West Coast Tour Blog, Day 6

Who was it that wrote "I Love LA"? Oh right, Randy Newman. He's an idiot. LA freaks me out. Not in the same way that Pennsylvania does, where I feel like there might be a Klan rally going on around every corner, but pretty similar. As we drove down the 5, I felt like Marlow venturing into the heart of darkness. Nevertheless, we pressed on and arrived at the Holiday Inn in Pasadena at the golden hour for our gig at Mr. T's Bowl.



Proud papa Mike Saccento met us at our hotel and took us to the Pie 'n Burger for dinner, which was delicious. Steve and Drew's rowdy enthusiasm nearly got us kicked out of the place.



Then it was off to Mr. T's Bowl, a former bowling alley that now serves as a laid-back, dive-y music venue. That said, it was right up our alley (wah wah), except for the fact that beers and shots were about 7 bucks apiece, even for the cool people in the band. How's a sucka supposed to get his drink on with prices like that? Anyway, a whole bunch of our friends came out and it was fun meeting up with everybody, such as myspace friend/fan, Ms. Christie, who brought out some friends and took some photos, and Kieran from Bar 9 (our favorite bar in NYC)who happened to be in LA at the time. The show was good and we stuck around for a while taking shots of Absinthe, which tasted like liquid ass and didn't even make us hallucinate. We were all pretty exhausted at this point, and my Elvis suit was starting to smell like a dead body. Thankfully, we had another gig in LA the next night, so John, Mike and I went back to our friend Steve and Kate's place, while the newly formed Team C-Section (Boro, Drew and Steve) went back to the hotel, to get some much needed rest.

West Coast Tour Blog, Day 5

I left my heart in San Francisco a couple years ago, so we decided to go looking for it.



John wandered off to see if it was at a happy ending massage parlor, while the rest of us searched for it in Golden Gate Park.



It wasn't there. John didn't have any luck either, so he decided to come meet us at Golden Gate Park. However, we left and met up with Steve and Jamie (who had parted ways with us after the gig in Sacramento) and headed up to "hippie hill," as it is appropriately called.



As we walked up the hill we were serenaded by Future John Dorocki, an old man sitting under a tree playing weird ambient music on a synthesizer. We all had a good laugh at John's expense, especially since he was on his way to meet us at Golden Gate Park, and we weren't there.



It was quite a lovely day outside, and we baked in the hot sun. I soon freaked out when an enormous, scary-looking dog started heading up the hill straight for me in slow motion. I was quite certain it was going to kill me. The owner approached and told us that he wanted to go hang out with his buddies, but that their dog and his don't get along, so he handed me the leash and told me to watch his dog for a while. I cannot accurately convey the terror and bewilderment I felt at the time, so let me just say that I'm glad I hadn't eaten breakfast, or I most certainly would have shat myself. I handed the leash off to Jamie and cautiously backed away from the demon spawn. John called and said he was coming to meet us at hippie hill, so we decided to venture off to Amoeba records, through an obstacle course of burned-out zombies, dealers and freaks. "It's a beautiful day out here, isn't it?" some hippie girl asked us along the way, and that might have scared me even more than the dog. Hippies have always scared the shit out of me, much in the same way that some people are terrified of clowns. I'm all for peace and love, but please get your head out of your asses, hippies.

Anyhow, we made it to Amoeba records, and wandered around like mental patients at the zoo for an hour or so. Somehow I managed to find a few good cds for cheap, Barry Black (a mostly instrumental cd by Eric Bachmann), Palace Music, and Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks. John called again and we decided that we should probably meet up with him at some point, so we picked him up on the street somewhere. At this point we were listening to Barry Black and it was blowing my mind like a billion dollar hooker. Best two bucks I ever spent. We headed for the beach, where John started wandering off again.



Unfortunately, he came back.







"Say Mike, that was pretty lame was John just did right there," Steve said.
"You mean that thing where he charged right through us and struck a really dumb pose?" Mike asked.
"Yeah. Let's drown him," Steve replied.
"Okay," said Mike.



And so they did. Boris looked on, visibly upset, so I walked over to console him. I explained to him that this was necessary for the good of the band, and ultimately for the best.



Boris didn't take it very well, and weeped for his fallen Team D-bagger.



We decided it would be best to photograph this sign, in case anyone investigated John's disappearance, so we could claim it must have been an accident.



We headed back to the hotel, and Mike parked the car at a meter but didn't have any change. "Does it take nickles?" Boris asked. "Dick Nickles?" I replied, confused, "Who's Dick Nickles?" "Dick Nickles?" Boris asked, equally confused. "Dick Nickles," I said. This went on for a while, and earned Boris the new nickname of Dick Nickles. Then we went out for Chinese food. Eventually the sun set, and it was time to do what the Americans call "rock and roll."





Epic Arts was an interesting venue, as it was basically a Victorian house that had been converted into an art space, with the bands playing in the living room. It was a pretty hot place, and I mean that literally, as there was very little ventilation and the manager baking brownies didn't help the situation. But lifeguards can take the heat.

Before the show I was walking around and started talking to some dude. I asked him if he worked at Epic Arts, he said no. I asked him if he was in the other band, he said no. I asked him if he was there to see the other band, and he said no, that he was friends with us on myspace and was there to see us. I thought he was joking, but apparently he was serious. I was rendered speechless. I mean, that's what you hope for when you go on tour, but that was the first time it ever happened to me. Hell, my old band The Hungry Housewives went on tour for a month and we didn't meet any fans. Or make any fans. In fact I think it's safe to say we only made enemies. But anyway, his name was Mark and I give him what the kids call "mad props." Another myspace buddy showed up, Diane from the band Pete's Dragon, and it was great to finally meet her as well. Also in attendance were Mark Antinoro, Doust, and the infamous Nick Oliver, who I turned the tide on and preemptively started heckling.



It was a fun show. As the band we played with, Leilujh, wrote on their website,

"Lifeguard Nights is an incredibly likeable band from New York City who were great fun to watch. The highlight of their set had to have been the drummer telling their super-stoned keyboard player 'Man, you gotta stop doing that,' when the keyboard player sat down on the couch, took off his shoes, and started crawling around and beating on the drums."

The keyboard player, of course, was John Dorocki, who crawled out of the ocean like Swamp Thing, just to disrupt our set. Like Seagal, he's hard to kill, marked for death and above the law. Out for justice and half past dead on deadly ground. He's a glimmer man, that one. A mercenary for justice, out of reach and into the sun. The prince of pistols, you might say.

I broke my "no scotch rule" during this show, and downing a whole pint didn't cool the place off at all. I was forced to disrobe.



Afterwards, I remembered why I instituted a "no scotch rule" in the first place, when I got back to the hotel and proceeded to vomit every twenty minutes for 8 hours straight. Good times.

Oh, and we never found my heart.
Waah.

West Coast Tour Blog, Day 4

We all woke up pretty well hungover after the birthday festivities, with a long drive to Sacramento ahead of us, so that was not awesome. Also not awesome: the fact that we had to head inland and leave the coastline and the redwoods behind, so we decided to park our matching Mercury Mariners (www.mercurymariner.com) for one last stroll through nature. Yeah that's right, Mercury Mariners (www.mercurymariner.com). While all the hip indie bands are traveling around with their environmentally friendly bio-diesel vehicles, we rented two SUV's. Take that, hipsters. Take that, Earth, you old bastard.



Boris and I found a nice place to have a discussion on the global economy as it relates to foreign policy and the strong-arm tactics employed by the American dictatorship. At least I think that's what we talked about. It was either that or poo. Maybe it was poo. I can't remember.



Drew Brady makes his first appearance in the tour blog in this next photo, as he and I answer the age old existential question, "If a tree falls in the forest, does anybody give a shit?" Meanwhile, Mike Steve and Boris were all distracted by a hungry bear that was wandering towards us in search of food.



Bravely, Mike Biskup beat off the bear with a stick. Hmmm...there's gotta be a better way to say that.



Before we left, Steve swore that he could rip a tree in half with his mind if he concentrated hard enough. We didn't believe him, so he set out to prove us wrong.



At first we thought he was just constipated, and then this happened.



We were pretty fucking blown away by the power of Steve's mind. Remember that in case you're thinking of crossing him. Anyhow, we hit the road and headed for Sacramento. Team D-Bag lived up to their name by giving us the scenic route directions, while they stopped off at a Vineyard and took the direct route.



The "scenic route", by the way, was a one-lane road under construction, which had us stopped dead for a good 45 minutes while we waited for the west-bound cars to pass. Thanks to the scenic route, Mike Biskup nearly died of starvation, leaving me to nurse him back to health at the venue.



Then we played pool. Everybody won.



As for the show...um...I'm not gonna lie to ya, Sacramento on a Monday night? Not all that wild. The stage was nice and big though.



The highlight of the show was when Steve used his mind powers to make his toms disappear.



Then we went to bed.

West Coast Tour Blog, Day 3

After waking up with a case of heartburn that would probably kill Tommy Lasorda, we packed up and headed on out on a long, scenic drive to Arcata, California. Steve took the wheel in one hand and lit up a cigarette in the other, a modern day lone ranger.



I sat shotgun, his very own Tonto. Most of the drive looked like this.



Until Steve downed his 8th beer. And then it looked more like this.



Eventually we hit the Redwoods (not literally, thankfully) and pulled over to fondle some nature. Birthday boy Mike Biskup was especially aroused, and started giving the business to one of the poor trees.





As an avid outdoorsman and friend of all living things, I couldn't help but take offense to Mike's unbridled savagery, even if it was birthday.



I needed to teach Mike a lesson, and what better way than giving him a taste of his own medicine?



Mike cried a little, but I think he liked it. Afterwards, we cuddled, and I think he gained a newfound respect for nature, as you can see from the look on his face.



After this brief lesson in nature and sodomy, we got back in the car and headed for the California coast. I was soon informed via text message that the Giants, at one point down 17-3 to the Washington Redskins, had come back to win the game with a goal line stand. And then we saw this...



and this...



...and for a good twenty minutes or so, I believed that God didn't hate me. We parked the car at a tiny beach along the way, so Mike could have lunch, and everyone else could take photos of each other's penises. It was a good time.





"What do you say, Vino?" Boris inquired.



"I say I think I smell weed," I said, "Let's follow this scent, and see where it leads."



And so we did. Not surprisingly, it led us directly to Muddy's Hot Cup, the quaint little venue in Humboldt County at which we were playing at that evening. We met Kate, the manager of the place, who was awesome. Here she is wearing our limited edition "Jay Biskup Thinks You're An Asshole" t-shirt, with John and Mike outside the bar.



Kate was not the only awesome Arcata-ian. A magician named Shantaram, who owned the liquor store across the street, impressed us all by making a free bottle of Ketel One appear. We gratefully thanked him, and performed a little magic trick ourselves by making the vodka disappear. Shortly thereafter, I wound up with a bra on my head.



One guy, the only Arcata-ian who was not awesome, demanded that I give him the bra, claiming it was his ex-girlfriend's. I respectfully declined to comply with his wishes, as this was the first under-garment I have ever received while performing, and it smelled pretty. We played for quite a while and it was a fun mess of a time. I don't know happened. Band members were coming and going from the stage every few minutes, audience members were playing with the band, and at one point I think I was talking in between songs for about twenty minutes straight (about what, I do not recall). Suffice it to say I think we all had a pretty strong contact high, some of us from just breathing in the Arcata air, some of us from putting our lips on joints and breathing in the sweet marijuana smoke. We made some great new friends, like these people....



...and these people, who were actually lifeguards. Respect.



Good times were had by all. It certainly wasn't our most well-attended show, and definitely not our best performance, but undoubtedly the most fun show of the trip. Many thanks to Kate and all the fine people of Arcata, except that one guy who was a douche.

West Coast Tour Blog, Day 2

After waking up with a case of heartburn that would make Tommy Lasorda proud, I stumbled down to meet Drew and Boris at the hotel cafe for breakfast. I was hoping it was a complimentary breakfast, but alas, it was not. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it was an insulting breakfast. The waiter was about as friendly as Stalin, the coffee should have been ashamed of itself (especially in Seattle), and the prices seemed like they were set in the distant future after a serious rise in inflation. But you know me, I don't like to complain....

As we packed up our crap, Mike's keen eye (with the aid of Steve's 2-nocs) managed to spy a bunch of junkies hanging out on the street corner below. We managed to catch one lucky fellow actually jamming a needle into his arm, while one of his buddies stumbled around trying to pull up his pants for about 10 minutes. Unfortunately, none of the postcards in the hotel gift shop depicted such a beautiful scene, so I bought one of the Space Needle instead. Close enough.

We waved bye bye to Seattle...



...and hello to Portland, where I ruined Steve's beautiful nature shot of two pigeons crapping on a water fountain by walking into frame.



Later in the day, Mike Biskup was reunited with his birth family.



After those heartwarming moments, we decided to celebrate by heading over to the venue we were playing at that night, The Red Room, to check it out. As we pulled into the parking lot, we learned that beer had called to say it missed us, which was great news!



"Coincidentally," Mike said, "I miss beer."



We all laughed. Especially Steve, who giggled like a sissy.



It always gets me hot when Steve giggles like a sissy, so I ran over and gave him a licking.



Boris got a little jealous of Team A-Hole's sexual chemistry, and invited Team D-Bag's John Dorocki over to give him a licking of his own.



John seemed to like the idea.



After all the licking, we reunited with our old friend beer, and played a show too. It was fun. Unfortunately, my plans to reunite with my old high school buddy and secret society FlexGrip member Pat Hayden fell through, when he didn't show up. After a number of $1 mystery shots (which may or may not have been rat poison), we headed back to Flirt's Lounge at the Holiday Inn, where a wedding reception was taking place. The spirit of Elvis (with a little help from those $1 mystery shots) took control of my body.



In all the excitement, I'm quite certain I wet myself. I ran upstairs, ordered another late night pizza, blew a couple lines of parmesan cheese, and called it a night.