when I've had more than a modicum of sleep and a quality meal.

No Joy played just as a decent crowd was starting to settle in. The Jefferson Theater in Charlottesville is a recently re-opened beautiful old theater built in 1912. Gigantic ceilings, amazing moldings and a beautiful dual balcony along with a stage that has hosted The Three Stooges and Harry fucking Houdini. The band hadn't practiced in a couple of weeks, but by all accounts completely ruled it. There had been some last minute running around for drum supplies and some worry about a couple of things not holding up, but all in all shit went off without a hitch.

No Joy - Charlottesville, VA

Being that no one among us had any real contacts in Virginia, we left a note at the merch table asking for someone to hook us up with a spot. For a long time it looked real bleak, with a guy telling Laura that if we HAD to, we could stay at his frat house, but that some of the people there would "be weird about it". I already had visions of my impending frat-boy inflicted black eye dancing in my head as we were all saddled up and ready to bite the bullet and wander into certain stupidity. Then redemption came. In the form of Nick.

Nick is a huge Dungen fan that was at the show and heard that we were looking for a spot and was somehow more than happy to oblige. A lot of times on tour you end up sleeping in a shitty party house, (which isn't to say that you don't ever stay in GOOD party houses), a hotel you can not afford, or worse yet, the van. Sometimes though, some kind soul takes it upon themselves to open their home to you and demonstrate some straight-up above the call of duty hospitality. Nick was that person.

As soon as we arrived we knew we had hit the jackpot, crash-wise. It was a nice, spacious house in a suburb where we knew we wouldn't have to worry about the van getting broken into. As soon as we got there we were geared up with beers and bourbons and settled in. The house was really nice and we didn't hesitate to take Nick up on his offer to make ourselves at home. It was pretty late, so we had some drinks, listened to music and made merry before settling in for the night, bed and couch spots for all (except for Yan, who seems to prefer his air mattress).

Yan & I at Nick's

The kindness didn't end at drinks and beds. In the morning Nick busted out some local bagels and cream cheese, lox, tomatoes and onions for breakfast. I had about the best breakfast one could ask for, sitting quietly drinking tea and doing the crossword in his spacious backyard as the sun rose above my head and threatened to burn me to a delightful crisp. We all started packing up slowly, slightly intending to go forward to Asheville for the day off, but silently wishing we could just crash here another night. Someone said something about considering where we would stay in North Carolina when Nick set the bar even higher. "If you all aren't in any rush, you're more than welcome to stay another night."

That settled it. My first thoughts turned to a beautiful Virginia afternoon and the prospect of using it to get burnt in the fucking sun while filling my body to the brim with Yuenglings. Nick was going out of town for most of the day, and giving us a key told us once again to make ourselves at home and bid us adieu. We still had (and still have) some drum issues to address, so we were off into town to run around to different music stores to see if we could get the hardware we needed. We struck out, of course, and a beer stop, grocery stop, and tshirt making supplies stop later we were back at our new home getting ready to settle in for an easy night in.

Garland & Pizza, Charlottesville

Having purchased a goddamn wealth of cheap beer, Garland, Laura and myself propped ourselves around the computer to watch the latest episode of Big Brother, a (not so) guilty pleasure of some members of the No Joy camp. We made a drinking game out of it, with the rules that we would drink every time the terms "Brigade" or "Meow Meow" were used (quite frequently, as it turns out), and every time show host Julie Chen appeared on screen. The chugging your beer if they use the term "Expect the unexpected" rule was sadly unused, but it didn't matter, by the time the 40 minute episode ended we were all on our third beer and feeling pretty good.

This dog was a poodle/golden retriever/teddy bear mix.

Basically, the whole night was like we were hanging out at the cottage. We drank, hung out, listened to music and watched shit on tv. We had run out of dude-sized shirts the first night, so Laura set about making a stencil for us to spraypaint some new ones. Being that I was the only person with experience making ghetto punk stencil shirts, I somehow ended up being the sprayer, drunk in the pitch black night in Nick's backyard........ Which of course ended with me having sticky black spraypaint all over both of my hands. Awesome.

Laura & Jasamine at Nick's house!

The kids settled in to watch Twilight and I settled in to finish my beers with a little thing I call "people on the internet", getting pretty drunk in the process. By the time Nick got home very late we were all getting close to our last beers and chilled in his living room chatting and closing the night down.

After two nights we finally left Charlottesville, bidding our great host goodbye the next morning before heading out for our 6 hour drive on to Asheville, North Carolina. Pulling in to get gas we saw a Taco Bell next door, and abandoning all reason and logic, Garland and I decided to opt for an 11am run for the border. I blame lack of sleep and self-control. Suffice to say, it wasn't a particularly awesome idea.

The drive was pretty painless, Garland put the first few hours in while I DJed selected Best Show On WFMU segments and then I took over while he rocked episodes of Degrassi High. There were SO many steep, STEEP rolling hills and gigantic green mountains between Virginia and the Carolinas, and about a kadrillion miles of amazing scenery, a really nice drive and before we knew it we were at the club in Asheville, which was completely deserted.

It being a hot and beautiful day, I took a short walk that turned into a full scale two hour exploration of the downtown, stopping in at a million junk shops, the basilica, an art gallery and a whole mess of other spots. I procured a photo book of some family's old snaps, circa '55 and some postcards. Asheville is basically like a museum, except everything is for sale.

The show was at The Grey Eagle, and once again we were treated quite well, being comped great meals from the in-house kitchen. Right away someone told me that Alligator was on the menu and that I had to get it, as if I would need any convincing. I was bummed to find out that the reptile meal wasn't on the list of comped band meals, but was then told that I could get an appetizer of gator balls for $3.50. I was fucking in.

Alligator Balls

I can't really describe what it tasted like. It was kinda like oily chicken, but it didn't really taste like duck. Whatever it tasted like, I fucking loved it and found myself considering buying more right up til the point that the kitchen closed. I would like to eat some more alligator soon, please.

No Joy soundcheck, Asheville, NC

Twilight

2010-09-11T19:31:00.000-07:00

No Joy is watching Twilight. Two members of No Joy are straightening their hair whilst watching Twilight.

No Joy: All Aboard The FRIEND Ship!!!

2010-09-10T14:18:00.000-07:00

"Jas... Pull my finger!"

"What? Why?"

"Pull it!!!"

"Don't pull his finger."

It took me under 24 hours to get into full fart-laugh mode with my new friends in No Joy. When I use the term "new friends" (to which Laura will reply "We are not friends.") I could not mean it any more literally. I met Garland, Jasamine, Laura and Yan on the previously mentioned Metz tour, for a couple of hours. Then 10 days ago Laura asked me if I wanted to drive on their tour out to San Diego. So I got into a van with four relative strangers. The world is weird.

So with a bag full of beers, chips, granola bars and fruit, I got on a Megabus on Wednesday night, destination Montreal. I've been bussing it here and there kinda frequently lately, and as far as busses are concerned, the Megabus is my bus of choice. They're all double deckers and never packed, which for lone travelers means you generally get two seats to spread out in, and they have this other little comfort item that makes all the difference in the world on a long bus trip, namely THE FUCKING INTERNET. Being able to facechat all your homies and keep updated on the goings on over at The Daily What makes being on a dark bus full of creeps for six hours pretty much OK.

When the bus runs behind, six hours turns to seven, and you don't end up in Montreal until about 20 minutes past the last subway necessitating a 15 dollar cab ride to Mike Day's house, that is pretty much not OK. At all. Perhaps I will write the Megabus people a tersely worded letter expressing my dissatisfaction with their service. Or, perhaps, (more likely so) I will forget all about it until the next time.

Here nor there, that will remain. The fact is that I was once again in Montreal in the home of one of the five or six people whom I refer to as "my best friend" with about 45 minutes to hang out and bitch before hitting the sack. Mike and I are getting used to these brief visits, I think, and being that we both had 8:30am wake-up calls, we chatted, laughed and lights out by about 2am. The next thing I knew Mike was walking by me in the morning, audibly reciting the word "HATE" as he went to take his pre-work shower. I love that angry bastard.

Next thing you know I'm in the van with the aforementioned four strangers barreling out of Montreal. Generally in situations like these I just do my best to act like a clown and make the people around me laugh, this case probably being no exception. I use humor as a bit of a social crutch at times (Laura will write something like "You're not funny. And we're NOT friends."), but generally it works, and besides, having fun is like, fun right?

I'd like to be able to tell some kind of harrowing border story, but really I can't. We didn't have any gear stowed (it was all in the US) and as soon as the border guard told Garland "Nice haircut" to a round of van-laughs, I knew we were as good as gold. It's getting funnier and funnier to me that the only time in the last two years at this point that I've had any border trouble was with the Dopamines coming IN to Canada. Still, the tension at the border never abates, regardless of how many times I get in without problem.

It was with a border guard waving us through with an "Enjoy your stay." and a round of "America!!! Fuck YEAH!" that No Joy was officially on their late-summer US tour. A gear stop and a Burger King value lunch later I took my official perch in the driver's seat, located the cruise control and set about doing my job. I really love driving, and in particular, love navigating the big US interstates, so in reality, it's not much of a job for me. We'll see if I'm saying the same thing once some of the long long drives start happening, but for now, I'm in relative heaven.

A couple DeGrassi High episodes and a whole bunch of radio scanning later, we were in New York City, Williamsburg to be exact, at the Mexican Summer headquarters, quite an impressive label office to be sure. Mexican Summer is the label that is putting out No Joy records, and though I am completely unfamiliar with almost the whole of the label's roster, it warms my heart inside to see that there are still record labels going on somewhere in the world where the success of their products is enough to sustain a real nice business. Their office is a sprawling loft with nice tables, work spaces, a kitchen and amazing fixtures. Great bones and great decor.

Being that NYC is about my favorite city in the whole world, and also home to many of my favorite people in said world, and that I was going to be in town for one night only, I set about putting together my night in Brooklyn as the kids listened to the test press of their (amazing) forthcoming full length. I felt bad about not joining in on the fun, but what I heard from outside the room sounded motherfucking gigantic and they all came out with smiles on their faces. Shit is gonna be hot as fire, I can't wait for it to come out.

Fast forward a van park in Bushwick (Yikes!) and a subway ride later and I was posted up, once again, at the lovely Lulu's in beautiful Greenpoint. Lulu's, for the uninitiated, is a wonderful pub that in addition to being staffed by Fid of the legendary Measure(SA), also gives you a coupon for a free personal pizza every time you buy a beer. That's right. Every. Beer. You. Get. A. PIZZA. Being that I hadn't eaten all day really and that they have four dollar Yuengling drafts, it was a natural that I would choose this place.

I sat down to my first pint and pizza just as Grivet & Michelle, of semi-infamous former pop-punk superstar band The Steinways arrived, along with their lovely friend Libby, and before long, my main NY drinking buddy Steph ambled in as well. It was good to see people out already, and truth now be known, I was in for a hell of an epic night, though I really did not expect anything less.

Steph & Michelle

Before long the place was fucking jammed with all of my best bros and broad-bros. The pop-punk cats were all out in full force and eating pizza and drinking beer and getting awesome with me, and I was really pretty exciteded. Grath texted me "Come smoke a cigarette outside with me." and Larry showed up on his bike and spent the next hour telling me that my last name is pronounced wrong by everyone with that last name. Lauren and I sat and talked for a long time about all kinds of everything, Fid and Rosanne were awesome and Lindsay gives the best hugs ever. Toni, Johnny B, and the No Joy cats were all just generally amazing. Grivet left after the football game.

Before long, predictably it was down to Fid, Steph and myself. A bunch of drinks were comped and we just got stupid. My I dunno, fifth or sixth(?) shot was not sitting well from the moment it went down. I did my best to maintain, but in my esophagus it sat, unwilling to pass the pizza below. Foolishly, abandoning everything I've learned about life, I tried to put the fire out with beer creating a booze/pizza parfait as depicted below:

Politely excusing myself, I retired to the bathroom, walking slowly as if everything was fine, though the moment I shut the door the three layers came projecting violently out of my stomach and all over the bowl. And like that, I was back in the game. I cleaned my mess up a bit crudely with some toilet paper and returned to the bar for another beer, commenting "Yeah, it DOES!" every time Steph and Fid would later comment that the bathroom smelled like barf. A thinly-veiled cover-up maybe, but I'm coming clean now. Sorry I wasted your gift, Fidler! Absolve my sins.

After a long, drunk, long-winded, drunk, funny and drunk walk back to Queens, I was facedown on Steph's couch at 6am, with an 8am wake-up call. What the fuck is wrong with me?

ALL ABOARD!!!

Nothing apparently, since so far I've executed this day just about as perfectly as one could hope, given the circumstances. Stumbling out into the No Joy van with my shoes in my hands and the socks I'd worn for 3 days straight on my feet, I greeted my new family for the next two weeks the best way I know how... By trying to get one of them to pull my finger.

Happy 34th Birthday, Maggie

2010-08-29T16:48:00.000-07:00

Halifax comedy troupe Picnicface (the geniuses that brought you Powerthirst, Super Bingo, Welcome To Halifax and a buncha other great shit) are trying to raise funds right now to film their feature-length debut, Rollertown. As such, they have set up a website at which fans of these ladies and gents can donate funds to help the movie get made.

In addition, every level of donation garners you a variety of "prizes", ranging from a photo of Mark Little's dick completely covered in jeans (1$) to a chance to watch a stranger spit in Cheryl's mouth on youtube (500$) to the power to choose any two members of the troupe to legally marry (and you may attend the ceremony - $250000).

Being that tomorrow is my friend Maggie's birthday, and that she is a very special girl, I decided that I would get in on the fun, and get Maggie the perfect gift for the woman who has everything...... That's right, her own personalized eulogy, read by Picnicface member Scott Vrooman to be played live at her funeral, whenever that should happen (hopefully not for a long, long time!)!!!

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that she doesn't already have one of these....

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAGGIE!!!

Alex Fountain

2010-08-22T19:22:00.000-07:00

Alex died a year ago when he took his own life. To say that it was a shock to a lot of us, would be an understatement. It's been a year and it still doesn't seem real, and absolutely doesn't make sense that he's gone. Alex was only 20 when he left us, and had so much more left to offer. That said, his time here was unbelievably rich, and he was a huge force in the lives of everyone who was lucky enough to count themselves among his many friends.

What follows is a story about a trip that Alex took to Cape Breton with my friends Paul Hammond, Mark Black and myself. It was a legendary night for all of us, and immediately after attending Alex's memorial with Paul, Mark and our friend James, I sat down and wrote this to send to Alex's wonderful sister Katharine. I don't really know what else to write, so here it is.

Alex & Mark, playing RISK at my place.

It was late Winter, January 2008. Mark Black's parents in Cape Breton were away for the weekend and we decided that we would drive up and take advantage of their gigantic empty house. Before long our friend Paul Hammond decided he'd join us too. There only being 3 of us in the car, we decided to put it out there on a few of the local messageboards that we were doing this trip and that if anyone else wanted to come and have fun with us, we'd love to have them.

I think I had met Alex just once before when he got into the car. Shortly after he had turned 19 I had bought him a glass of scotch (which I'm sure he pushed off the second I walked away) at the Attic and given him very crude dating advice. I digress. Alex excitedly decides to come on this trip with us. What followed was one of those magical accidents that happens so often to all of us in life where the right group of people ends up in the right place at the right time and everything just works perfectly.

Upon getting over the causeway and into Cape Breton we procure our various beer purchases, as well as a wealth of frozen pizzas to eat at Mark's. We get there and decide right away that the 4 of us will all camp out, 14 year old girl sleepover style, in the downstairs rec room, which holds one propane fueled fireplace, a few couches, and a lot of Don Cherry hockey videos.

For a couple hours we watched TV, had our beer and pizza dinner and chatted. Alex was SO excited to be there, and I could tell. We finished up and headed into town to go see Wintersleep at Smooth Herman's (in case you don't know, Sydney's rough equivalent to Halifax's Palace).

Being friends with the guys in the band, I knew there was a "rider" (A bunch of free beer down in the bandroom), so I schooled Alex on confidently walking past the security (as if you belonged there) and down to the land of no-cost drinks. The guys in the band met Alex and assured us that it was cool to take as much as we wanted. For the rest of the show anytime Alex and I would finish beers, he'd proudly walk behind the stage, no doubt flashing that big beautiful smile of his at the security as he went to grab us some more brews.

We spent the night drinking, dancing, and chatting up girls, but like all great nights, it had to end eventually. At one point Alex was walking hand in hand with a girl we all thought was a babe (the "Lady In Blue", we called her), again with that big smile on his face. He stole a smooch before we ushered him into the car to get back to our hide-out. Most of us, Alex included, were quite drunk, and all very excited. Alex was the man. We were all at least 8 years his senior, and he had easily won the evening. He was a hero.

We got back to Mark's and all settled in. As my own years have escaped me, my tolerance for beer has grown at an almost alarming rate, so I raided Mark's parents' fridge and cozied up on a couch with a bounty of late night drinks. At one point Paul and I were the only ones not passed out. Alex was on the floor by the fireplace, asleep with a smile on his face.

I'm a prankster. And a bit of a prick. It's just the way it is. At some point I was like "I'm gonna get the new guy." I had a few beer bottoms on the table beside me, so I leaned over and one by one, poured them on the blanket above Alex's..... uhm, crotch..... making sure it would all soak through and into his pants. The bait had been set.

Soon thereafter I fell asleep. At some point, Paul saw Alex wake up, look down and silently freak out, take his pants off, put them by the fire and pass back out.

On the way back the next day, we all nursed our hangovers, but kept joking around and having a great time. We stopped at Value Village and I found a Chicago Bulls jacket, that Alex got very excited about and promptly bought. I would see him wearing it around all the time thereafter.

In Whycogamah we decided to stop at the only diner we had seen that was opened to get a greasy breakfast. Alex was being pretty quiet and I couldn't take it anymore....

"Dude. Don't get mad. I made it look like you pissed yourself this morning."

That same smile slowly spread across his face.

"You mean I didn't PEE!!!????!!!" he said loud enough that others in the diner definitely heard, and was basically jumping for joy at the fact that he hadn't suffered a bout of early-adulthood, alcohol-fueled incontinence.

"No dude. You didn't pee."

I'm pretty sure he hugged me. He didn't get mad, not even for a second.

Eventually, after it all set in, Paul in his deadpan voice made the following proclamation....

"Waaaaaait a miiinute...... So, assume Gerry had not told you that it wasn't pee. And had you actually thought it WERE pee. You would have gone on after this, believing that somewhere in Mark's parents house, for months, maybe YEARS, there was a spare blanket, with a small amount of your URINE on it!"

And with that, we were all clutching our stomachs with laughter, Alex most of all. It was the funniest thing in the world to us, and we all came home raving about it, and the trip as a whole. I was positive that Alex was just about the coolest kid in the world.

Alex, Mark & I, Die Brucke show

One year later. I still miss my friend. Rest in peace, buddy.

My Life With The Dopamines

2010-08-13T14:39:00.000-07:00

After we toweled off we were back on the road, toward the now much-maligned Canada/US border for a show in St. Catharines Ontario. Being that we were running dangerously close to being on time for a show, and that Mikey and I had tentative plans to eat chicken wings together that were thwarted by the bullshit the day before, I did a little research online trying to find a wingery that we could eat at while getting the oil in the van changed. What I found was exciting to be sure.

The Buffalo Wings & Pizza Company boasted a hell of an impressive list of testimonials, including claims at having "the ultimate chicken wings outside of buffalo" as well as having surly, no-bullshit servers who wouldn't hesitate to throw a glass of water in your face if you fucked around. As I read the laundry list of promised flare everyone started to get pretty excited for our meal, yours truly included.

Unfortunately, BW&PC did not live up to its online reputation. It was pretty well deserted and the waitress who took care of our table was actually nice to us, which was kind of a bummer. The food was passable, the wings were good, but overall nothing overly special, and were really pretty overpriced. The pizzas did look good though, so I might return and give their other "specialty" a shot.

Jonny Jonny Mikey Mikey

We showed up at the venue for the show, a place called the Mansion House, which is a big old wooden ground-floor club with all kinds of weird rooms and bars. We met up with Glenn, Jono and the rest of the !Attention! dudes and hung about and had some beers. To say that it was HOT in there would be an understatement the grossness of which would be immeasurable. The humidity was destroying all of us right away, and we were all pretty much wet with sweat within 10 minutes of showing up.

Merch was steady and I think the Dopamines were surprised that I took the reigns like I did. Being that I was still 2 weeks into merch-guy mode, I was still in a pretty steady groove of selling shit for rock bands and don't really mind standing at the table drinking beers and chatting. There were actually a lot of people at the show, which was good to see, since it was now a Monday and having a second unlikely well-attended show (especially in St. Catharines) was pretty exciting.

A band who ended their set with a simply dreadful Lifetime cover (that I think hurt Mikey's feelings) later and !Attention! were up and killing it. I was watching them while Mike watched the table and I looked back to see him holding court, as it were. There were definitely some Ergs! fans in the house, and I would find out later that there were a pair of ladies who had gotten him to write "dorkrockcorkrod" on a piece of paper so they could go get it tattooed on their bodies the next day. It's kind of weird to think that I have a friend whose band has influenced probably over a hundred people to get something related to them tattooed on their bodies. It's pretty cool, actually.

The Dopamines went on next and played a great, if somewhat restrained set. We had really fucked shit up the night before and that plus the humidity really had everyone feeling pretty fatigued and sluggish, so none of us really did much in the way of drinking. The crowd was restrained, but very appreciative and everyone seemed to have a good time. The fellas got encored for the second night in a row, playing Brat by Green Day, which prompted me to tweet "The Dopamines only do Billie-Joe Armstrong based covers live, and i'm fine with that."

St. Catharines, ON

A short ride back to Toronto later and we were in my livingroom, drinking late-night beers and watching fantastically awful film The Room, which everyone must see, and cringe at, at least once. A lot of eye rolling and biting comments (Michael's "Oh, I just came over for a minute to have this fucking pointless conversation." during the first "Lisa's Mom" scene was a hit) and cough syrup later and we were all pretty well ready to snooze. We had a long drive to Montreal coming up and needed our rest.

It was somewhat warm in St. Catharines

I rolled the fellas out of bed around 10:30 the next morning. It was about 5 or 6 hours to Montreal and we wanted to get there early to be wide-eyed tourists, ogle beautiful women and eat poutine. Only Mikey and myself had been to Montreal before, so I was pretty stoked to get the rest of the fellas there, remembering how unreal Montreal was to me the first time I went. They must have felt the hustle too, because they weren't long in getting they asses out of bed.

We were inching our way up fucking endlessly slow Bloor street toward the Don Valley Parkway, just through Yonge Street when Weiner goes "What the fuck? The van just stalled...." Uh oh. Shit. We coasted to the side of Bloor in front of a bus stop on one of the busiest intersections in the country. No smoke coming out of the van, ample battery power, but the van simply refused to turn over. We watched our nice, leisurely drive and fun night pre-gaming and fucking around in Montreal die a quick death on the side of the road as Jon W called AAA and I texted Chris from METZ for a garage recommendation.

The next couple hours would have been spent bugging out if it wasn't so hot and we weren't all still so tired. We threw on the Nardwuar dvd and relaxed and napped and whatnot, waiting patiently for the news. Jon W got back from the garage, which was conveniently located at the end of my street with the news that they were about to look at it and seemed like really good guys who legitimately wanted to get us on the road to adventure as soon as possible. Our desire to get to this show was multiplied by the fact that Gabe in Montreal had facilitated the whole border crossing and basically saved the day on Sunday, so we really didn't want to let him down at all.

As we got impatient, Weiner gave the mechanic a call.

"Hey, it's Jon, I'm the guy who had the tourvan towed to your garage?"

"Oh yeah, hey buddy. I took a look at it.... it's gonna be abouuuuuut twenty-five hundred bucks."

"Oh........ really?"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, naw man! It's gonna be 60 bucks it'll be done in 45 minutes!"

Phew. So, quite a bit later than expected, we were about ready to hit the road. The dudes at the garage were super nice and funny and supportive when we showed up, and they definitely undercharged us for the amount of time it took to make a relatively minor fix of one melted wire. As we started to pull away, an old duster of a rocker with a grey ponytail stood by the window saying "Jah bless, eh? Jah bless!" Amazing. We were fucking off.

It was 5 o'clock. There were four bands, and we really wanted to see the Visitors, who were on third. It was going to be close. We made a stop for gas and vowed to get everything out of the way then and there, and that was it. Jon kept up with eastern Ontario and Quebec traffic, which is generally pretty fast anyway, and drove a steady 120-125 (kilometers an hour, for my american friends who are thinking "Bullshit!") the whole time. We were all just really excited to be in the van driving and that it wasn't completely fucked and there was a great energy as we hurled down the highway singing along to music and joking around.

A word now, about "dusters". Alex on the Metz tour coined it, calling an old man we saw somewhere an "old duster". It immediately became one of those tour in-joke things that stuck for the whole week and a half we were out. Being that there were only 5 days between the end of my time with them and the beginning of my Dopamines time, I brought it with me, and in no time the Ohioans (and New Jersian? New Jersite? Juice Head?) were calling people dusters as well as evolving it to label old men "Dust Brooms" and old ladies "Dust Pans".

During the 5 hour drive we must have collectively used some sort of "dust" prefixed word over a hundred times. It was getting hilariously ridiculous and every time someone would say it I'd laugh my ass off. Mikey and I picked at Jon for turning the Sex Pistols record off at "Pretty Vacant" joking that that song was the basis for everything he'd done in his life. Eventually Mikey was asleep and Jon threw on the Ergs' "Anthem For A New Amanda" off their posthumous EP and we both started singing along at which point Mikey shook awake prompting laughter from all of us before everyone in the van began singing along, including the person who was singing on the actual record.

"Hey Jon, can you turn up the Erg-woofer?" Jon Lewis joked.

"It's so fucked up that I can't listen to the Ergs now that I'm in the band with one." Weiner replied, even while proving the falseness of that statement. It was definitely a surreal and hilarious moment.

The whole trip I kept checking the mapquest on my phone and observing that we were making great time. Not wanting to stop, Mikey became the first one to utilize a piss-bottle, prompting Weiner to ask Mikey if he was "able to fit his pussy lips in that water bottle?" I thought it was funny until an hour later when I had to use one and got to be called "pussy-bladder" as well. In the end it was all worth it, when just past 9pm we were less than 100km from Montreal, and enacted the 100k rule, in which a touring band is allowed to begin pre-gaming (sans driver, of course) when you're within an hour or so of the venue.

The Mikeys And Some..... Juice?

Excited at being real close, Jon L, Michael and I downed 3 beers each real quickly in the hour leading up to our arrival. This combined with the fact that we hadn't really eaten in the last 5 hours gave us all quite a good buzz as we rolled into Montreal, driving slowly and fucking with the locals out the open windows like a bunch of teenage assholes as we made our way toward the club. As we rolled up, I knew that the Dopamines were going to go three for three in Canada. The club was fucking JAMMED, with people spilling outside onto th patio.

As soon as I jumped out I saw Scott and Erin from the Visitors along with Jordy, Scott's bandmate in the Creeps, and gave out some buzzed hugs. It had been a long 5 hours for us, and everyone at the bar seemed pretty well relieved at our arrival. It was a tight fit inside, and once in, I was immediately familiar with my surroundings...... It was the bar that I had come to with the Metz fellas to drink after their show in Montreal a couple weeks ago! So weird and random and awesome, since we had had a really great time, so I was looking forward to more fun...

We basically all started hitting the sauce pretty goddamn hard at that point. We had staff prices on drinks, so we all immediately started running tabs and pouring beer down our throats. In addition to the Ottawa contingent, my friends Ashleigh and Greg were posted up, and I finally got to meet Gabe, which was very nice after knowing him sort of through the Pop Punk Message Board for so long. Everyone was being introduced around and just having a good time. We were so goddamn relieved at FINALLY being in Montreal, and it was to be my last night with the Dopamines for now, so we really made sure the party happened for real.

Jon/Ashleigh/Ger. Photogenic much?

I was outside having a smoke when Scotty came running outside at me.

"I need a guitar!"

"Whaaaaaaa?"

"I just plugged my guitar in and my pickups all fell right out of the front of it...."

"Oh shit!"

I opened the van door and repeated it to Jon Lewis.

"He needs a guitar? Give him my guitar! You wanna use my guitar?"

I love that. Two motherfuckers can meet in this scene one minute, and then 20 minutes later, just out of mutual respect, understanding and road camaraderie, one dude is lending another guy his Les Paul, no questions asked. Punk rock is so fucking amazing sometimes.

The Visitors played and completely destroyed. There were tons of people up front, singing along, which was just amazing. It's crazy to me to think that after listening to them for the last 2 years and even putting out a record for them, I only saw them for the first time 3 months ago and have seen them play 3 more times since. They are amazing live, and I never get tired of watching them at all. They all compliment each other's styles so well, and are just an amazing band that earns new fans every time they play. Erin's such an amazing bass player and vocalist, and Scott writes some of his best songs in the Visitors while Kevo holds everything down. God, I love them.

The Visitors - "Bugs" (Videos by Gabe)

While this was going on, we were all still getting more and more hammered, I was pounding beers and some of the Ohioans were taking shots. Everything was getting messy, sweaty and fun in the tiny bar on St Denis. I was so happy with everything and definitely ready to have a complete fucking blast seeing my last Dopamines set for at least a couple of months,

Before they started Greg came up to me and was like "Do you think they're gonna play Molly?"

"They have for the last 3 shows, so I'd count on it."

"Yeah. I want to request it, but I'm worried it's fucked up to request a song about their dead friend..."

"Dead friend...... That song's about Jon Lewis's dog, Greg....."

"Wait............ What?....... Really?"

"Uhm...... yes. It is about his dog. His dog Molly. Who passed away." Greg looked confused and embarrassed while me and Ashleigh laughed our asses off.

"So you can request it for sure. They will play it anyway though."

Amazing.

"What's up you buncha fuckin french dusters!" is the first thing Weiner says into the mic, and they start Horsecop. Everyone is in the bar, but no one is moving too, too much for the first couple songs, at which point I think Jon W even called them boring. This would not do, so as they started up again I pointed to Jordy, who was beside stage left, me being beside stage right. I put my hand up for a high-five and ran across the front row of people, disrupting every person on the way, slapped skin with Jord, then returned to my side, disrupting everyone again on my return voyage. A little encouragement was all they needed. Shit was about to get stupid.

How people ended up stage diving in a room with 8 foot ceilings and no stage is beyond me, but kids were crowdsurfing, pushing back and forth, grabbing for mics (okay, that was mostly just me) and singing along to every word. I switches spots again during Cincinnati Harmony to help Mikey with the back-ups on it, which had become a bit of a tradition with us over the few days, and it felt nice to look back and see Erin and Skotty pumping their fists and shouting along to a bunch of the tracks. It was a magical night. The fellas encored Cabot Gal and maybe something else (It's been a few days and the night is still somewhat blurry) and that was it. A very, very fucking sweaty, amazing show, and everyone had a blast.

IT SUCKS!!! (Pic by Jordy)

There were no records left, but merch still remained steady for shirts and 7 inches and Jon even paid me out a 20 for my help and promised they would get my meal that night, which is always nice. A load-out later and we brought our collective talents across the street for a Poutine Pig-Out with team Ottawa.

Moments before Erin ate ALL the cheese...

By now we were all stupid drunk, everyone was calling everyone dust things, and Erin wouldn't stop talking in her "Italian" accent which sounded nothing like an Italian accent, and everything like a Russian accent. She is the most wonderfully odd and amazing woman, and she never fails to make me laugh til I'm ready to cry. We all ordered up poutines and pizzas and shit and got ready to fill up. We all got a great laugh when after having ordered his plate Kevo suddenly got up and bolted after the waitress. He chased her down specifically for the purpose of asking her to cut up some hotdogs and put them in his poutine. Odd. Insane. Amazing. Kevo Polo.

Kevo and his Special Request

What followed was a meal full of giggling, swapping stories and hanging out after a triumphant show that put the Dopamines at 3 for 3 during their first small Canadian tour. There were people at the tables from New Jersey, Ohio, Toronto, and Ottawa and we all watched in horror/admiration as Erin from Kars Ontario rolled 2 slices of pizza worth of cheese into a thick ball and shoved it in her mouth, chewing while saying "Itttth thoooo musssch cheeeeessthe!!!" Jon Weiner got a poutine covered in meat sauce and Jon Lewis ate everyone's leftovers. I think we all ended up stealing hotdogs off of Kevo's plate.

Michael Getting French

Cigarettes and hugs between friends new and old and the Dopamines were up the street to stay at Ashleigh's place. As soon as we got there the first thing Michael asked her was "Do you have a sister?" Confused, she replied "No." as I laughed my ass off at Michael. Fuck, I was gonna miss hanging out and acting like and asshole with these dudes.

We all conked out pretty quick and the morning was nice and early for all of us. The Dopamines were headed on their way to Rochester and I was heading back home to work. I walked them to their van (mercifully un-harmed in the harsh and sometimes sketchy Montreal overnight) and was entrusted with the requisite magnet that the fellas leave with everyone they stay with in lieu of a thank you note.

Does YOUR fridge have one?

More hugs and goodbyes with the fellas followed along with talks of doing more damage to our livers and those of our friends in Canada and the US in the future, which is exciting. I was kind of bummed to not be heading down the road with them and finally Jon Weiner spoke up and took me to task. "Why don't you just fucking man up and come into the states with us?"

"I knew you guys were gonna do this and I knew I wouldn't be able to control myself and say no, so I made sure to leave my passport at home. I have no choice. I can't come with you. But we will see each other soon. I promise." I smiled at them, waved and walked on up the road, on a beautiful Montreal morning, my smile not breaking for a second.

2 hours later I got a text message from Weiner.

Hey dude! We just bought a 4.5 liter bottle of Jameson at the border. It sits on a swing!

So you wanna know the moral of this story, you buncha dustbusters? That's easy:

NEVER leave home without your passport.

Hit the music!

The Next Part

2010-08-11T11:56:00.000-07:00

It's late Sunday afternoon. I'm tired and I'm hungover. I'm in Niagara Falls Ontario just over the bridge from the USA and I have a liter of Jameson's Irish Whiskey. I have no idea where I am and there are tourists everywhere, tourists all over the streets, in the restaurants there are tourists, I am surrounded by fucking tourists. Everyone I ask has no idea where the bus station is.

It is humid, it is hot, I am hungover, I am pissed off because the border sucks and I am standing on a median in the middle of an intersection looking around, aimlessly. Every time I go to step in a direction I second guess myself and go nowhere. I stand on that median for a good five minutes. This isn't what today was supposed to be. I'm sweaty and sticky and then the sky opens up and pours on me in the middle of this tourist fucking shithole. My friends are long gone and I am goddamn miserable.

I finally make a move and eventually find a bell-hop who gives me directions toward the bus station. It's near 5pm and I've barely eaten a thing, so I roll up on a 7 Eleven and get some Taquitos, the cornerstone of any early evening breakfast. Eventually I give up on walking and hail a cab driven by a much too friendly for my mood gentleman. One word answers abound to the questions he asks me, and I get into the bus depot and secure my ticket home, intent on drinking on the bus and then when I get home and then for the following 3 days off from work that I now have no plans for.

I get a text from Jon W saying that they are still gonna try and that things look promising. I try to appear optimistic and tell him good luck and to get at me when they get into the country, still fully expecting not to see the Dopamines again until the fall. I settle into my seat and plan to try to get some sleep on the ride home. I write "Good thing I got to see the Dopamines last night..." on my Facebook wall and gradually people start to decipher what that means and I start getting tons of texts. Still pissed off, I answer each in as to the point a manner as I am possibly able.

Eventually I get a call from Jon L asking me not to spread the word any further that they're not in because they're still trying. My bad for sure, and I delete my posts, still pissed off and growing progressively more irritable with my constant barriage of "What's going on with the Dopamines?" texts and the hippie asshole sitting beside me who keeps falling asleep on my shoulder.

"Dude, stop sleeping on me."

He apologizes then promptly does it again, which degenerates into a cycle of me elbowing him off my shoulder, him jumping startled awake, falling asleep slowly, slowly leaning onto my shoulder and me elbowing him again, over and over and over and over and fucking over until I just want to scream "DUDE. I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING GIRLFRIEND. STOP LEANING UP ON MY SHIT. NOW!"

I rolled up in my house about 8:30, completely burnt out, but intent on still heading down to the show, as I had done a lot of word-of-mouth promo for it and wanted to watch my friends in Victim Party and !Attention! play their sets. Jon W texted, having finally gotten some new paperwork faxed to Kinkos and let me know that they were approaching the border. I wished them luck and peeled off my sweaty garb, knowing they'd likely be at the border an hour or more whether they got in or not, and prepared for a long hot shower. I opened a tall can of Bavaria and stood under the hot jets drinking my cold one with my eyes closed.

I had been in the shower only about 5 minutes when my phone rang. Seeing that it was Weiner I answered it.

"Hey dude, what's going on?", he definitely sounded upbeat-ish.

"Just taking a shower man, how's the border?"

"Dude, we're in Canada!"

"Seriously? You're fucking kidding."

"Yeah dude, we're on our way!"

"HOLY SHIT!!!! YEAHHHHH BOIIIII!!" I yelled at the top of my lungs and I heard the other dudes in the background laughing. Shit was back on and I was stoked. I felt kind of silly for having left and spent bus money to get home, but in retrospect me having to go back into the US and then back over with them again as the lone Canadian probably would have needlessly complicated things even more so than they already were, so it was probably a somewhat fortuitous move on my part.

In any event, my spirits had been lifted. I hit up my pre-game cans while sending them directions and once they were close enough for me to safely hit the road I grabbed my second meal-on-the-go of the day at 2-4-1 Pizza, eating my slice while biking toward Parts & Labor in the beautiful Parkdale Village, a short bike ride from my place. Once there I ran into my homey Andrew who runs the great Black Pint Records label and was nice enough to spot me a much needed cigarette, letting me know that I had missed Victim Party but that their show was great. Kinda bummed, but !Attention! would be next and I knew it would be a good time regardless. Almost all the stress was over.

The fellas showed up almost immediately, looking very road-worn and tweaked from the long day. I loaded in as much of their stuff as I could to lighten the load and was pretty impressed with the size of the Sunday night crowd by that point. Getting a good crowd on a Sunday in Toronto is a tall order, and the fact that the 80 or so people in attendance were in a tiny subterranean punk rock club made the show seem pretty packed.

Jon W and I drank some whiskey in the van and soon !Attention! started and completely killed it, even throwing in a cover of Linoleum to celebrate August 8th, which is of course the traditional celebration date for NOFX Day. The edge must have come off pretty quickly as the Dopamines crew drank in preparation for their set, because by the time we started moving their gear to the stage everyone was back to laughing and joking and picking on each other. The atmosphere was great, the room was packed and everyone seemed genuinely excited for the Dopamines first ever show in Canada.

As the opening notes of You'd Make a Good Horsecop kicked in a whole mess of kids in the front row started completely losing their shit, pumping their fists and singing along excitedly. The show had been changed to wet/dry at the last minute and there were a bunch of young ones having the night of their fucking lives with huge shiteating grins on their faces. I yelled along and ran back and forth from stage left to right, bought beers and covered the fellas in them and basically had a blast. Jon W called the kids posers and told them to buy Discharge records and everyone laughed their asses off and had a great time. Everyone yelled out song titles, and the homeys obliged for each one.

Go To Bed Early

An encore later I was being fucking SLAMMED at merch, and we went through tons of shirts and records, the latter of which we got rid of well more than half our stock, just at the first of the 3 shows. Everyone seemed completely over-the-moon happy with the show and we closed up the bar drinking and hanging out with the dudes from the opening bands and Mark who did a great job setting up the show.

Wake Up Shitfaced

Once the bar was closing it was time for the after-party, which we had for about a half hour or so at the van, passing out cans of Milwaukee's Best Premium to members of the Roman Line and Victim Party. Eventually I recommended that we move the after-party to the hotel lobby (aka my roof) since we were all drinking freely around and inside the van and were basically looking like a pretty meaty piece of cop-bait.

Once back to my place I gathered everyone outside and briefed them on being quiet until we got up to the roof so as not to disturb my neighbors. All of my guests were pretty well behaved and compliant and we ended up hanging out up there another couple hours drinking, smoking and having a great time. About 4am we decided to call it a morning and bidding our friends adieu, team Dopamines hit the sheets.... or the tiles, depending on how you look at it.

Once the day hit we got up and at em pretty quickly, headed out for a delicious and much-needed diner breakfast before hitting up Christie Pits for a swim at one of Toronto's many (and much needed in the stifling August humidity) free pools. It was hot but somewhat overcast, so I was pretty confident there wouldn't be toooooo many kids (or Molars, as Team D refers to them) about, and was happy to see that it wasn't that busy at all, with there only being a 3 or 4 person line-up for the big waterslide, which is the main attraction of the Christie pool.

We cued up and down I went, pretty quickly and into the refreshingly frigid water. A couple more of the fellas came down into a much colder than expected pool. Poor Mikey was done with that cold-ass pool the second he hit it.... Which wasn't too big a deal since Weiner was the last one down before the rain started to fall.

"Everybody out of the pool! There is thunder, so we have to clear the pool!" yelled one of the lifeguards, completing the quickest pool visit in my personal history. The skies opened up and we all ran to grab our sneakers and shirts and cellphones to keep them from getting drenched on the deck which was now being pelted with huge drops of rain. We just laughed it off, it was hot out and it felt pretty great to be rained on, since we were all soaked anyway. It was pouring on me for the second time in less than 24 hours and I couldn't have been happier.

Dopamines Tour Diary (Part One???)

2010-08-10T08:55:00.001-07:00

Four hours sleep is enough. You can tell yourself that as many times as you want, but it doesn’t ever necessarily make it so. Still, with a cloudy and unrested head after Waterloo, I rolled out of bed and into a Greyhound bus, passport in hand. It was Saturday and I was bound for Buffalo, New York, birthplace of chicken wings and Scott Vogel. Paradise.

Buffalo wasn’t the final destination for the day, of course. Once there I would be meeting up with my friends from Ohio, the Dopamines who were about to enter Canada for a few shows on their Expect The Worst tour. First though, was Medina New York…. I normally would have just waited for them to cross the border, but the promise of kegs and laughs with my homeys in the middle of fucking nowhere was too great to pass up, and besides, I hate my fucking job. I’ve mentioned that right? Any reason not to go to work is a good one.

The bus ride was pretty painless, it’s generally a pretty short jaunt from Toronto to Buffalo and the border never really poses a problem. Even in my all-black outfit featuring my Bosnia “Volume For Satan” shirt the border guards didn’t give me a second glance. They used to fuck with me all the time back in the day, I’m not sure what’s changed since then, but I’m not gonna question it.

Being that I was going to be arriving well before the Ohioans, I decided that the best use of my time was probably to find the best chicken wings in Buffalo and pre-game for the show. Googling “best wings in Buffalo” renders many results and claims, but atop the list is the Anchor Bar, which is touted as being the birthplace of the modern chicken wing. It was settled. I was spending my afternoon there.

Navigating Buffalo with the tourist map I found at the bus depot was easy enough, and though the bar was a bit out of the way, I found my way to the lightrail station and made my way up main street with little to no confusion. Before I knew it I was setting my gaze on the place (Jim’s) dreams are made of.

Inside it was like a museum. Or someone’s basement. Or garage. The Anchor is one of those bars the walls of which are plastered with kitschy knick knacks, license plates, trophies, autographed pictures and such. Atop the wall mounted shelves all over the bar sit all manner of old motorcycles. Shit hangs from the ceilings around the bar and the wall-mounted TVs. Something to look at everywhere you turn.

Me, with a chicken wing HAT on my head.

The place was fucking SLAMMED, with a line-up of groups waiting for tables out the door. Definitely a situation where flying solo is to your advantage, I pretty much walked past the line, pulled a chair up at the bar and was ready to rock. I looked up at the golf scores and saw that Tiger Woods was +11 at the Bridgestone. Ridiculous. Ridiculously bad. I sent the obligatory “WTF” texts to Jim (along with ruminations on the fact that I was basically sitting in his version of Disney Land) and ordered my meal.

Half a glass of beer later I was staring at a mountain of 20 wings with celery and white sauce in cups spilling all over the plate messily. This place is definitely all business when it comes to their wings, no fucking around. The bartender plopped an inch-high pile of napkins in front of me and I threw the fuck down, plowing my way through what was probably the tastiest feed of wings I’ve had. It was already 3pm and I hadn’t eaten all day, so though I was pretty winded toward the end, I made short work of my plate.

A few beers in the fellas still hadn’t arrived and the fact that I was starting to develop relationships with the people behind the bar coupled with the fact that I was starting to get a little prematurely drunk compelled me to go outside and take a walk…… which really just led to me taking a much-needed nap in the sun on a bed of grass in front of a Lutheran church. Belly full of chicken and head partially full of beer, I napped on the grass as the passing Buffalo natives eyed me curiously.

Before long I was in a van driving northeast toward Medina. It was nice to see all the dopa-dudes again, though the frequency of such encounters has certainly increased over the last few months. This jaunt would mark the 4th to 7th times I’ve seen them since about the beginning of April, which I am completely ok with. We stopped and got some emergency beers for then the kegs inevitably ran out and before we knew it we were at the place…. Basically a home on a piece of land that had seemingly been carved out of the cornfields all around us.

The first thing we saw upon entering was some dude basting a whole fucking grill worth of chicken thighs. I could almost see a little bit of drool coming out of the side of poultry-crazy Mikey Erg’s mouth. Once we came around the bend the scene was set. Punks! Hardcore kids! Toothless yokels! Old dusters! Greasers! Crusties! Mechanics! Rednecks! Fire hydrant people! Okay, there were no midgets in high-wasted red pants, but you get the picture. There was a big fucking tent, a metal-core band playing and a bunch of people congregating around the tent. Off to the right were a couple of kegs. Jackpot.

Mikey Erg's Dreams

The Dopamines drink. It’s no accident that I choose them as one of the bands I want to tour with this summer. In addition to being one of my favorite active punk rock bands, they also like to bring the party. One need look no further than the lyrics to the song “Waking Up In The Monroe House With Cat Hair In My Mouth” off their new album to get the picture:

Keystone and Carbombs
Sprayed on the front lawn
Services rendered
for nights unremembered

Swallow a few pills,
chase with some bush mills
Brain is ejected,
repeat as directed

I'll never buy 30 keystone lights again
I'll never buy 30 keystone lights
I'll never try 13 Vicodin again
I'll never try 13 Vicodin

And in the end we’ll regret,
but we’ll do it all again
And in the end we’ll regret,
but we’ll do it all again

The Dopamines like to get fucked up and play. I like to get fucked up with and then watch the bands I love. Shit is a perfect match. So it goes without saying that before too long we were hitting up the keg line to pour some delicious ambrosia down into our bellies at a pace that pretty much dictated that we really should have been filling up and then going straight to the back of the line.

Alex from Lemuria showed up and Weiner and I must have been sleeping because before we knew it, Jon and the Mikes were gone. “Fuck, they’re probably off in Alex’s car listening to the new Lemuria record.” Jon guessed correctly. Well that’s just GREAT. Still, it was beautiful out, we were definitely amidst a quickly maddening scene, and I knew that fun was afoot.

Here’s the thing about shows like this. A million bands. There are always a million fucking bands. And this show was no different with the count of bands reaching one million and three, and the fellas going on one million and second. As the show slowed behind schedule, bands didn’t adjust their set times to make up for it, and our beer drunks started making us surly we kind started to get bummed on the whole thing. It was already noise ordinance time and there were still two bands left before the Dopamines. You can only do so much running around in a field and raging and listening to band after band that you have little to no interest in before you just get burnt out. So we retired to the van to drink in private and wait it out.

Lewis disappears. Lewis returns, quickly opens the door and throws a 30-pack of Milwaukee’s Best Premium in the van. Lewis disappears. Lewis returns and quickly opens the door and throws most of a 30-pack of Keystone Light in the van. Combined with our stash from earlier, our new haul totals about 80 cans of awful, delicious beer.

Dopamedina

By this time, it’s time. After a long and fucked up evening and night the Dopamines play to a medium-sized remaining, but very drunk and appreciative crowd. Everyone falls all over the place, lights are swung around on the ceiling, Mikey keeps jumping on the “stage” (which is a bunch of assembled pallets with plywood on top) and knocking Michael’s ride cymbal over and I bogart the microphone for as many backups as I can while simultaneously recording as much of the set as I can with Lewis’s Flipcam. They do an amazing version of Pinhead Gunpowder’s “Cabot Gal” with Weiner singing and I lose my shit (including my glasses which I had to stumble around drunk and blurry-eyed mid-song to try to find)

Lewis remarks afterward that he thinks he rocked out harder during that set than any time previously, and everyone seems pretty satisfied with the outcome of the hours and hours of waiting as we angle the van into the night. Michael actually hasn’t had a whole lot of beer, so he keeps it between the lines quite easily as we head back to Buffalo to our host for the night.

In Medina, I climbed a tree.

The morning is foggy, but Jay, Lemuria’s former bass player has put us up in his lovely home in Buffalo, and we all sleep moderately well. Today is border day, which is to say that it is the day that I come into Canada with a bunch of foreigners, who are hoping to come in, play their first three rock shows, and get out. There is a lot of paperwork and confusion over who signs what and what goes where and what we’re allowed to take into Canada and what our story is and who lives where and who does what. The border is so fucking maddening, because even when you’re not doing anything wrong, entering as a band, even the truth sounds suspicious to you. You have to get yourself best prepared to sell the truth to the border guards, for fear that they will tell you to turn the fuck around.

Still, we had papers, our game was tight and we approached the border fairly confident that the process would be painless. We had almost 80 beers in the van and a liter of whiskey, but I had made sure to check and it was ok. 8.5 liters of beer (about 24 cans) allowed per person and/or a liter of booze. Game tight. Once over the Rainbow Bridge in Niagara Falls (we had taken a wrong turn and ended up crossing here instead of in Buffalo) the guy at the gate studied our papers for a few minutes. Finally he told us to pull over and go inside. Okay, so we weren’t getting waved through, but we were a huge cargo van carrying an American punk rock band and a briefly defected Canadian. Of course they were gonna take a closer look. But it would all be fine.

Being in the border office is maddening. You don’t know what they’re gonna do. They have the authority to arbitrarily do just about anything. They can send you through, they can tell you to turn around and get fucked, they can ban you from the country for months and even years. It’s a crapshoot every time. As minutes turned into almost an hour and a half, we went from optimistic to edgy and impatient. The 5 of us huddled in a corner while we waited for the pretty lady who was working on our case to return with her verdict. Finally she motioned us to the counter.

“Well, I’ve looked up the venues you are playing in Canada, and these all seem very much like bars and night-clubs, and you can’t profit from playing in these kinds of establishments without proper work visas in Canada. So we’re going to take you to your van and show you how to get back into the U.S.”

5 jaws hit the fucking floor.

“Isn’t there something we can do to fix this?” Weiner asked.

“You need to apply for a work visa with Service Canada if you want to do this kind of thing. Go out the door to the left and I will show you to your van.”

Fuck.

The next part happened and ended before I knew it. I was pretty sure that was the last time I’d be seeing my buddies til the fall, so I grabbed my passport back from the still-pretty but now-mean border agent and asked her where the bus station was. She told me and told us to wrap it up quick as I gave out my goodbye hugs. Lewis remembered that Gabe in Montreal said for them not to leave the border under any circumstances, and to call him if there was trouble. He was half way done dialing when our border agent went from mean to fucking terrifying….

“NO!!! You GET in your VAN! You do as I’ve TOLD you. And you MAKE YOUR CALL while you’re DRIVING AWAY!” she screamed as she walked back towards us.

FUCK.

Dopaslide

2010-08-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

Also, maybe come to this tonight if you're in Toronto

2010-08-08T08:38:00.000-07:00

Total Airborne Destruction

2010-08-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

I'm in Buffalo, New York. My belly is full of 20 wings, but mostly full of 20 beers. But, I'm not gonna tell you about tonight tonight (this morning). I'm gonna tell you about last night tonight (or, the night before last night tonight this morning. Confused? Me too.).

Metz had a house show lined up in Kitchener/Waterloo, and having nothing even remotely as awesome as watching that band again to do, I of course volunteered my services again, took the keys and drove with relative certainty toward our destination. They had played there before and had me somewhat prepared for what was about to happen, or as prepared as I could be for what was about to happen.

Kitchener is a small city just 60 miles or so west of Toronto. A lot of times when you're out playing shows in small cities or towns like that you can expect maybe 10 or 15 kids to come out, watch the bands politely, maybe buy some merch, and maybe you'll get a bit of gas money. These are reasonable and realistic expectations on the road.

Conversely, sometimes when you're playing small cities like this, all the planets of small town boredom align and shit becomes a massive fucking party, the depraved likes of which we almost never see in "The Big City". Kitchener/Waterloo on Friday was one of those nights.

We rolled in about 8 or so to the address we were given to a modest amount of kids hanging out in front. Chris immediately met up with an old friend from back in his heavy-touring days, Shawn the bass player in Child Bite, the band from Detroit who would be splitting the bill with Metz. After the accompanying pleasantries were dispensed, we set about loading in.

Wandering through the bowels of the house, it looked like any regular old, run of the mill, early-20s inhabited, My-First-Punkhouse™. A modest amount of wall graffiti, dirty dishes, shitty decor and oh yeah, a bunch of kids getting drunk as hell. It was only upon getting downstairs to where the show was going to be taking place that we got to be sufficiently amazed.

I love house shows. They are easily my favorite kind of show to play, or attend. I've even gone so far as to be in a band that almost exclusively played house shows during its existence. The idea of going into someone's home, transforming it into a show space and tearing down all the usually prevalent barriers between audience and performer in the process has just always been one of the most exciting things about "punk" culture to me, and I rarely have as much fun at any show as I do when I'm playing or attending one in someone's (or my) home. And this home was certainly about to deliver on the fun scale.

Through what seemed like a small living room we were led to a door. Through the door was a room, about 15 by 25 feet with 20 foot ceilings. Already, not your typical house-show basement or kitchen space. In the corner of the room there was a fucking 2 foot stege built with a full vocal P.A. and spotlights. The photos somewhat tell the tale, it was amazing. Completely ridiculous as far as house-show spaces go, and I was moved to remark that it was a better stage setup than quite a few bars I've been in during my travels.

As the first band (I'm trying to remember their name, but for the life or me I can not, but they were an amazing local band) were playing, more and more kids started pouring in. When I say "kids" I pretty much mean between the ages of oh, about 15 and 25 maybe? And barely anyone amongst the 15 or 25 kids now filling up the space had come without a sufficient amount of party lubricant. Beers, wines, and especially hard liquor were being consumed freely, and there's no nicer way of saying it than that the kids were getting completely fucked up. Splash remarked that "They are drinking like it's their last night on earth!" and he was pretty much right.

Child Bite played next and were amazing. Amazing loud post-punk/no wave/whatever freak out jams that were perfect for setting the party completely off. All the kids went completely fucking apeshit, moshing around, swinging their shirts in the air, drinking their faces of some more, and I even saw a stage-dive or two. To say it was HOT down there would be a gross understatement. Everyone in attendance, performer and audience member alike was drenched in sweat. Hell, I was manning a merch table in an adjoining room, and I was pretty damp.

Anyway, Child Bite completely threw the fuck down. As far as bands playing right before Metz are concerned, they were just about the only one during this last batch of shows where I was thinking "Shit. That band went fucking crazy. The fellas are really gonna have to step it up a notch," and I could tell that they were thinking the same thing. Luckily they are always up for the task.

Gear-switches and more booze for EVERYONE (your truly excluded. It was one of those nights where I actually try to do my job) later, the lights came up and everyone on stage and off completely lost their fucking minds. Kids were running into each other, jumping up and down and doing stagedive after stagedive. Chris's pedals kept getting unplugged and the bass would completely drop out mid-song and then come back up, but it slowed no one. Everyone was raging the fuck out and having a fucking blast. All things considered (it was fucking CHAOS) the band played really well, and completely delivered on the tall task of playing after Child Bite.

Status of pit: ACTIVATED

The show ended pretty early (much to the chagrin of a handful of VERY intoxicated teenagers) and so we were in no rush to get going, opting to hang out and take in the scene some more. I sold a shit-ton of merch, which is always nice, with some kids buying more than one shirt design. The Detroit cats were super funny and I hung out with them in the merch area laughing hysterically at their antics. At some point age came up and we realized that not only were we all older than every single person who came to the show, but that if the cops had shown up to the house, the kids would have all been sent home to their beds, and we probably all would have been arrested for contributing to the delinquency of minors. Amazing.

Eventually a young man who I had shooed away from Hayden's drums earlier came up to Hayden and was like "Is that your kit?". "Yeah." "Can I play it?" "Sure." The groan inside my head was almost audible, I'm sure, but what followed was amazingly funny, and well worth the aural unpleasantry.

Hayden is an amazing musician, which is to say that he is one of the best drummers I've seen in recent years. Even if his band were not amazing, they would still be interesting, fun and exciting to watch on a nightly basis, solely due to his insane drumming. Luckily this is not the case, but still, I make my point. A lot of really great drummers are also secretly great guitar and bass players, but due to the high demand for decent drummers, are rarely seen doing much else. So as this teen played a beat on the drums and Hayden picked up Chris's bass, I was prepared for what could be an okay "jam sesh" (ugh) in the sweaty showspace.

What transpired was not an ok "jam sesh". Hayden can't play bass at all! Instantly it was unpleasant, which is also to say that it was hilarious. The fact that he could barely string two notes together didn't slow him down at all. Confidence and a head full of beers combined to make Hayden the Les Claypool of awful bass players, as he plucked away blindly to the beat, while we all laughed our asses off.

Our aspiring bass player!!!

Finally the drummer stops for a second. Silence. Then Hayden says "I got tons more shit, keep going." and that, my friend, was the catalyst that transformed us from laughing our asses off to full on complete stomach cradling hysterics. More shit? Had he lost his fucking mind? He had nothing. It was almost Andy Kaufman-level amazing, the kid playing drums and now the show's host rapping on the mic, both looking at Hayden with confusion in their eyes as he played the night out happily. I had to leave the house for air because I was laughing too hard, but apparently upon the conclusion of the informal set, the MC looked at Hayden and said "What the hell was that?" Amazing.

Confusion

A quick, easy van-pack later we said our goodbyes and headed up to Pizza Nova to get a delicious band-meal feed of Pizza into us and off on the highway we went, A ride home that was completely and without question perfectly executed with no mis-haps whatsoever. Ok, so I drove 25 minutes past Toronto and we ended up home an hour later than we should have. Whatever. This is my story and I can revise history if I fucking want to. There's no fucking rules man!

And so the journey for Metz ends (for now), but not for this humble storyteller, for I am now in Buffalo, New York, getting started on a whole new few days of adventures and capers (Canadian border willing) with my friends from Ohio (and beyond)! Stay tuned sports fans, I've taken more time off of work and this shit is going into overtime!!!

Cold Warps - Stuck On An Island - Sappyfest

2010-08-04T20:05:00.001-07:00

Going Out Like That

2010-08-02T08:35:00.000-07:00

“Come Saturday night, everyone has a problem. It is best conveyed by the t-shirt of Horses’ lead singer. The t-shirt says: METZ. Horses just took the stage at the Legion. At this very instant, Metz took the stage at Uncle Larry’s.”
-Sean Michaels, Sappy Times

The last show of the tour can only be described as triumphant. Actually, it can be described as a whole shit-ton of things. “Jaw-dropping”, “awe-inspiring”, “amazing”, “mind-blowing” and “perfect” all come to mind, but for our purposes today we will stick with triumphant. Let’s get you up to speed first though.

PEI was kinda a shit-show, good and bad (and also ugly). The first thing we did upon getting onto the Island was drive to “Fisherman’s Wharf”, which is a tourist-targeted lobster and seafood buffet in Rustico, PEI. We had been talking about doing lobster in PEI the whole tour, so there was no question of whether or not it was going to go down, even once we saw the somewhat up-there price of the meal. It was going to happen.

O captain my captain!

What did happen was pure comedy. There were a few different types of lobster eaters at the table. Chris and his lovely friend Jen were enthusiastic but cautious, finishing their meals, but not going crazy. Having worked in a restaurant on the Halifax harborfront, I knew how to get the meat out of a lobster, so I finished mine off pretty quickly. Hayden though, was a fucking lobster dismantling machine, picking meat off every part of his meal and then foraging for the neglected bits in the rest of our table’s discarded shells.

Splash and Brandi can best be summed up as “fucking terrified”. It was almost cripplingly funny watching them eat their meals, looking nervously to all sides for guidance on how to best get the most of their dinners. Both braved their way through like champs, but not without at least one instance of near-vomitous proportions when Boo-Boo gagged while trying to chew the meat out of one of the legs, presumably out of pure disgust at the act. Chris was heard afterwards to remark that it will be the last time he ever eats Lobster. Something about dismantling and eating the insides of a whole animal doesn’t do it for him, I guess.

Chris the Claw

In addition to lobster there was a SIXTY FOOT salad, soup, seafood, etc. buffet, on which we went completely berserk, getting our vegetables in and eating bucket upon bucket of Mussels. Brandi and Hayden in particular ate an inordinate amount of them and I was heard to remark after the scene had died down that they were eating like they were “in some kind of contest”. Everyone was pretty well completely jammed with seafood by the time we left. “I feel high right now.” Splash remarked as we climbed back in the van and headed for Charlottetown.

Metz, dominating a species

The show in PEI wasn’t too much to write about really. The Sadies were playing a show a mere blocks from the wonderful Baba’s where we were posted up, so barely anyone came to our show. Everyone made the most of it though, and Lullabye Arkestra, who headlined, were at their best of the times we had seen them to that point. Afterwards we stayed at my amazing and generous friend Sarah’s house, a 30 minute drive into rural PEI that I will say was my sleepiest drive of the trip so far, but I kept it between the lines. It was nearing 3 by the time we got back and I rolled up into one of the spare beds without haste.

Lullabye Arkestra in PEI

Saturday there was the promise of a free breakfast in Sackville at Sappyfest if we showed up between 11 and 1, and for the uninitiated, there is nothing a traveling rock band likes more than a free meal. Actually, there is nothing a traveling rock band likes more than a liquor store, but a free meal is definitely up there on the list, so we were up and at em by 10, me at the helm of the great exhaust-spewing ship in my new captain’s cap, purchased at the Fisherman’s Wharf gift shop.

Sarah’s crib was actually a half hour closer to the bridge than Charlottetown, so it was actually a short, nice morning jaunt to Sackville, where we were greeted with a wonderful breakfast of eggs, beans and fruit by the wonderful Sappyfest staff. We had been in town a very short time and I had already seen so very many familiar, friendly and excited faces that I just knew that it was about to be a magical day. For those who don’t know, Sappyfest is an annual festival in Sackville, New Brunswick that draws acts and attendees from all over the country. The town is very small and very on-board with the fest, and there was such a truly friendly and energetic vibe in the air that I was sure I was going to have a great time.

After finding our billeting house for the show (where we were told “He won’t be home, but the door will be unlocked. You’re in the east now, go on in and make yourself at home.”) and working on some issues with Splash’s amp we made our way to what we assumed was a photoshoot for Metz, but what ended up being something completely different.

Chris was already at the Laundromat in the middle of town, very close to the mainstage tent, where the shoot was going to take place and called us with the news that it wasn’t going to be a photo shoot, but a video shoot in the Laundromat. Metz would be playing a song for some kind of video magazine (or some such). Everyone in the van didn’t really grasp what was meant to happen at first and unanimously panned the idea of unloading the veritable ass-load of gear that comprises the live Metz experience, citing wanting to spend the day running around and drinking and having fun instead of working.

Almost too predictably, once on site all of our senses of adventure quickly over-rode our collective and growing laziness, and we quickly unloaded the van and set up the gear in the wash-n-slosh, which luckily wasn’t being frequented by patrons at the time. I got my phone out and sent a message out to the facebook pals that “Metz will be playing one song in the Laundromat behind Ducky’s in 30 minutes.” Moments later Jim and Kelsey came running up the parking lot, and a small crowd began to gather curiously eying the scene, including members of Horses and Cold Warps, who I had just been informed would be playing on the mainstage in 30 minutes in place of an unfortunately ailing Moonsocket.
Alex, Laundromat, Sackville New Brunswick

A very fast set-up and tuning later Metz were off to the fucking races burning white-hot through the as-of-yet untitled first song of their regular set-list. They had to do it twice for editing purposes, and by the end of the first run-through a great crowd of about 30 onlookers, curious, confused, stoked and otherwise had assembled outside of the mat, including an elderly man with a walker, who seemed very excited by the whole thing. To say that putting Metz in a Laundromat was insanely fucking loud would be no shortage of an understatement, and it sounded amazing. It was such a fun way to start the day and set the tone for our invasion of Sappy, and it was easily the fastest load-in/show/load-out the band is likely to ever execute. We were very deliberate in our movements, not wanting to waste a minute of the day and all in all, it probably took 45 minutes to load-in, play the song and load-out.

I ran over to the mainstage tent to check out Cold Warps, and though they are a simply great band, was pretty disappointed in how they came off. They literally rolled into town and were asked if they could go on right away and they seemed a little unprepared, in addition to the fact that whoever was doing the sound at that point was very clearly unprepared, as their once pristine beach-punk jams came out of the P.A. a muddy, undefined mess. I knew there was a pretty good chance I would see them again in their element later in the day, so I wasn’t too too bummed about it.

The afternoon quickly became pretty blurry, as everyone kinda did their own thing, drinking beer and wandering from stage to stage, eating sporadically and hanging with tons upon tons of old pals. It was really great getting to bro down with Jim and Kelsey again before heading home, and the sheer amount of other pals from back in Halifax that were around was more than a little overwhelming and at one point I had to just go to the field with Hayden, Splash and Brandi and just lie down on a blanket and decompress for a few minutes. In the distance we could hear some of the hooligans from Horses and Orphan Choir playing dice for quarters, bouncing the bones off a hubcap , and eventually Lachie from Horses started coming our way. He was almost to the blanket when he corrected himself, turned around, walked over to a shrub, reached into it and grabbed a ring of 3 cans of Schooner. He had hidden them there the night before and just remembered, flashing back the moment he walked by the bush. It was one of the funniest things that has gone down on the tour for sure, and I was very grateful at the offering, sipping my brew in the beautiful Sackville sun and laughing and sharing road-tales with the pals.

Hooligans!

I feel it would be a good idea to qualify that we were doing a lot of drinking and not a lot of eating and that the order of all of these events could quite easily be all fucked up in my head. It was such a long and overwhelmingly great day and there was a ton of great stuff happening every time we turned around.

Standing in the burger line between acts at the mainstage, suddenly to our left a very familiar (to me) sound started coming from outside the big tent and I instantly knew what was going down. “That’s Cold Warps!” I exclaimed to Brandi excitedly and upon grabbing my burger quickly made tracks out the tent and right to the front of the “stage”, which would best be described as a flatbed that had been towed by a minivan into the middle of the intersection and upon which Cold Warps were now completely rocking it. Powered by a generator, vocals going through a propped up amplifier, they were fucking doing it for real this time and completely killing it. A huuuuge crowd gathered excitedly at the spectacle, and it was so beautiful and amazing I almost want to bawl my eyes out thinking about it. I’m being a bit dramatic, but it was just that good. I was so elated that even in my completely-starved state I hoisted my burger in the air and gave bass player Ryan a big bite, mid song.

Not long after the bite Ryan’s “best” friend Andrew Neville, who was wearing some really nice cut-offs(…) provided an offering of his own, hoisting his cigarette in the air toward his pal, who has nothing to do with cigarettes, ever. Miffed and drunk, Andrew instead opted to burn Ryan on the fucking hand, prompting him to stop mid-song for a shocked moment, and look perplexed, confused, pissed off, and somewhat amused in the span of about a second. It was kinda crazy, but whatever. I asked Andrew if I could have a drag and of course he said yes, because he is fucking STUPID and got back into the band while I stood there dragging on the crudely rolled dart. Puffing it red-hot I reached over and stabbed sharply at Neville’s arm with it, returning the favor and getting retribution for his scorned pal. Andrew begged me for his cigarette back and eventually I relented with the promise that if he burned me I would make the rest of his day a living hell that would make a mere cigarette burn seem like a hot fudge sundae in comparison. Everything was squared. And I got to burn Andrew. Win-win.

Eventually it came down that Dog Day was about to hit the mainstage and Cold Warps had to stop the show. “You know, when Limp Bizkit did this and the cops came and told them to stop, they didn’t stop, right?” Dom and/or Paul (blurry memory) remarked into the mic as they launched into “Hang Up On You” off their amazing 2009 debut cassette. The mini-van started up and towed them down the road, mid-song, as an excited mob of fans ran beside it down the avenue. Easily one of the coolest things I’ve seen in my entire life, for a moment the Warps were rock stars in my mind and doubtless the minds of countless others who watched on with amazement.

Cold Warps, winning the fest

As the Warps floated around the corner a re-tooled Dog Day launched into their set. Nancy & Seth, main songwriters for the band have moved out of the city and have been practicing on their own in their new house a lot. As a result of that and ongoing problems with line-up changes, they have decided to play their batch of shows on this tour as a two-piece, with Nancy on drums and Seth on guitar and vocals. Their set seemed to start a little roughly, but once they got into the groove it was pretty great. Nance’s drumming is definitely primitive, but it fits the bill and I think if they keep it up, the new Dog Day, while quite a bit different, is still Dog Day at heart and are going to be pretty fucking good.

I spent a lot of time hanging out with Woofy, Seth and Nance’s dog, who was up for the event hanging around in his specially made “mutt muffs” earplugs. I played fetch with him til my hand was dripping in dog drool and even took him on a walk around the grounds at one point. People loved him, it was really fun.

Woofy & his "Mutt Muffs"

Several beers and a great chicken sandwich on a solo trip to a nearby diner later things start getting even blurrier. Lullabye Arkestra played an amazing set in the mainstage tent to a completely fucking bananas crowd. The place was packed and it was getting close to prime time. Metz would be playing at the same time that our friends in Horses would be at a different venue, which was a bummer, but there were enough music fans of all stripes there that we were all pretty sure that both shows were gonna do pretty well. It has to be said that there was definitely a huge buzz for Metz going around, and by the time the set was just about to happen at Uncle Larry’s, right by the mainstage tent, word of mouth had done its job. There was a line-up that went all the way back to the porta-potties.

Since there was a merch tent set-up, Brandi and I got to have the night off from the selling table, which was pretty nice, since we’re both super into the band (obviously) and it would give us the chance to hang out at the front of the stage going bonkers and drinking while they played. We grabbed the beers for the band (and ourselves of course) and propped ourselves up with Jim and Kelsey up front and got ready. The club was now packed and there was definitely a great feeling in the room. I could tell the fellas were nervous and I actually felt it a little myself. This show was gonna be huge.

I rocked back and forth on my feet as Hayden started the drumbeat for the set-opener, anticipation coating the room as Splash joined in on guitar. Chris came in and the lights came up and it was definitely on. The crowd stared on at the band going completely fucking apeshit on stage, Chris Slamming away at the bass, Splash raising his guitar to the sky and slamming it down and Hayden not relenting for a second. A technical issue or two aside, the whole set went as planned, and felt pretty much perfect as far as I can tell. The pit was even “activated” at a couple points as the crowd lost control and thrashed along. The fellas came off the stage with smiles on their faces, and there were even more in the crowd. I spoke to more than one friend in the crowd who was generally in awe of the set that had just gone down. I was so happy for the dudes, they had the packed crowd they deserved and completely fucking delivered. That set alone made the whole trip worth it.

Metz, winning the fest

Rockets Red Glare were after Metz and I watched some of it, having not seen them in about 6 years or more, but by then my attention span was shot, I was so elated after the fellas’ set, I was just running around giving out hugs to friends and asking them what they thought, in addition to taking shots and beers and smoke breaks and dog breaks and just basically “raging” as Glenn from Horses might put it. Lachie and Glenn and those fellas even made it back to the bar and confirmed that they had had a pretty good crowd for their show and everyone hung around til well after last call.

An afterparty, a buncha more beers, and a buncha more hanging with friends listening to tunes later I was getting in a cab because I was the last one out and had no idea how the fuck I was getting back to the billet. It was light out, probably six in the morning. I crawled into bed with every stitch of clothing I had worn for the last day still on and fell asleep instantly.

Metz @ the Green Light afterparty

Leaving Sackville today was kinda rough. We went to the breakfast, saw a bunch of pals, gave out hugs and said our goodbyes. The tour is over, but Sappy continues tonight, and a bunch of my friends will stick around and continue funning it up while we make our trek back to Toronto. As we rode down the highway Hayden put Twice Removed by Sloan on the stereo, an album our lucky friends will get to watch the band play in its entirety at an unannounced show this evening. Have fun, you lucky bastards and bastettes.

Nancy & Woofy at breakfast

Last night as we stood together in the aftermath of it all Hayden asked me if I’d consider doing this crazy shit with them again. He saw the hesitation on my face as I considered it, and I admitted that there might be an issue or two, but that I probably wouldn’t be able to say no. The conversation went long and deep and it was really nice. There is often a lot of bullshit to go through on an independent rock tour, and sometimes the iffy show experiences, and lack of good food, sleep, privacy, cleanliness and sobriety can make the best of us pretty nervy, however I was lucky enough to be on tour with probably the four most fun and funniest people I’ve ever spent this much time with, and we kept everything just light enough to avoid much in the way of drama. We partied constantly, and all told, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as much in a ten-day span at any period of my life as with these four.

It’s such an insane and ridiculous experience living in a van with four people for days, weeks and sometimes months on end and it is everything I’ve ever loved out of life. I love every one of the people I sit in this van with as I type, and by the time our conversation turned to Hayden saying “Well let’s go have a smoke, and then I am going to get you fucking drunk and convince you to come on tour with us again” no convincing was necessary. There was no doubt in my mind as to what I would say if I were lucky enough to be asked to join this rolling shit-show again in any capacity. It will always one hundred percent be a “yes”.

If you get to choose your lot in life, then I choose this.

Suit Up OR The story of how Metz activated the pit and other Tales

2010-07-30T06:04:00.002-07:00

Last night's show in Truro was one of those tour-defining nights. A van full of beer and a small group of old and new friends playing for each other and just hanging out and having a good time is about the best thing you can ask for out of this life.

"The Moment" happens when the last band gets on stage (a carpeted floor in the basement of a community center) knowing full well that they are playing for 25 people (most of whom are part of the show) and little-to-no money (through the fault of no one) and completely fucking KILLS it. Last night was that moment. Metz had a crowd of young ones whipped into a motherfucking frenzy, kids peeling their shirts of and moshing into each other like lunatics. The smile I wore during the whole set returns just thinking about it. It was the only encore of the tour so far, and it was for the best, most appreciative crowd of the tour. Sometimes there doesn't need to be numbers or money, the reason all of us have been staying around this shit for like half of our fucking lives was in that room last night. Good job Truro, you fucking brought it.

Union of The Snake in Truro

Bringing the audience up to speed now seems difficult, this being the 3rd night in a row that I've watched it start to get light out before sleeping, but I will do my best. Riviere Du Loup on the day off can only be described as magical. Without getting too far into shit that no one needs to get into, my previous contention that Metz were going to "abuse alcohol" and probably the town was an accurate projection. Chris and I set about getting beers about mid afternoon and upon returning with 50 cans of Coors and Molson (not before seeing a grown man with a very grown Macaw on his shoulder...... Oh, Quebec) the four of us wasted no time in digging in, keeping a steady drinking pace while drifting in and out of sleep. Eventually we moved it out to the picnic table by the hotel's playground, it being one of those indescribably beautiful Riviere-Du-Loup afternoons (I write this as if that is something I know to exist).

Day gave way to night and as predicted, we got up to some shit. The bowling alley had actually recently closed for business, so we set about a 2k walk to the town's resident mini-putt site to get a tee time. It wasn't without some sentimentality that I suggested that we play a round, since mini-golfing was the group-building activity of choice on all NoA tours that I participated in. It's long been a viewpoint of mine that on a rock and roll tour you need that kind of release of energy and mental pressure that you only get through a relaxing and fun group activity not involving the stage and the amps. Something you can do to take your mind off the big task for an hour and just chill and have some fun.

Whether or not we were able to reach that particular goal in that particular state is beyond me at this point, but it must be said that if someone inside at that putting range was keeping an eye on the competition, they were likely getting a hell of a laugh out of it. Hayden came out the putting champ, edging me and Splash by a stroke and two, respectively. Chris took a few fives ("Sometimes taking the five is the classy thing to do" according to Splash) and brought up the anchor, but all things considered, we actually all played kind of well. I also spilled a lot of beer and for some inexplicable reason carried "a lot of shit" during the whole game and probably well earned my tour nickname, which is "Three Sheets". Shit.

Having a hotel room here and there on a tour would be another thing on the list of rock band essentials. So often you are staying with friends or show promoters, and it's an amazing display of hospitality for someone to open their home to you, but at the same time, sometimes it's really the best thing for a touring band to bite the bullet and spend the cash to get a place where you can just chill. Somewhere that you have an at least semi-comfortable bed to sleep in, an internet connection and a television to just zone out staring at. You don't have to be social, or worry about overstepping boundaries in someone else's home, you can just shut down and relax for a bit.

It was with a new sense of rejuvenation that we got to leave the Quality Inn in R-D-L. It was Monday and we were on our way to Fredericton for a show at an art space. Truth be told I am using more than my fair share of literary license here. There wasn't a whole lot in the way of "rejuvenation" in any of our heads when we woke up in Quebec. The hotel room was trashed and the corpses of 49 dead soldiers were strewn about everywhere, one lone Coors Light remaining, mountains far from blue.

There were some serious fucking headaches going on in the van, but for good or ill, down the road we went. I can't really comment too much on the journey, because I pretty much conked out in the back seat, drinking as much water as I could.

Fredericton was nice. We met up with my (then) new merch-wife Brandi, who had just flown in from Toronto and whom I have since become quite fond of. Halifax's Union of The Snake, featuring the aforementioned Jim Macalpine, in addition to Chad Peck of Kestrels fame and Little Davey Kaufman of more fames (sleeping under tables, a lifelong pattern of random disappearances, VKNGS, the Jingle Crows, and the best Kelly Clarkson karaoke performance in unrecorded history, to name a few) than I probably have room to mention were opening the show, which was very exciting to me, since those are some of my fave bros ever. It was my first time seeing them (and first time seeing Jim play drums) and it was great and exciting. Two Piece Empire, featuring the prolific Trip Lewis of 283 fame played and rocked it as well. The show was sparsely attended, but very fun and our hosts both at the gallery and at Trip and Mary Gunshyzine's house were very generous. It was really a great night.

Tuesday was the last of two days off on the tour and we got up early to haul ass to my folks' house in the scenic and beautiful Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia. It was a long and harrowing journey, but by late afternoon I was introducing the crew to my folks and passing out bottles of Schooner. My sister came out for the day and it was a great, relaxing afternoon, cooking out, playing frizbee in their backyard and checking out the big pumpkin my family is growing. It is going to be over 500 pounds and my sister is going to row it in a pumpkin boat race. Real talk. My mom made an impressive spread for dinner and we all got good and stuffed up with food and scrubbed off. Hayden played animal whisperer, making instant friends with the two cats as well as the two neighbor dogs. It was hot as fuck and a beautiful day, really. It was good to see the fam.

Splash and my pops Frizbeein it up

After dinner we rolled deep up into Hali, where after 30 years of only being in the bar “Cheers” once (a visit that culminated in myself, Steve & Mike from the late, great Buried Inside being ejected for heckling the cover band) I revisited with my friend Katie and some others, only to meet up with Splash, Hayden and Brandi, who was being blessed with the spirit of the Loup… It was too crazy of a coincidence that I would meet up with them again here of all places, so I took it as a sign, opened a tab, and started pounding late drinks (it was already 1am by now) and getting into the spirit myself.

It was karaoke night at Cheers and it was actually not a bad karaoke. Those three fat dudes from the Trailer Park Boys were there, which seemed to make the troops pretty excited. I danced around like an asshole and pounded double Crowns on ice and Budweisers consecutively before finding out that because it was Pride Week in Hali last call would be pushed to 3:30.

We were well ready to leave by the time my name got called and up on stage I went, for my triumphant return to karaoke in Halifax. It wasn’t my usual haunt, but I was just drunk enough to get up there and yell my little heart out in my rendition of “Longview” for a PACKED dancefloor of adoring, screaming fans……….. Either that, or an empty dance floor save for my three travel pals. Choose your own adventure.

A detour-filled walk home later, it was 5 in the morning. We had successfully partied until after Jim went to work. I grabbed Jim’s sleeping bag and crashed on the floor by the merch wife and told her funny stories about the Trailer Park Boys that Doug Mason told me at hockey games back in the day, eventually drifting off to sleep before the sun could come up.

Wednesday was, as a result of the previous night’s merry-making, pretty low-key during the day. We took a first time trip for all of us to the wonderful Two If By Sea café in Dartmouth, and I marveled at how insane the change in downtown Dartmouth has been in just a few short years, transforming from a pawnshop laden sketch-hole to an increasingly more hip part of the HRM.

A few errands later it was time to hit up the lake with Jim and Berty. We grabbed a shitload of beer, piled into the van and I aimed it at Kearney Lake Road, where we hit up Jim’s increasingly popular swim-spot. I can’t tell you where it is, but if you find it, you’ll find it. It’s not hard, and it’s a good one, a beautiful little piece of the lake with a bunch of really nice, semi-private openings in the woods and a bunch of nice rocks in the water to stand on, drink beer and enjoy a cool dip on a summer day. The troops really seemed to enjoy it and a whole mess of beers were consumed. One of the dudes that was there when we got there left a home-made crossbow, and I played with it for a bit, shooting beer cans all over the woods like a very happy child.

On the way back to the hood Chris rigged the stereo up with tour-van favorite “Real Talk” by R Kelly and it was amazing. Almost everyone was so sufficiently lubed up with Oland Export that the result was an insane 7-person sing along to our favorite track. It is actually insane, this song and if you haven’t heard it, you must. Anyway, I instantly regretted not thinking to throw a video making device on the dashboard to make a wonderful Metz tour “Real Talk” video. Everyone was singing their faces off along to the words as I did my best to steer the van while laughing my fucking ass off.

The Spot

Berty and I

The Halifax show was that night at Gus’s Pub, and the line-up was stacked, with Orphan Choir, Lullabye Arkestra, Metz and Horses comprising the bill, in that order. It was a little more sparsely attended than I thought it would be, but it was a party all the same. Being back at Gus’s felt great, and the bevvys were flowing. I had no less than 5 bottles of beer bought for me, and every band completely owned the joint. Metz were pretty fucking close to perfect and by the time Horses took the stage everyone was drunk and swaying back and forth to Lachie’s amazing jams.

Some unpleasantness at the door and a semi-questionable van drop-off (it was only like 5 blocks, I swear) later and we were all posted up at a party at my homegirl Kara’s place for pizza and more beers. As soon as I came up the stairs The Ergs were on Jono’s awesome ipod playlist and I was beered up and singing my head of once again in the middle of the kitchen. Ergs, Face To Face, The Dopamines, Propagandhi, the party was totally pop-punked out, which suited me just fine after a week or so rocking on another side of the million-sided punk rock coin.

Another night of raging, and another 5am bedtime. Fuck. I got Brandi to tell me a bedtime story and crashed.

Thursday I pulled some last minute hangs with a head full of ugly and was told by a cute girl that I stink. I ate at the Westcliffe Diner and watched the latest episode of the wonderful “Louie” show on FX with Bob, who is one of my oldest and dearest. Eventually it was into the van and off to Truro. I hate to think I need to re-iterate that a whole shit-ton of beer was consumed in Truro on a night that I thought was gonna be relatively low-key. It actually ended up being one of the craziest nights yet, with our camp, the Lullabye camp and some friends all going back to the lovely home of homey Matt (of amazing band PIG) for a late night drinking and pizza session. I had the most amazing, high-pressure shower ever and the crew plowed through beers like champs.

I’ve been musing recently about how the beer intake on this tour probably gives the hard-partying Statues tours a run for their money. It is truly inspiring the way we have gone at it 100% almost every night on this jaunt.

Lullabye Arkestra (photo by Brandi Boulet)

The night ended with Chris and I heading off with some gals to get stick-and-poke tattoos at 3 in the fucking morning, a great idea to be sure. The result (after another 5am last call) was me waking up to something that looks nothing like a Ninja Turtle’s face on the side of my leg and a whole lot of “What the fuck?” But you know, whatever, it’s rock and roll, right?

Cowabunga dudes!!!!!

Halifax

2010-07-29T07:57:00.000-07:00

2010-07-28T09:41:00.000-07:00

Loupi Motel

2010-07-27T04:30:00.000-07:00

I've been advised by legal council not to discuss the events that transpired in Riviere-Du-Loup.

2010-07-25T16:17:00.000-07:00

"Splash?"

"Oh, hi there!"

"Oh hey, you owe me 12 dollars for beer."

2010-07-25T11:20:00.000-07:00

“Those kids went fucking crazy for ‘Dry Up’.”

“Yeah, the guitar playing is pretty impressive on that one. I almost wish I could be in the audience while we’re playing that, just so I could watch myself.”

There are now five people in the tour van, even though anyone looking in on us would swear that there are only four. Don’t try to tell any of us that though. Splash Gordon has fully become his own personality, a scathing, sarcastic, rude dude with attitude that awakens at a moment’s notice. Splash is pretty much the most prolific of all of us and leaves the personalities of Alex, Chris, Hayden and Ger with an extreme want for any sense of sharpness or wit. If a decision needs to be made at this point, we almost universally defer to Splash. Splash knows what to do.

I write this from a comfortable bed in a well-overpriced hotel room at the Quality Inn in Riviere-Du-Loup, Quebec. After being unable to secure a place to stay after last night’s (great) show in Trois Rivieres we decided that I would drive for an hour or so toward our next destination (Fredericton, 2 days to drive) and find a cheap hotel in between. An hour or so rapidly became 3 hours as we took exit upon exit to no avail. Everything was either way overpriced for a seven hour stay (check-out is generally 11 or 12) or unwilling to rent to us (“Hayden should probably cover up those Tough Stickers.” quipped Alex, referring to the multitude of tattoos covering H’s arms). Eventually it just got to be too much of a bullshit hassle and, defeated, I pulled the van into a side street in St. Foy and we did the always dreaded “van sleep” for a couple of hours.

The van sleep is something that, when I was 20 and on my first tour and in Florida or Arizona, or even frigid Quebec, was fine because it was exciting and new and still hilariously ludicrous. I was still willing to throw a sleeping bag on top of (or sometimes under) the van and just sleep outside of a 7-Eleven for 4 or 5 hours til someone was ready to drive some more. I write this as if a whole lot has changed, but I guess last night was relatively fine. I still pride myself on being able to sleep anywhere (I slept in an armchair with no shortage of comfort over Easter, and it was fine… I was however, quite drunk), and reclining in the driver’s seat with my feet propped up over the wheel from 4 to 6am I was still able to get a semi-solid 2 hours of rest, even though I woke up with two severely sleeping feet.

Chris is a fellow early-riser and had been asleep since about 1 or 2, so at 6 he hooked me up with a bench bed and set off onto the highway. Around 9 I rolled over and woke up just as we were about to arrive in “The Loup”. A solid 4 to 5 hours sleep is about as much as you can ask for in a van full of people, baggage, gear and all the accompanying bumps, sounds and, uhm… smells inherent to the rock tour.

While we waited for our room to be ready we ate in another French restaurant, getting a breakfast that we waited much too long for, and tipping much too well along the way. We’ve been eating pretty shoddily (for some of us (present company DEFINITELY included) proudly so), which again, is just one of the costs of being on the road a lot of the time. You just don’t have time, budget, or geographic knowledge to have a healthily balanced meal most of the time, coupled with the fact that a good portion of the time you are somewhat hungover (or intoxicated), and craving something leaning more toward the greasy/revolting.

If you want to talk about greasy and revolting, you need look no further than the meal I ate in Trois Rivieres at the Bravo Pizza Restaurant (or something like that). Splash was pretty adamant that we eat pizza at some point, and personally after the poutine situation of the night before, I was ready for round two. Entering Bravo I spotted a lot of people with plates with both pizza AND poutine and I knew we had hit the jackpot.

Basically, if there were a restaurant tailor made for Jim MacAlpine (one of my best friends, in addition to playing in fantastic bands Union of the Snake and the aforementioned North of America) this was it. In honor of my absentee homey, I ordered a meal that would make him proud like a father; a personal pizza, poutine and chicken wings. And I’m not talking about it like I ordered sides of some shit, that was the fucking meal, and it was not small. It was pretty well close to Jim-sized, which made it all the more baffling that I was able to so easily finish it off. While we ate I told stories of Jim’s feats-of-eating while the dudes looked on in shock (and I’m sure I also detected some horror). The man is a legend.

This is why I am awesome.

The show in Trois Rivieres, as alluded to earlier, was great. For the second of two shows the crowd was better than some members of our party had expected, and people lost their shit……. Including Chris who got a little silly before the set and as a result of some over-zealous pogoing flew into Hayden’s drums and almost rocked his cab just one song in. It was fun. The kids were all really grateful and friendly, and I sold even more merch than I had the night before…. Almost an absurd amount when compared to how many people were there. Metz have three 7”s now and a lot of folks seem to be buying the whole set, which at 15 bucks a pop, is a great help money-wise.

Montreal’s No Joy opened as well, featuring my new friend Laura who put on the Montreal show, and they were fantastic. The sound was a bit cavernous at times in the venue, so I’m looking forward to having the chance to check them out (hopefully soon) in a smaller place in Tee where I can hear the shit. I sold a bunch of records for them and Laura was nice enough to comp me a copy of their 7 inch, which I can’t wait to check out.

The depaneur is calling my name. Its mid-afternoon, we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere in a nice, comfy hotel room, there is a Hitchcock movie on at 6, a pool downstairs that we have already defiled once, a bowling alley just down the road (please be full of partying townies tonight), and I have no reason to drive, thus no reason to hold back. Here we go, rural quebec, Metz is here and we are going to fucking abuse alcohol (and probably your town).

After one hundred poutines.

Body not as fat as advertised.

Splash Gordon

2010-07-24T06:25:00.000-07:00

It's funny how somehow my body can make a distinction between the times I am and am not able to have a hangover. It's really weird how my mind has conditioned my body to think that after 10 beers & 2 shots (almost all of which were consumed after 1am) a gigantic fucking poutine, a meal at Harvey's, a bunch of road food, some cigarettes and some pot I can completely get up and out of bed 3.5 hours later no problem if it means I have to move the van. Conversely, if I have to do something I just really don't want to do, such as hauling my ass across town to my place of employ, under the same circumstances, my body completely shuts itself down. I should be in agony right now, yet somehow in this situation I never am.

"This situation" of course is that of being the chief merch monkey and relief driver for a touring rock act. The act in question is Toronto's own Metz, who invited me along on this 10 day jaunt well over a month ago. Being that my employment situation has sunk to a less than ideal and promising level since then, the idea of getting back in the van eventually became too good to pass up, so here I sit. In guitar player Alex's hospitable brother's HUGE apartment in Mount Royal, Montreal.

When I say "huge" I don't do so without a bit of caution, however, having been in the position to sleep in untold dozens of apartments (sometimes the term "apartment" would be used as loosely as possible) and homes as part of a rock and roll tour, I can honestly say that this place is in the upper tenth percentile as far as spacious and luxurious homes. It never ceases to amaze me the gems that can be found in this city for an insane amount of money, this being a sprawling dark-hardwood palace that would fetch upwards of 2500 a month in Toronto, for about half the price here in the land of the cheese curd.

The first day of tour was wonderful and hilarious. I've known bass player Chris for about 10 years, and he was kind enough to spearhead my van placement, which has afforded me the opportunity to get to know Alex and drummer Hayden a little better over the next week or so. It has already rendered hysterical results on more than one occasion, and I'm already pretty excited about the dynamic we have going less than 24 hours in in all capacities. I think it's gonna be a fun time.

It took us an absurd 8 hours to get packed up, out of Toronto and into Montreal, much of that being out of our control. Driving East on the 401 "Highway of Heroes" we kept seeing people lined on the overpasses along the way. Canadian flags, fire engines in full siren, and many people dressed in full military regalia packed every subsequent intersecting roadway. After not too long, Alex figured it out, remarking "Oh shit. A body is coming home today." in a sad tone. Canada's latest sacrifice to the war on whatever it is that is being fought was on his way home to rest and we were caught up in the slowing reverse precession, rubber necking at it's most perverse, or most respectful, depending on how you look at things. Either way, getting to Montreal in a timely fashion suddenly seemed comparatively trivial.

Once in town, shit unfolded quickly. Being a good roadie means you volunteer to drive the van to it's resting place after the show (MOST of the time) so I was set about my merch duties for most of the night with only a few beer reprieves. Those who know me well (including the long suffering North of America) are familiar with my various and many debaucherous, drunken tour stories, (and the casual reader needn't venture further than this blog for proof) and probably think it must be pretty difficult for me to keep sober during show time. Generally that is true, but last night, being the maiden try, I found it relatively easy to relegate my alcoholism to a social level. Until 1am. Then shit was on.

Metz played a pretty well amazing show to a larger than anticipated and appreciative crowd. A whole bunch of friends old and older showed up, and it was a pretty great show. Afterward we hauled ass out of there and back to the aforementioned palace to get our stupid on. And stupid on we did! Chris actually split off to go watch a friend DJ, and I was kind of worried that our party was going to wind down when I started hammering beers, but before I knew it there were a ton of people up inside and shit was going bonkers. Hayden (who is maybe as legit a graphic artist as I know) busied himself drawing on the kitchen's HUGE chalkboard, which was at once mind-blowing and sad to me, being that it's going to be gone in a matter of days.

Ladies and gentleman, Hayden Menzies

Before I knew it we were in a small cave of an underground bar, the name of which I have hopelessly no chance of ever knowing doing shot after shot and drinking drafts of Boreale. Lots of yelling and merry-making took place as we sang and "danced" along to the fantastic DJ. The night ended as any night in Montreal must, with numerous people hovering around a table covered in plates of poutine, like a bunch of hobos congregating around a fire-pit. A disgusting and beautiful sight to behold.

Welcome to the show.

There Was Won

2010-07-22T19:17:00.000-07:00

What precedes this post represents the remains of the 2002-2008 ger.swordfight.org archives. A lot of it has to be edited pretty heavily, and I will be deleting some superfluous pieces, some silly shit, and some things that I'm straight-up just uncomfortable sharing. A lot of the image links are broken right now, and I'd like to get around to fixing those too. As time allows. No promises.

There are things going on and I feel like at 30 I've entered a really exciting and fun period in my life. I'm much more active in the things I am passionate about, I am traveling a lot, and I am writing a lot more. And I feel like I have things I'd like to share. Things are more exciting than they have been in years.

BRB

Destroying Gerry From The Blog

2008-05-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

This will be my last post on the swordfight server. I am going to try to import all of my posts onto a new wordpress blog where I can control my passwords and who looks at it myself. There are a few reasons.

One, there was a password put in place here, but it's the same password that everyone else uses. I could get Philip to change it, but that defeats the purpose. If I change it, I get to decide who sees it. Who sees it will probably end up being nobody, based on the following.

When the mackerel password was installed, I told a few people. Some of the people that I told I regret telling. I also feel like I told a few people, who told a few people, etcetera and that everyone who was bothering to read it before is still reading it anyway, which totally defeats the purpose. If I had the power to change everything myself on a whim, I could just do that, but I'm not going to burden Philip with my constantly changing my mind and being wishy washy.

There is a lot of writing here that I am proud of, but for the most part it all was created years ago. My strength is in my ability to tell true stories in vivid detail, and I stopped having stories to tell a long fucking time ago. It's a double edged sword, because on one hand my life is a lot more stable now, but on the other, I'm pretty much a boring fucking adult now, basically something I said I'd never be. I like having my life in order, and being able to pay my bills on time. Sometimes I miss drinking and putting shit up my nose and hooking up with 2 or 3 girls a week, but my body and my state of mind do not miss that. There's a part of us all that wants to be care-free and act like a kid all the time, but for most of us there's a larger part that realizes that that is not where their life should be.

Philip has been awesome for hosting these things for so long, and paying out of his pocket to keep things running. I always thought it was totally fucking lame that Mark & Claudette went password only and said that I would pull my blog before I did that, but now I understand.

Philip and I continue to have a working relationship (what?) on the web with my using the evilmp3 sites to host my radio show's web presence, and I'm sure any minute now Phil will be messaging me with a solution to help me keep my stuff on Swordfight. I'd really like to, but I just feel bad when I think about the fact that it used to be a veritable candyland of gossip and debauchery over here, and now it's 3 pages that the public cant see and a bunch of Phil's stuff. I'm sure he still creates enough gossip and debauchery for all 4 of us, but still.... shit fell off pretty thoroughly.

As with most things related to art in my life, I was part of something that was simply before it's time (what the fuck?). We could have been huge (what am I, retarded?) but we all got too caught up in our own shit. Realistically, I don't really want prospective employers right now googling my name and reading about some of this shit, and to cherry pick a bunch of stuff and "invisible" it seems like a copout. My past is my past. Time to hide it.

I would love to be able to just devote this blog to telling old war stories and make it fun again, but the urge to be self indulgent and write on here as if my various heartaches are the end of the world is too great. I've relied on this thing as a way to emote and to get sympathy for too long, and it is quite simply fucking pathetic and pretty much the exact antithesis of what I wanted this to be. In the fall of 2005 this blog pretty much became everything I hate about online journaling, and still is.

I am still writing, if not on the web, or the paper, in my head everyday. I am going to do my best to get up the motivation to write everything down, everything, soon. I have a vivid memory, and there are still a lot of stories that haven't been, but need to be told, and who knows, maybe I'll write a few more soon. We'll see what happens.

Take care, see you all at Okie Dog's.

Move in with me. I'll put a baby in you.

2008-04-07T10:24:00.000-07:00

Connolly Street is looking for a roommate for the uppermost dwelling in our unit. Here's the details:

-1 medium-large bedroom with closet for rent in the 2 bedroom unit
-shared computer room, bathroom, reading room and a pretty big kitchen with lots of food storage
-large back yard
-very close to Fries & Co., european grocery and laundromat, blocks away from Halifax Shopping Center
-1 medium-great roommate (me!) and 2 pretty okay downstairs neighbors (Mark & Jim)

$450 a month, all inclusive (Heat, HW, Electric, Cable, Internet, Renter's Insurance). Any pets will be considered. There will be a punk rock show in the basement on May 10th, and these will be happening maybe once a month for the rest of the summer. I'm looking for someone preferably for May 1st, but if I can't find anyone for then, June 1st will do.

2008-03-30T23:28:00.000-07:00

"it's easy to love a broken spirit, but hard to be in love with one."

2007-12-14T23:07:00.000-08:00

It's really convenient to forget about something for a couple of years, but things continue happening. Here is something you should listen to: GTPodcast

You know those times when I say that if you don't do something, you're not my friend? Well this time I actually mean it. Listen to this, or you and I are not friends.

Interviewing

2007-12-07T20:45:00.000-08:00

It's so super hard to get someone who is "a punk" organized. Like, dudes are just making up lists on the spot, or having three times as much stuff as I need, or breastfeeding their babies under planes. Shit is hilarious, and I couldn't have asked for anything more interesting or fun.

In one week I talked to 3 people on the phone. One was A dude I met recently who is in a band I love and couldn't have been a nicer, more genuine person. The second is a god damn certified legend who was a complete pro, had a lot of good to say, and was about the friendliest person I could have talked to. The third is pretty much a hero, which was weird because he's such a fuck-up and basically a troublemaker.... not like Jerry Seinfeld in that episode with the thanksgiving float, but like the time Crystal threw the ashtray at people's heads at the Attic. That's the kind of shit that is heroic to me. Or, more accurately, one of the kinds of shit that is heroic to me. The fucked up thing is that I have a date to talk to another completely different variety of "my hero" later in the month. I'm checking motherfuckers off a list like I'm Santa.

My motivation is in the home now, which is where it counts.

Hello, Hello, I'm Back Again

2007-11-28T19:44:00.000-08:00

Fucking around on the radio one Saturday night in my room, for what I can assume was no good reason whatsoever (since I hadn't as of yet been to any shows or met anyone in "the scene" who would have told me of any of the little secrets) I heard something familiar coming from the speakers through a substantial amount of static. It wasn't familiar because I had heard it before, but familiar because it was what I had been hoping to hear.

To play this moment up as one of those defining moments in my teenage life, like whacking off for the first time, or drinking my first beer seems cheesy and a little too pretentious, but there is no other way of describing it. The sound coming out of those speakers as I leaned halfway on my bed and halfway on the floor, holding the antenna at just the right angle was the sound of me wanting something, anything. It's true that I still didn't know what it was that I wanted, but I knew that this had something to do with it.

In 1996 I was forced into the "co-op" program in school, mainly due to my lack of ambition. I had completely given up on the idea of university or anything after high school. I had basically adopted the idea that I would just live according to my means. I remember distinctly telling my parents that "if I keep a low standard of living, I can work 20, 25 hours a week at low pay and do fine" (That really did work well for a couple of years, but I'm not going to get off topic and start in with the tales of living in storage rooms or apartments where people lived in the kitchen).

The co-op program was basically a class where they make you job shadow all year to figure out whether or not a particular career path is the right one for you. When they got me in the class and asked me where I'd like to be placed, my mind was a blank. Why were they asking me? They put me in this class because I couldn't make decisions about a path in life, yet they wanted me to choose something to work on all year that could be built into a career? All I wanted to do was listen to punk rock, play punk rock and smoke pot. And that was all I ever did.

I had been listening to the radio every Saturday night for months. I had fucking tinfoil and pie plates and all kinds of shit all over my room, and the antenna had to be just right to pick the shit up. It could be in the right spot for a couple weeks, but then if anything anything at all moved just a fraction in my room, I would inevitably have to spend a fucking half hour figuring out how I was going to set it all up again. Sometimes I'd be at a show 'til 11, not getting home by bus until 20 after 12 at night, so time was against me at times.

Anywho, I had met the host basically just by recognizing his voice on the mic at a show, which put a friendly smiling face to the name. I started meeting folks who had nothing to do with my life at school and misery in the suburb and were really so far removed from the things I had been taught to be that it was very overwhelming. Shit was happening really fast, and it was a very exciting time. I had essentially spent the 4 years since my family had moved in my bedroom with my door closed, so being out and somewhere with some manner of peers was like a dream come true.

Doing the co-op program at the station didn't really help me at all to find a "career" because I had no interest whatsoever in working at a for-profit radio station. The funny thing is that I knew that even before I decided to do my program there. I pretty much sabotaged the whole thing (though I think I got good marks) so I could hang out at the station and in Halifax in general more often. I ended up graduating a smug, idealistic asshole with no real goals whatsoever except to listen to punk rock, play punk rock and smoke pot, which is all I ever did. That and my radio show, which I inherited from Derrick before he moved out west.

Read My Book!

2007-11-21T06:20:00.000-08:00

This was sent to my inbox on a webpage I am a member of where I go and download scans of Wii covers for my burned games. Fuck.

"Sorry to msg you out of the blue. Here's the thing.

I wrote a book together with a friend. My boyfriend keeps saying it's no good. I think he's just jealous tho. He's a big time poster here, so I told him I'm going to pick a random person here, and ask them, and we ended up betting on it.

So go to http://books.zenofeller.com/asylum/asylum_chapter1.html and call it either way. Good or no good.

Thanks."

My response:

"If either of you placed the bet that the person you choose to send this to isn't going to take the time to read an entire book on a glowing computer screen in order to settle a bet between 2 strangers, then that person has won the bet.

I hope it was you.

Peace,
ger."

Somebody read her book (which as far as I had understood before this was something with pages and a cover) and let me know how shitty it is.

UPTIGHT money

2007-11-21T06:13:00.000-08:00

Q: Dear apextim,

How much for shipping to canada on this?

- invincible_inc

A:Dear invincible_inc,

It sez in the listing- $25 especially since it's NS

- apextim

----------------------------------------------------

Q: Dear apextim,

There's no way it would cost that much, but thanks anyway.

- invincible_inc

A: Dear invincible_inc,

Just so you know the last time I shipped to NS (via FED EX GROUND) was $19 (small MAple Leaf Jersey
$25 is a DEAL

- apextim

-----------------------------------------------------

Q: Dear apextim,

Ok, well I've had 2 V-neck sweaters of about the same size sent in the last month, one came from Lincoln Nebraska, and was 9 dollars shipping (the shipping label actually said $7.87, but I don't really mind paying a little extra when the shipping price is FAIR) and the other was 6 dollars shipping from GLENDALE CALIFORNIA, so please do not insult me and tell me 25 dollars is a deal, because we both know that's insane.

As before, thanks anyway.

A: Dear invincible_inc,

Hey Don't worry about being INSULTED...just worry about BEING a NUT. I really don't WANT your Stinking UPTIGHT Money- if you'd bother to read the ITEM listing it would tell you..."if you don't like the shipping DONT BID"
WHAT PART OF THAT DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND YOU WHACKO CANUCK?
Go harras somebody else and PLEASE>>>>dont worry about be insulted, just worry about being STUPID

--------------------------------------------------

Q: Dear apextim,

What part of you wanting to gouge people for shipping do I not understand? Or what part of you being an ignorant American asshole do I not understand? Just wondering.

Either way, nice rant, psycho.

---------------------------------------------------

There was no response after that. Too bad, it was a super nice sweater.

2007-11-10T21:32:00.000-08:00

It's not like I'm looking for someone to take a bullet for me... I'm looking for someone who is willing to stand in front of a gun with me. Which wasn't such a far fetched idea so long ago.

2007-10-30T17:17:00.000-07:00

I've been wearing the same shirt for six days (bed & out).

Your Satchel?

2007-10-26T12:21:00.000-07:00

I used to work in the hospital system as a patient attendant. It's like a babysitter, except you're not allowed to care for the people you're watching in any direct way really. You're just there to watch and call the nurse in case they are coming into harm.

Darren was a head injury. I know I've written about him before, not sure if it was on this blog, in print or both. Anyways, Darren's head was all fucked up from when he attempted suicide by driving his car into an electrical pole. My day with Darren started at 8am and ended 12 hours later a few days a week. At first he was turbo difficult and would threaten me and stuff. He'd call me a "little faggot." He had a mullet. I remember where he was from, but I'm not gonna print it because there's probably only one "Darren" where he's from. Tiny.

After a few weeks, Darren's demeanor improved a little. A little. He was still pretty much a complete fucking prick. I guess you could blame the botched suicide/head injury. He could be cool, but only for a minute. Then he was shitty as fuck. He had a terrible memory, which resulted in us watching "Outrageous Fortune" about 5 times a day. Fucking "Outrageous Fortune" over and over. Shelly Long. No tits in it or anything.

So yeah, what a fucking prickjob this guy could be. One day I was in the room while the nurse was trying to clean him up. He didn't like that. He just wanted to be left to "Outrageous Fortune" and drinking little cups of juice while making fantastic comments like "Mmmmmmmm. Juicy."

So the nurse is cleaning him up and he's strapped to the bed and saying "No. Fuck off. Fucking bitch, I said no. I don't want to do this right now.", stuff like that. He was getting super pissed off. And then it happened.

I don't want to say that I went into hysterics, because part of me is really ashamed, but there really is no other way to describe how I reacted to what he said next, as she started washing his thighs down with a big sponge.

"While you're down there why don't you smell my bag and tell me if it's clean or not."

I wasn't drinking any juicy juice myself, but if I had been, it'd have gone straight through my sinuses and out of my nose. I might have drowned. I let out the biggest PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!!!! followed by hysterical, belly churning laughter that I maybe ever had. Making it worse was that Darren was looking at me and losing it laughing too. Suffice to say, the nurse was PISSED, but I couldn't help it.

He had only been there a couple weeks at this point. The last time I hung out with Darren was probably more than a year later.

2007-10-22T19:47:00.000-07:00

People do read, I guess telling myself that people don't is the best way to justify my seeming inability to use this thing to any personal gain anymore. Writer's block? Perhaps. I never really think I was much of a "writer", more a random internet ranter. Random ranter. One in a trillion. Bajillion.

Tell them I hate them. I remember "hateful" being one of the first words used to describe me. Well, obvs the earliest ones were "gorgeous", "cute", "handsome" and the incredibly apt "beautiful", but I'm talking early recognition days. 4,5,6, who knows. That word was tossed around a lot. Hateful.

And it was true. I was always breaking shit, taking shit, and fucking everything up. I think I made every cousin within 5 years of my age cry somehow at some point in time. And I cried too. They were all hateful as fuck as well. I still remember vividly that guy who knocked up my mom saying it after I did something to my cousin Kenny. "You're just hateful." And I remember it fucking stinging my heart. First he chose Toronto over me, now he was taking my cousin over me. 4,5,6,7 year olds aren't rational. To be honest, most 20 somethings I know aren't either.

Once I bit my sister and my mom bit me the fuck back. I think the guy who knocked my mom up pulled the same one too. Or I can't remember which one it was. Or it was both. Either way, one of those fuckers bit me. I think that's fucked up, but I don't know. I remember when I was about 17 though my 3ish year old cousin pinching me, and guess what I did? Yep.

It never really ended. I've been biting motherfuckers, or biting motherfuckers back consistently all my life. I like to think that my capacity for hate is simply the result of having so much love in my life. I have a lot of things that I am happy about, and lots of love. Maybe that's why it's so easy to envision myself shitting in desks on Monday afternoon?

I don't even know that that makes sense. I don't know what the fuck is going on, I just know that I can't see myself not biting my kid, and maybe that should scare the shit out of me more than it does.

2007-07-12T21:58:00.000-07:00

Bear Falls, Bitch.

2007-07-04T17:33:00.000-07:00

This weekend past we went camping. Here are some pictures!

This is me with my Metallica shirt. By the river (which is beside the campsite).

Here is Fenwick pretending that he is strong enough to put this log onto the fire.

This is me painted up like an Indian.

And Fenwick and Bob being wrestlers.

Here is Fenwick and I "swimming".

And some men being men.

And then Bob lying down on the woods.

I think that not this weekend but next, some of us will be heading back to Bear Falls, probably leaving late afternoon/after work on Friday the 16th. If anyone is interested they should get in touch. That place is a blast.

40 Things

2007-06-05T19:21:00.000-07:00

I haven't written here in a while and I'm bored. I got this from Crystal:

40 Things You'd Never Think to Ask...

1. Have you ever been searched by the cops?
A few times, yes.

2. Do you close your eyes on roller coasters?
No, But I scream "I want it to end" repeatedly.

3. When's the last time you've been sledding?
Too long ago. But sledding is cold as hell, so fuck it.

4. Would you rather sleep with someone else, or alone?
Both have their merits.

5. Do you believe in ghosts?
Yes. Maybe. No.

6. Do you consider yourself creative?
Creative, yes. Talented, not really.

7. Do you think O.J. killed his wife?
Of course.

8. Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie?
Both have their merits.

9. Can you honestly say you know ANYTHING about politics?
Yes.

10. Do you know how to play poker?
Yes. Not well.

11. Have you ever been awake for 48 hours straight?
No, but I've been in a van for about that long straight a few times.

12. What's your favorite commercial?
Ranch Tooth, FTW.

13. Who was your first love?
I told this girl in grade 7 that I loved her, and I think I meant it.

14. Crystal deleted this one I think.

15. Do you have a secret that no one knows but you?
Doesn't everyone?

16. Boston Red Sox or New York Yankees?
Expos. Because I have a hat.

17. Have you ever been Ice Skating?
Yes. Not for about 15 years.

18. How often do you remember your dreams?
Maybe a third

19. When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried?
One night when me and Jim and maybe Gillis were playing Tiger Woods.

20. Can you name 5 songs by The Beatles?
I'd have to be retarded not to, no?

21. What's the one thing on your mind?
I should shower, my bum feels dirty.

22. Do you believe in love at first sight?
I believe it is possible, yes.

23. Do you know who Ba-Ba-Booey is?
Fuck Baba Booey. SCHARPLING FOREVER!!!

24. Do you always wear your seat belt?
Usually just on the highway. Sorry.

26. Do you like Sushi?
I'm growing more fond of it. I want to go out and get all the crazy shit soon.

27. Have you ever narrowly avoided a fatal accident?
More than once.

28. What do you wear to bed?
Shirt I wore that day. I usually wear my socks and then kick them off during the night.

30. Does size matter?
Small dick.

31. Do you truly hate anyone?
I think I might.

32. Rock or Rap?
Rock.

33. If you could sleep with one famous person, who would it be?
Someone with fake tits. Probably a porn star.

34. Do you know anyone in jail?
I dropped him off at the methadone clinic 2 weeks ago. He was supposed to call me that night. I assume he made it home.

35. Have you ever sang in front of the mirror?
No. Air guitar daily.

37. What food do you find disgusting?
Raw, crunchy onions. Fuck off with that shit.

38. Did you ever play, I'll show you mine if you show me yours?
I showed a lot of people mine when I was a kid. Then when I was a teenager. I still do it sometimes. I'll probably get charges someday.

39. Have you ever made fun of your friends behind their back?
Probably daily.

40. Have you ever stood up for someone you hardly knew?
Of course.

2007-04-04T18:18:00.000-07:00

There's so much to keep inside right now due to the confidentiality agreements involved. The outside world mirrors life at work. I actually started that sentence typing "The outside work" which seems so much more fitting now that I look at what it looked like upon correction, except that there is no work involved except to accept that you have no work to do. To accept the exception, which is you. I'm the exception and my tongue is almost bitten through.

Frustration is at it's highest when you realize that you are completely outside of a particular situation and powerless to effect it. That doesn't mean that the frustration stops short of reaching a boiling point. When a pot is completely full and it boils too heavily, the shit spills everywhere. Tip me over and pour me out.

I'm going shopping.

Dogme 95

2007-03-04T18:13:00.000-08:00

"I swear to submit to the following set of rules drawn up and confirmed by DOGME 95:

		1.	Shooting must be done on location. Props and sets must not be brought in (if a particular prop is necessary for the story, a location must be chosen where this prop is to be found).
		2.	The sound must never be produced apart from the images or vice versa. (Music must not be used unless it occurs where the scene is being shot).
		3.	The camera must be hand-held. Any movement or immobility attainable in the hand is permitted. (The film must not take place where the camera is standing; shooting must take place where the film takes place).
		4.	The film must be in colour. Special lighting is not acceptable. (If there is too little light for exposure the scene must be cut or a single lamp be attached to the camera).
		5.	Optical work and filters are forbidden.
		6.	The film must not contain superficial action. (Murders, weapons, etc. must not occur.)
		7.	Temporal and geographical alienation are forbidden. (That is to say that the film takes place here and now.)
		8.	Genre movies are not acceptable.
		9.	The film format must be Academy 35 mm.
		10.	The director must not be credited.

Furthermore I swear as a director to refrain from personal taste! I am no longer an artist. I swear to refrain from creating a "work", as I regard the instant as more important than the whole. My supreme goal is to force the truth out of my characters and settings. I swear to do so by all the means available and at the cost of any good taste and any aesthetic considerations.
Thus I make my VOW OF CHASTITY."

Copenhagen, Monday 13 March 1995

On behalf of DOGME 95

List of Dogme 95 films to date.

Ronery. I'm So Ronery.

2007-02-22T16:22:00.000-08:00

I just watched Festen. Wow. Not a real barrel of laughs. Man. I feel horrible. Wow.

Holly will rarely watch reading movies with me, so this is what happens. I end up with a whole surplus of them and she goes away for the night, I watch one by myself and become a crystal chandelier. Jesus Christ the movies from away are always killers.

So who is around tonight? I think Mark Black left today and Ian too. LDK may be home? Who knows. There's a thing I could go to, but maybe I'd have to get out of pajamas to do that. I don't know if I can. Maybe.

I really like this band called The D.C. Snipers, and not just because Tommy told me I should. Fucking A.

Pork Chops are a calling, and you should too if you wanna be hanging.

2007-02-09T22:47:00.000-08:00

Tonight was kinda cool. It was good to sit around with Cara in a mall and talk to her about the way things are. It's not like it resolved any of the thoughts in my head with regards to anything, it was just kind of refreshing to be understood and to be challenged on some of my shit. Telling her some of the things that I should have told her when we lived together was cool too. She is one of the good ones.

I really like how Holly's fish will play with me when it's late and I'm drunk. I'm gonna go pick on Pinky-Pie now. Then tomorrow imma suck some shit out of that tank.... Then the next day imma move some furniture into the house..... Then a week from that imma go snowmobiling.... then

Top 10 Records 2006

2007-01-30T08:06:00.000-08:00

10) Mastodon: Blood Mountain - Crazy metal, sludgy, fast and riffilicious in turn. I like it even better than Leviathan I think, which I imagine isn't a particularly popular opinion. Fucking whatever. This album rules.

9)Lillingtons: The Too Late Show - They've been around forever. I guess they took some time off before this album and are "back" or whatevs. This is good, straight up old school skate punk rock. Remember "Suffer"? Me either.

8)The Marked Men: Fix My Brain - I still can't believe the Marked Men are on Swami. That's fucking crazy. I wonder if those snobs at Rip Off slag on them now. This record is about some girls and stuff. Slick garage.

7)Lily Allen: Alright Still - I guess she's like the female Mike Skinner, except I like listening to her album. She calls the police "The Filth" and she does the toilet talk. I bet she has a huge bush.

6)The Lawrence Arms: Oh! Calcutta! - I saw this band open for NOFX in '06 and they were amazing. This record is so fucking good, amazing melodies and great songs. I've always been a sucker for the dual vocal trade offs and they excel at it. Dope.

5)Converge: No Heroes - I really don't have to qualify this one. It's fucking Converge, so you know it's gonna make my list. Still not feeling the romantic song, or this may have placed higher.

4)NOFX: Wolves In Wolves' Clothing - I hereby call "bullshit" on anyone whose favorite NOFX album is "Punk In Drublic" or "White Trash". That is sentimental bullshit that will stand in the way of appreciating a band that has gotten more amazing with every release they have ever put out. Fuck you, you poseur.

3)Eulcid: Hope And Songs To Sing - I shouldn't even include this because my friend Mike Law is in this band, but I think he's kind of a bastard, so it eliminates my bias while kind of making it sting a little that I think this record is so fucking good. Fuck.

2)Clorox Girls: Eva Braun - This 45 is perfect. Coupling a love song about Hitler and Eva with a track about finding your lady's pube in your mouth (with a chorus chant of "Pube in my mouth! Pube in my mouth!") is a fucking no-brainer. In 3 minutes these guys have accomplished what punk hasn't been able to in the 30 years previous.

1)Jay Reatard: Blood Visions - Fucking amazing. This guy used to be right gritty, and maybe he still is. He's always posting things on his Myspace about how he's going to die soon. Cheer up, garage kid. This album has everything I've ever wanted or needed in a punk rock album. The love songs aren't cheesy, the diss tracks are cutting, the whole thing is flawless. Every song is good. Holy shit, I'm going to listen the fuck out of this on the way to work.

2007-01-25T22:50:00.000-08:00

If Mike was here right now we'd go in there all stealth like..... They wouldn't even know what was happening before they woke up to a couple of giggling idiot pretend nazis laughing at their dumb sleepy faces.

Then I just told Bleubird that they throw his ass out of Florida, which isn't going to happen, because Fla is the most easy going, retardly accommodating state in America..... as long as you don't revolt against the bible in any way.

And you know how into The Bible I am.

Seriously though, The reason I was calling Mtl is because I wish Scoopy was here right now so we could go mount guns and wait for boneheads at Woozley.

Death to racists.

Seriously.

2007-01-12T01:23:00.000-08:00

You know what the best part about being the long lost child of an asshole in the woods?

Calling him at 4 in the morning and screaming at him for an hour. It's the perfect thing for the perpetual drunk. Part of me wants to make things right, and part of me wants to keep this outlet. I'm so torn.

Nothing Is Fair

2007-01-05T20:31:00.000-08:00

I forgot what these nights were like. Just sitting here drinking because I have to. The last bunch of hours have been kind of bad for me, but not a fraction as bad as they've been for others.

There is no pretty or nice way to say it. Two people I used to know a little bit were shot yesterday. Her name was Helen. She was a beautiful, happy, funny, giving person. Full of life and love. Yesterday morning she was killed in her home in New Orleans.

His name is Paul and he is her husband and the father of her beautiful son Francis. I remember him being just as beautiful, happy, funny and giving as Helen. He clearly adored her. He was shot three times yesterday morning. He is still in the hospital. When the police arrived Francis was in his arms.

The truth is that I haven't seen or spoken to these people in about 8 years, but this stings worse than anything could right now. How something so unspeakable could happen to them is beyond me.

I really don't know what else to write, and I don't know what else to say. I've been at a loss, and probably will remain so.

http://www.helenhill.org/

I have a party every Xmas Eve

2006-12-24T09:10:00.000-08:00

This year is no different. Holler if you're inristed.

2006-12-20T04:13:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday Holly, I love you,
Even though you have a beard!

Happy Birthday Holly, I love you,
Even though you are perverted and weird!

2.50 A Fucking Minute

2006-12-09T19:21:00.000-08:00

"What the fuck kind of message was that? It was just like, a 30 second mumble."

"Are you upset with me?"

"A little bit. I think you had a bit too much to drink last night."

"Yeah. That's true."

"Did you drive a car?"

"No."

"Okay. That makes me a little less angry."

It's amazing how your friends can pick you up so easily when you're down sometimes. For all of our whining, bitching, and complaining, there is really nothing we can do to escape the fact that we all have a lot of really awesome people in our lives.

Tonight it's really good to know that someone who is far away and probably has better shit to be doing genuinely cares about how I'm doing. I love the people who are parts of my life, and they are all irreplaceable.

2006-12-08T23:05:00.000-08:00

I guess like, the big thing back "In The Day" was like, you weren't hanging out online, you were actually hanging out. So if you weren't ready to go to bed, there was someone around who would explore the city with you. Like, I've been down to the Grain Elevators once, and the time I was there a cop stopped the car because they thought Derrick and I were soliciting whores.

That was 1998. I had pot in my big ol cargo pants. The cops scared the hell out of me when I got out of the car. Derrick too. They found a beer in the back seat. Plus there was a hooker with her head up in the window. This was when the Lighthouse was there. She wanted to suck some dick whether the cops watched or not. I was a high kid driving around with D for some reason that I can't remember.

Maybe I should feel bad for the hooker.

I Am A Terrible Plant

2006-12-07T20:59:00.000-08:00

I wrote this thing for The Coast. I felt weird writing it based on the fact that at the time I was asked I couldn't even come up with 10 video games that I had played that had come out in 2006. I guess that is probably why 2 of them actually came out in 2005 (and why at the time that I wrote the article I had only actually played half of them). It came out pretty good. There was an edit that went unfortunately awry and kind of makes it seem like I'm incapable of writing a coherent sentence, but these things happen. Overall I am pretty happy with it.

So I guess it is officially LDK's birthday right now. LD has been one of my bffs lately, so happy birthday, Little Davey. Here is a picture of him eating French Fries, and four of him passing out drunk at the hockey game.

"There are hot cheerleaders everywhere LD, what is your fucking problem?"

3 Things I've Really Been Liking

2006-11-23T20:44:00.000-08:00

1) People who call certain kinds of booze "The Panty Remover." Usually it is a grandmother or mother and it goes something like this:

"Ohhhhhhh. Lemon Gin, I seeeeee. That's the Panty Remover."

2) Calling ugly girls "dogs". What happened? People used to say that all the time. Don't try to pull that "we've grown as a society" bullshit, because we still call women filthy fucking shit all the time, but I haven't heard someone say "she's a fucking dog" in a long, LONG time. Mark Black has been known to call people "woofs" but I call bullshit on that. No more "woofs". These bitches are fucking DOGS.

3) Using the term "I am going to rape your whole family" as a retaliation. It would be offensive if it wasn't so ludicrous:

"Gerry, you're such a cunt"
"I swear to god, I'm going to rape your whole family."

You're not allowed to get mad at me for that one unless you can present to me an instance of someones whole family being raped by one person. And I'm not talking about a group of sisters and a few cousins either, it has to be the "whole family".

I also have some new year's resolutions. Maybe tomorrow.

Turn Both Heads and Let the Sleep In

2006-11-16T19:24:00.000-08:00

Lets go with one of those general update thingies.

Mark and Holly and I have been attending as many Mooseheads home games as possible. It has been really fun and I really love it. The team isn't too bad either, the passing and the powerplay need heavy work, but it's alright. Some of these guys are like 16 years old. Crazy. I am ten years older than some of these kids. Crazier.

Anyways, the idea of season tickets next year is being thrown around and I am pretty excited at the prospect. We just have to figure out what kind of seats we would want. Mark likes being in the end (gross). I'm kinda more of a 8 rows up in the corner or one of the sides kinda guy. I guess we still have like 20 or more regular season games to sit around the rink and hash it out. There really aren't too many bad seats for hockey in the Metro Center, which really makes you realize how small the MC is compared to sports arenas in other cities.

Xmas is coming around again which means busy as hell soon. Holly and I will be among the hoards running out to the BLIP on Sunday to try to get our hands on the Nintendo Wii. Our plan is pretty good, really. Holly will be stationed at EB waiting for it to open, I'll be at the Future Shop. When the first of us gets a Wii in our hands we call the other one. If by chance I get into Future Shop and there's none there, I'll boot 'er over to Wal Mart. After that it'll be a couple glorious days of playing it before re boxing it and giving it to Mommy Sampson, who will wrap it up for Holly as if she doesn't know what she's getting.

Besides that there is the annual Xmas eve party, which Bob, Ian and myself have been in casual planning for. The Fenwick mini-fam has decided to utilize their living room this year, so for the first time, I will be hosting in my house. Stoked. It is the 9th one, which is actually kind of crazy. The year when I will have to miss one will come sooner or later, so I relish the opportunity to relive this tradition for one more year every holiday season. Will there be guitar hero? Maybe. Will there be prank phone calls to any "halifamous" person whose # I can get my hands on? Probably. Will there be booze? Yes.

I also got myself an early Xmas gift this year. It is a 150W Marshall 212 combo amp. I intend to never here the song "Because I Got High" without due retribution ever again.

That's it for now. There really hasn't been a lot of time for much else. I've been working (full) full time for the past month and a half, and it has actually been largely awesome. The money is getting better, and I have a couple raises coming up over the holidays. Dope. I tuned into listen to Best Show for the first time in months the other night and for the first time in months, there was no Best Show. Schwag.

Respect to the fallen. Love to the living.
Peace.

Zit Kat

2006-11-04T07:19:00.000-08:00

"ZitKat" is by far my favorite Wacky Packages card EVER. Look how gross.

Built on Suspect

2006-11-01T14:32:00.000-08:00

This is still the best album and song ever released.

This One's For The Chicken

2006-10-29T09:28:00.000-08:00

Like I said, the last few weeks have been fucking BUSY with visits and activity. As promised, here are a whole bunch of pictures:

Dave Harrison was visiting for much of this, so he is kind of one of the stars. He slept on the couch a lot. I filled him in on what happened last night almost as often...

I like these. Me and Davek is from some drinking thing up in the 5816. I think Trish took it. That Dave and Craig is from the Attic. I like the way the light works in it.
-------------------------------------
The next ones all take place around the time of the Moneen visit in early October...

Dave with his Tito's Wodka and also Dave making a pussy out of a piece of pepperoni off the pizza in the band room. He did not remember this the next day and was very concerned as to whether or not he got tomato sauce all over his white cowboy shirt...

Here are some good Moneen night action shots:

Here is Stevedave and my girlfriend cuddling up next to Dave. Fuck.

This one of Mike and Francesca is nice, and the one with Kenny is funny too I guess.

Hippy and I and.... my tramp girlfriend pressing up on another one of my friends...
------------------------------------
This is Randy at the Attic. It didn't really fit in anywhere, but I saw them, and they were awesome:

Around this time Matias and Karen came from Toronto. They lived with us off and on and we were a bit of a family for awhile. We did dipshit tourist things like the brewery tour, the NS art gallert and going to the Lower Deck:

Me & Hol @ the brewery tour / Matias & Karen @ Mollyz

We went to the Lower Deck and got right drunk. We drank a serious amount of beer that week.

The ladies really got in there and shook it up with the guy in the brown...... who was seiously into dancing....

Seriously.

I forgot to add that a lot of these pics were taken by Matias. Gold.

Everytime the came over they brought us a gift. The guy at Sobeys totally typoed the cake. My an asshole.

One night they stayed at the Sheraton. It had a pool so we all went swimming and then took a bath together. Their last night here we all had dinner in our livingroom. We were sad when they left.
-------------------------------------------

BOAT MONEY.
-------------------------------------------

Melissa, Ian, Holly. Work Training. Doodle time:

"Lasagne" by Ian Hart / "All Aboard" by Gerry Hubley

"Gerry Hubley" by Ian Hart

"Holly Sampson" by Ian Hart
-------------------------------------

Finally, last night was Halloween show and party. I didn't get any pics at the show, but here's some other things that went down:

Mark Black treated a bunch of us to a hockey game. "The Herd" beat "The Acrobats" in overtime.

At Deacon House the pumpkins were great...

Bob was scary....

Lionel was too early....

And everyone was getting retarded.

Holly hates the flash on my phone.

So that is October. Our house is a fucking mess, it is starting to get cold. I dont think there are any good pics of H and I in costume so maybe we'll take some tonight and put em up later.

Peace.

2006-10-28T23:19:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah! And I think that if you are really just going to dress up as crazy lingerie girl on all hallows, then there is something greater that you need to realize about yourself. That something is that you want to dress slutty, and really, you shouldn't have to have this "holiday" to make it acceptable to you - You should do it whenever you feel like it. All year long. I guarantee you that most of us aren't going to look down upon you - Quite the opposite, but doing it on Halloween is fucking boring.

Like seriously. What were you for Halloween? A "slut"? I'm just really confused and if that is what you were I think it is kind of offensive.

2006-10-28T23:13:00.000-07:00

Tonight the fake Vincent Vega put a bag of "Coke" in my face and asked me if I was interested. I politely declined and said something to the effect that it was a little early for me. As soon as I saw it I wanted to take a shit. Later I realized it was a part of the costume and that I shouldn't have been so uncomfortable (not to mention stupid enough to think that this bum was holding 3-4 grams at twenty past one).

Happy sluttyclothingween!

This One's For The Children

2006-10-21T21:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when Holly and I are out at a friends place and I'm drinking beer or whatever. The sentence really ends there.

I get the sneaking suspicion that my eyes are being wooled. Like, obviously like a good guy, I'm going to offer her a beer (even after she has said she doesn't want any), but when the night is getting on in its age and my beloved accepts I get the feeling that she isn't drinking the beer because she wants a beer, but because she knows that that is one less beer between me drinking and us going home. Sneaky bitch. She's cutting down on my booze time and she's passing the savings onto herself. Sneaky little bitch.

Oh well. My gut will probably thank her, and truth be told, if this has really been her little scheme all along, and it took me this long to wise up to it, then I definitely deserve it. You are sneaky. I love you.

I gave in a couple weeks ago and got a cell phone. Actually, I totally shouldn't word it like that. I don't see getting a phone as a huge compromise in my morals or beliefs or anything. I'm not of the school that thinks cell phones are totally lame and obnoxious.... I mean they are obnoxious, but in the grand scheme of things, they are pretty low on the obnoxious list.... Like, I think that for the most part I find the possession of most large amplifiers more obnoxious than the average dialer. This is just an example. A dog or a really bumping car stereo with some frame-rattling "mad bass" could just as easily be subbed in.

So yeah, I got a phone. I could have went with the cheap mode, but whatever, I've waited this long to get one, so I dropped some cash and went to the top. I can take pictures and video, I have bluetooth and I can hold up to 1 gig (to be 4 gigs as soon as my new card comes) of music. Again, I've heard "why do you need all that?" and the answer is that I do not. Of course why should that stop me. Is it ever really about need? Do you "need" half the shit you have?

The last few weeks have been seriously pack-packed, and I can't even begin to tell you how much sleep I have missed. I will probably be posting a lot of pics in the next few days. I don't know how into long, detailed narratives I am anymore, but I know you all just come here for the pictures anyway. No sleep.

Finally, I just want to shout out to Scoops. Chin up, Joe. Life throws you more curve balls than you fucking deserve, and you're bound to catch a good break someday soon. You are the silver lining. Love.

The Canary Sleeps

2006-09-27T12:56:00.000-07:00

Well, now I've worked about 4 or 5 weeks in the last 4 months. At first it was awesome. It was just what I hoped for is probably a more fitting way of phrasing it, and in mid August when they told me that it would probably be more like October that I came back full time, I felt even more relief then. More time to do nothing! Holly's back in school, so a good portion of the time I have no reason not to do nothing at all (untangle that sentence)! Yep, going back to work in October suited me just fine.

Now it's looking more like November and I'm borrrred. The summer is definitely over. Anyone who wasn't working or in school is back, and I'm here in my house. Same as usual, getting EI and waiting for the Nintendo Wii to come out. We did very well for the whole summer, and the bills haven't quite started falling behind yet, but I can feel the pockets getting looser. I have about 50 dollars to spend in the next week. And even then, I have to put 65% of whatever I get on my severely stretched out Mastercard. Bung. Welcome to adult.

2006-09-26T08:04:00.000-07:00

I saw Kanye play on Saturday. He was pretty dope. It was too rainy and cold so I left for the old men, never to return. Sorry Scoopy.

My friend Matias is coming to visit next month, which I am excited about. In addition to being a quality dude, he is a fucking mindblowing artist. Want your mind blown? Click the shit down below.