TheDisseminatedGroup[dot]Com

TOUR
12/30/03
Here's an update a long time in coming: the end of tour update. The tour is over, obviously, but I still feel like I'm on the road. For the band the tour ended on Saturday January 20th or very early on the 21st depending on what significance passing the hour of midnight holds for you. The show in Corona was marvelous: Ciril and All or Nothing HC both played fantastic sets (and Ciril pulled it off under the stress of missing one of their guitar players), The Frisk and Swindle were there for the final show, and Naked Aggression finished off the night in high form with more audience members than band members taking the stage for the final songs. (for a while there I couldn't see the band anymore).
After the show in Phoenix (another good one) we had a day off to haul ass back to Los Angeles to return the van, drop everyone off at their respective houses and apartments and get a break from each other for a day until the show in San Diego on the 19th. After the lengthy van unloading process, Kirsten and I began to settle back in, and I decided to press that hideous flashing eye of the illuminati on the answering machine; it beckoned me, winking on and off with the promise of dozens of scintillating messages all for me. The machine played on and the machine played on until upon what must have been the last inch of tape the tour promoter spoke. He said he hoped we knew that we had a show tomorrow (actually tonight) on the 18th in Lancaster. Good Lord! No we did not know. No rest for the wicked; the calls were made; the forces mustered and gathered, and Swindle and Naked Aggression made their appointed show in Lancaster. But I did not. I stayed in L.A. I was sick of this driving bullshit, and besides, Return of the King was playing.
The next day San Diego went as San Diego does, and Naked Aggression played before what I must assess as a rather unenthused audience. There were lots of people in that unenthused audience, but they remained less than thrilled none the less. I don't know what it is about San Diego. Maybe it's all the military bases. Maybe it's the sensimilla. Or maybe Naked Aggression and Meet The Virus simply play horribly there. Maybe they're loose and stand about like waxen figures under the stage lights. Perhaps Kirsten loses her normally terrific voice and forgets her succinct and fully realized vocal melodies and instead croaks out dull lullabies. That doesn't seem to be the case, not to my ears at any rate, but I must draw a conclusion based on the typical San Diegans reaction, and that's my conclusion. I dare not blame anyone or anything save the band on those particular nights that they happen to take the stage there in California's most southern city.
After the San Diego show we all returned to the Swindle house for the end of tour party. I drank some whisky, and talked to some people, therefore it wasn't too bad. The house was pretty crowded; people passed each other shoulder to shoulder as they milled about. This is normal at good parties in small houses, but one asshole at the crowded party in the small house didn't seem to understand that there's no way to avoid some minor bumping and jostling as a body passes a body coming through the kitchen. That asshole, with a skinhead hair cut, stared Kirsten down as we walked by as if he was about to take a swing. I tensed, hand gripping the handle of my 1.75 of Jim Beam tight, ready to plant that sucker right on the crown of that fucker. Luckily I didn't have too, and others at the party agreed that that asshole was being a real, well, a real asshole. So he was ejected. But later he returned, apologizing. He stayed around, and rather than asking people for a beer or a shot he prowled the party looking for unguarded beverages. This I did not care for. This seemed like dangerous antisocial behavior to me, and, admittedly, I'm a fan of antisocial behavior, but if you have come to a party, assumedly of your own free will, then you have entered into an unwritten contract to engage in social behavior; it's a social contract. So behave! Or does something about having your head shaved make you unable to behave? Do you just hate jews so much that you have forgotten how to smile politely, and ask if you might get a drink, please? Hell, I'll never know. Uncouth stubble-headed pignut.
Without one day off betwixt the tour and our airplane ride, Kirsten and I drove back from Corona to Los Angeles, did laundry, packed our suitcases, found a ride to the airport from one of the LAPD's finest and loveliest, and hopped a flight for Maine. From coast to coast to coast to coast to coast by the time this is all over and done with: from LA to the entirety of the east coast back to LA back to the east coast and soon, back again to LA. If Bilbo Baggins were to title the book it would be called "There and back again and there again and back again again." Now I sit and write from the confines of the Bangor Mall, sipping coffee bought at the Loose Moose Cafe. Santa's village is full of dead mechanical polar bears and reindeer. The reindeer no longer bob their heads and the polar bears no longer turn in on their skates in endless minuets. The children line up no more, having already filed their requests to the fat man, and seen whether or not their requests went heeded. There is, of course, no Santa; his time is done for another year; his paycheck has been collected, cashed and spent, and soon little elves, known as maintenance men in Mall circles, will come and clear the cotton ball snow and plastic trees away, but they'll be out again next year, ready to go, and so too, just maybe, will Naked Aggression. That's all I can say about that for now.

12/16/03
Enroute to Phoenix. I just finished off a seven and a half hour driving shift from Albuquerque to some village whose name I can't recall about 70 miles east of Phoenix on route 60. We opted for the scenic route over the interstate, which always pleases me. The show in San Antonio wasn't too poorly attended, but neither was it particularly thronging with people. The show the day after San Antonio was Albuquerque. If you check a map, that's one hell of a trip. Fourteen and a half hours according Triple A. Aaron took first driving shift immediately after the show. I was determined to take second shift which meant I needed to get some sleep, and in order to get that sleep I concocted a cunning plan: drink as much as possible. It allowed me to say things like, "Look, I need to drink more if I'm going to drive." I had a mission. That mission was successful. I didn't even wake up for the cop that pulled us over and ticketed Aaron for speeding. Kirsten had to fish my wallet out of my pocket and my ID from there so the cop could be assured that I wasn't an illegal immigrant bent on mayhem in the States.
The bastards in AZ have posted signs commanding no one to advertise or sell anything at its rest stops. I can't say if the signs are posted at all the rest stops, but it is worthwhile to note that it's posted at the one just off the Apache reservation so the message of that particular law is particularly clear: can't have them Indians selling any crafts at the rest stop, by God. I'm not sure what the state's problem is with the sale of Indian crafts at the rest stops. I remember back in 1980 I was visiting my grandparents in Phoenix and natives had crafts all over the place at waysides and rest stops throughout the state of AZ. No telling what happened to sour the state on allowing the native craftsmen and women that one small source of income. The states just a bunch of bastards I reckon.
After arriving in Albuquerque (sorry for ping-ponging you about through space and time like this - just a tad desultory today) everyone was exhausted. My driving shift was uneventful except for the 50's diner where we ate our second worst food of the tour. The worst was at some faux Mexican food joint in Dallas right across from the Red Blood Club. The Mexican restaurant in question served up Taco Bell quality food at filet mignon prices. Despicable in every way. Chalupas were tostadas. The beans nothing but salty mashed up salted pinto beans with salt. The beef burrito, ingeniously contained beef, beef and nothing but beef. It was also as big around as my thumb. Motley Crue, especially Tommy, is lucky the burritos served up from the roach coach near the Rainbow Bar & Grill in the early eighties were more girthful (read The Dirt). Back to the 50's cafe, well, actually, not back to the fifties cafe since there's nothing to say about it. I made the band go to the UFO museum in Roswell. I took pictures but my camera ate them. It'd never done that before, but it had something against Roswell. So the picture of the street lamps decorated with bulbous alien eyes will go unseen for evermore. And the picture of Kirsten with the wood carved alien; kind of like a wooden Indian, but different, will also go unseen. At least I have a sack full of tacky souvenirs so I'll always remember my time in Roswell, and so will my family since that's where I decided to Xmas shop. Lucky them.
We're in Phoenix now. The club has been called. All systems are go. Swindle has already arrived at the Mason Jar and loaded in all the equipment. They're some great guys, I say.
Return of the King tomorrow!

12/14/03
It seems like half a century ago since Dallas. The Dallas show didn't have the greatest turn out. You'd have thought a Thursday night show would have been better attended especially since the opening band, Greaser, really went the extra mile with a major blanketing campaign of fliers throughout the city. After the show half the band stayed behind to drink more and the other half (myself included) left to frolic upon the Grassy Knoll. In the street, an "X" marks the spot where JFK's head met lead. It seemed rather morbid in its accuracy. You can stand out in the road, position yourself over the "X" and have your head occupy the same space where Kennedy lost his, and, of course, I did just that, you know, to get in touch with history. After the truly Texas experience of 20th century presidential assassination I wanted another truly Texas experience: Whataburger. Our local guide found us one, and man, that is the garbage of all fast food. The Texas beef association should sue them for defaming the good name of beef. Whataburger can join such notables as Oprah Winfrey and Howard Lyman who have also been sued by the beef industry.
Texas, the one good thing about Texas, I thought it was drinking and driving, turns out to be Austin. I remember my logic professor, Dr. Behling, called Austin "an oasis in a desert of stupidity," and he's pretty damn accurate. Not that there aren't bright spots throughout the state, but none larger or brighter than Austin.
Naked Aggression played Emo's before a full and appreciative audience. The band's morale was down a little after the lackluster turn out in Dallas, where the highlight was Swindle's roadie puking on the floor in front of the stage during NA's set, so Emo's was just the shot in the arm needed to perk everybody up.
Currently, I'm writing from a community center in Houston, TX where they have, once again, glorious wireless service somewhere near by. The bandwidths of others is my delight. Are you down with OPBW? Yeah, you know me.
Swindle and Naked Aggression are sleeping on the hardwood floor. If you step outside for some fresh air and then reenter the room it smells like a ton of unwashed potatoes. The show last night ran late. naked Aggression wasn't able to take the stage until 1:30am prompting Kirsten to note that the band had never played that late. many people who were there had taken off before Naked Aggression could play, but what would you expect at a show where drunkenness caused a brawl to break out as early as 10:30? I was hoping for a more "Last Night at the Alamo" feel to the show, but it was your usual assortment of punk rockers and older music buffs out for drinks and tunes. All the band performed well, but the sound system filled the room with thirty pounds of shit and I'm pretty sure it was only a ten pound room. Tonight's show is in San Antonio, apparently only five blocks away from the Alamo.
Thee D.C. show has found it's way onto the internet at the siczine website. Maybe you'd like to take a look at that?
Holy shit! Saddam has been captured. Traveling across the country without internet hook up (well, for the most part, I mean no leisurely internet browsing really. Every time I connect it's a frantic race to update, check what e-mail it's possible to and get the hell off line and back to real world business) has left me a bit lost in the world of current events. I can't even say what I think about Saddam's capture. Will he be excited to meet with his old friends Rumsfeld, Cheney and George Sr.? Will he be surprised to see that little George Jr. has grown up so big and strong and now rules a country of his own too? What will be done with him? Can the U.S. charge him with war crimes without looking like the big braying hypocritical jackasses we all are? Will we hand him over to the U.N.? Will we let the kurds hold the trial? Of course, the news article linked to above can't help but place Saddam's capture in partisan political terms as being a boon to Bush's re-election possibilities. First, it shouldn't be a boon to Bush at all. It took too long, especially considering Saddam was most likely hiding out right near his old hometown since he fled Baghdad. It's quite simple psychologically, he retreated into childhood, where he gained power, where he was protected and nurtured as a violent animal torturing lad. And anyway, where the fuck is Osama, really, isn't that the guy we wanted? Isn't all this Saddam hype nothing but slight of hand? Okay, we got the fish, and he's been reeled in, but it's just a pan fryer and not the Muskellunge we were told we'd be getting way back in late 2001. Where's the real boogeyman? And if Saddam and Osama are supposedly such good buddies according to Bush administration intelligence, then why weren't they caught together out bowling or something? Oh and fuck you Joe Lieberman you puffed up republican whore in Democrats clothes...
"Praise the Lord," said Sen. Joe Liebermann, "This is a day of glory for the American military, American intelligence, and it's a day of triumph and joy for anybody in the world who cares about freedom and human rights and peace."

This is Kennedy's "X." can you name other politicians who might deserve an "X" of their very own?

Does he mean the American intelligence that sent us off to war unjustly. Does he mean the American military that violently attacked another country without provocation except for all that provocative oil hiding out under the dirt just like a cornered Saddam? Yup, a brutal unjustified slaughter of innocents should be a joy to anyone who gives two hot shits about freedom, human rights and peace. What a fucking dimwit. Hey, Joe, why don't you just crawl right up George Jr.'s asshole where you can give it a good kissing from within?
I saw it right here in Texas as the Elgin Bar-b-que, a car in the parking lot had a bumper sticker of red, white and blue reading, "Regime change begins at home." Dissatisfaction runs strong, George. Even folks in rural Texas are starting to turn on you.
Perhaps you'd enjoy another series of pictures from the road? Well, here you go.

12/11/03
The sun is setting and lighting up the stratus clouds a violent red orange as we drive ever closer to Dallas. The show in Tallahassee quite possibly had the worst attendance of the tour. It turns out the band arrived right in the middle of finals week. I missed the show having fallen asleep in the van's loft sometime before Swindle took the stage and not awakening until everyone was outside after the show. Both band's stayed at Ripchord Rierson's parents' somewhere in upper Florida. After the sleep in the loft and a full night at the casa de Rierson I felt more invigorated and well-rested than I had since leaving Eau Claire.

I just went into a gas station in Texas. I asked the obese female clerk behind the counter if it was okay to drink a beer while riding in a car. She looked at me, beady eyes staring out from the great gob of pocked dough burbling up from between her shoulders, and said "Ha! What?"
I rephrased my question,"Is it true you can have an open container of alcohol in a moving vehicle in Texas?"
The large mass shifted, "Where you get that idea? No! What state are you from?"
"I'm from Wisconsin," I answered truthfully.
A note of disdain crept into her thick Texan accent, "I don't know where you got that idea."
"I've always had that idea," I said, "For some reason." And that's true. I went into that gas station to buy a big 22 oz beer and drink it on the way to the club with total immunity from the law, but now I'm not so sure. I don't fully believe the veracity of the great white whale's take on the law. I've never heard anyone deny the laxness of Texas' open container law before. I figured it was the only good thing about this big dumb egocentric state, but now that one thing has been cast in doubt. Oh my, the pain of my doubt and the dryness of my throat as we drive on and my cup doth not runneth over. Fucking behemoth, if you were lying to me....
Speaking of lax drinking laws, we spent last night in New Orleans' French Quarter. We marched up and down Bourbon street gulping down cheap Budweisers in the street, and I finally got that fried alligator on my plate that i had been longing for. A street entrepreneur attempted to part me with my money with one of the world's stupidest schemes. He comes up to you and says, "I bet I can tell you where you got those shoes at."
You're drunk so you say, "I bet you can't."
"I can," he says, "I can tell you exactly where you got them shoes."
"Okay," you say.
"If I guess right I'll shine 'em up and you'll give me five bucks," he says.
"Fine," I say not asking what I get if he's wrong.
Then the fellow says, "You got those shoes right there on the street, under your feet here in Nawlins, Louisiana in the south of the USA. That's where you got them shoes," and even as I object he's dropped down to the ground and has squirted shampoo on my leather strides and has proceeded to rub it in with a dirty cloth. He has also done the same to Kirsten's shoes. "I didn't say where you bought 'em I said where you got 'em and that's where you got 'em. There, that's two pairs for ten bucks then," he adds.
"No way," I answer, "First off the shoes are still dirty and scuffed. Second, I object to your definition of "got." We can't have a meaningful dialogue without first clearly defining our terms."
"But this is how I make my living," he responds, "I got eight kids."
"I got nine," I say, "There's little Henry, Herman, Hester, Harry, Harriet, Hercules, ahhh and several more all starting with "H.""
"Come on, man. Five bucks, then. It's how I make my living. It's better than dealing drugs or robbing people."
"Maybe," I say, "here's all my change. It's sixty-five cents. You've earned that, and that's not bad for two minutes of scamming."
He accepted my generous offer, and Kirsten and I tromped further down the street, making one more whisky stop before returning to the hotel for the night.
Now the Dallas skyline looms into view, and boy could I go for a Lone Star Lager right about... now.

12/09/03
Walked into the capital building in Tallahassee, FL to use the bathroom, and discovered they were throwing a party for the newly elected president of the senate. Kirsten and I were politely asked to leave, told that the public wasn't welcomed there in their own capital building. I took a piss and left. I regret not getting a crack at the hor d' oeuvres table, but I decided not to cause a problem. No telling whether or not Jeb was at the party, probably was if the new head of senate is a republican and not if he's a democrat because that's the nice and polite way those Bush boys were raised.
Currently the band has arrived at the Beta Bar just east of the old capital building and are waiting for said bar to open for load-in. The Venom in St. Petersburg was a nice enough club, huge interior complete with a stage formerly occupied by masters of those masters of the brass pole: strippers. The show was on a school night and the opening bands were, perhaps a bit long in the tooth so the crowd was less than spectacular. Kirsten promises Texas will be loads better. It was at that club, club Venom appropriately enough, where I discovered my foot, ankle, calf and the bottom half of my knee was swelling up. The swelling is on the same leg as the rash and by the time it reached it's most swell, the zenith of plumpness, my right leg was twice the size of my left. This morning Kirsten and I had to rise early (8:30) and go to a walk-in clinic to have it checked out. The doctor prescribed me an antibiotic and some other crap that's supposed to take the swelling down and prevent its further spread. His diagnosis, spider bite. I'd bet my eye teeth that that eight legged fuck got me as I slept on the dirty cat-piss soaked hardwood floor of our hosts in Georgia. Now I'm on medication that could potentially keep me off booze for the next six days, and tomorrow we'll bee in NEW ORLEANS! What's bit is bit, I guess. Now I'm on a spider killing rampage. If you're a spider; you're dead.
Last night we stayed in a hotel for the second time thus far. The room was a little east of clean, but compared to some of the places we've stayed that room was the avatar of sanitary. Kirsten checked for bed bugs before we layed ourselves to rest by peaking under the mattress corners, and I peeled back a section of wallpaper to see if any nocturnal parasites we're chillin' out there. As it turns out the room was bed bug free, and spider, to my knowledge. I had read online that a new bed bug epidemic was sweeping the nation, and when we stayed in Boston with Will and Amy they told us a town near them was having an infestation problem of the wee blood sucking blighters so now paranoia rules and no slumber is complete without a bed bug check.
As of yet I've seen no bed bugs, but have seen three armadillos: one dead, two the other way. No Alligators, however. Haven't even seen one fried up and placed on my plate which is a damn shame.
Had some fun at the beach.
Want to see?
Anyone know where Hemingway lived?

12/07/03
We took off from Greensboro, fueled for the second time with a generous breakfast feast of many pancakes, and steered ourselves down to Savannah, Georgia where I was excited to see that the Crystal burger takes over in America where White Castle leaves off. I haven't indulged in the Crystal yet, and it's doubtful I will tomorrow either since today we completed the second leg of our trip from Savannah to St. Petersburg Florida, and when in Florida, I say, eat gator.
I've been up in Maine where the Bush family hatches their fiendish plots from Kennebunkport; I've been to D.C. where George H. W. Bush's vile spawn rests his weary head at night and orders more deaths by day; I'm now in the Bush lead state of Florida where one brother rigged an election to assure the ascendancy to the presidency of another brother, and soon I'll be in their clans primary lair: the state of Texas. And if that's not enough Bush for you, the club we're at, Venom, has supplied the band with a half case of Busch light.
I've taken over the driving for the past three days; it occupies my hands so I don't scratch the terrible rash spreading across my right calf. It itches like mad, but I must be strong. I could've consulted a palm reader in South Carolina as to how and when my rash might be cured, but I thought the palm reader was being overly professional with the neon sign reading, "Palmist Advisor." Maybe they don't go in for that "palm reading" bullshit in South Carolina. Maybe they don't go in for reading at all. Maybe they distrust reading, but advice from a palmist, well, hot diggity, they'll take some of that and a pickled pigs foot to go!
Despite my tone, I am finding that I like the south. Yeah, it goes against my better judgment to like fundamentalist bible thumping secessionists but what can I do? I like the climate. I like the spanish moss hanging from the oak trees (even if it is filled with vicious red bugs that burrow under the skin), and everything's a touch less expensive than it has been around the rest of the country, and when the economy's in the crapper thanks to that aforementioned Bush that's a great thing for a band on the road. Saving two to three bucks when filling up this gas devouring monster's tank is nothing to take lightly.

12/05/03
Fuck Washington D.C. Let's just get that out of the way. Fuck the U-Turn on U street that makes the bands pay for water. Great job, club. Make the band sweat under hot lights and then charge them for water. And don't forget to hand out drink tickets that you take in hand up to the bar. In your hand you hold only the red drink ticket. You hold it out to the bartender and ask for a Beam and soda. The bartender says they only have Jack Daniel's and house bourbon (aka bar-rail whisky) . You say, "Well, i don't like Jack Daniel's so why don't I take the other." He says okay and makes your drink. He double checks that you want soda water and not cola. You affirm that, yes, you do want soda water. He puts your drink in a plastic cup down on the bar in front of you. You hand him your drink ticket; he takes it and says, "Four dollars." You repeat him because you're unsure what he means. He says it's the drink ticket plus four dollars for your bar rail whisky and soda. You say that he must be kidding you, but he assures you he is not. You let him no that you do not have four dollars and slide the drink back at him across the bar with the most hostile body language you can muster.
That was the U-Turn.
We walked about town. We saw the presidents stupid Christmas tree or the "nation's tree" as they call it and I wonder if the nation isn't deserving of something slightly better. You see the house where the lying thief rests his head and dreams his stupid simian dreams of record profits and blood lust and oil lust. At a vending truck you are given a candy cane and a cup of hot cocoa and you are ordered to have a "Merry Christmas." You wish the well wisher well in return and sip your cocoa and have your picture taken in front of Washington's monument. It all seems very touristy and that's because you're a tourist.
The one thing you liked about D.C, aside from the free cocoa, is Ben's Chili;i Bowl. The chili dogs are great, but there's a history to that place, a real fucking feeling of freedom and struggle and small victory. Ben's Chili Bowl has been black owned since 1958, and somehow it makes the simple hotdog you're cramming into your hungry mouth taste all that much better. As you eat that weiner you're part of black history. And, heck, you're told Bill Cosby eats there whenever he's in town.
Where are you now? Now you're in Chapel Hill, NC at a co-op. Food is being prepared. The room smells of mushrooms. You're cold is going away and you're drinking PBR that required no stinking drink ticket to buy. For now, it's pretty good, and they have wi-fi!!! This is like real time. Check it out. More pictures!

12/04/03
We left richmond about an hour and a half ago and are now passing by Alexandria. I know there are Alexandrias all over the world. Hell, even Kandahar, popular in recent war news, is in essence an Alexandria, but Alexander the Great was never aware of this land, the new world. His namesake is scattered all across the continent, populated by non-Greeks speaking English or Spanish and most assuredly very little Greek. I wonder if Alexander could have ever pondered such a future. If we ever colonize another planet I'd wager Alexandria would be one of the first cities founded. I see the capital dome in the distance now, Washington monument and the pentagon to the left. I am in the midst of evil doers bent on grabbing more power than Alexander ever dreamed of in his wildest alcoholic delusions of grandeur.

12/04/03
Pancakes are cooking on the griddle here in a kitchen in Richmond. The show last night at the Nanci Raygun was fantastic, and to any bands traversing this country I heartily recommend trying to get your show there. Vegan foods, bar tab: they treat the bands splendidly. After the show much beer and shots of jagermeister lead to a prolonged attempt to contact anyone from GWAR. We came close. We got ahold of someone who works with someone who use to be in GWAR, but that former GWARite had left fifteen minutes before our call to the bar where he works. Close, yes, but no ciGWAR.
With a crack like that it should be apparent I'm not yet fully recovered from the ravages of last night's drink.
And now, a serious note: once again, my friends, this web page right here has nothing what-so-ever to do with Naked Aggression aside for the fact that I'm on tour with them. This is a personal diary, more or less, of the way I see the tour. I'm not trying to write "Get in the Van" part two or anything. This is my site, and if you explore it in full you'll see it's full of my opinions. This is not an objective work. This site is as biased and highly subjective as FOX News. It seems some people are taking this journal as the gospel; it is not. Take what you read with a grain of salt, please. The band is well; we're all getting along smashingly.
The band stopped off in Baltimore to eat on the road to Richmond. We pulled off I-95 and found a bar/restaurant called the Caton Lounge. The waitress was fantastic. It was exactly what I wanted out of Baltimore: a waitress who calls you "hon," crab cakes, some drunken rowdiness and french fries smothered in brown gravy. I need to go back and see more of that town; time prohibited us from doing much more. As it was the Nanci Raygun club was thinking the band had crashed the van, but all was well. We were a wee bit late, but the show went on as scheduled.
The vegan flapjacks are nigh complete. Time to eat.

12/02/03
I'm sitting on the edge of a bed in Providence, RI raping an unknown entities bandwidth. Kirsten got an airport card installed in the computer and somewhere nearby someone has a wi-fi set-up, and I'm taking full advantage of that right now. The Boston shows were enjoyable although I'll never understand the way people's stupid, petty minds work. Thus far the tour is teaching me the lesson of Mulder, "Trust No One." There are thousands of glad hands wringing the underground music scene from coast to coast and they all want to feel important; they all want to lend the band their glad hand, but more often than not they have nothing to offer and they're donning a joy buzzer. Staying with Will from Toxic Narcotic and Amy actually gave me a reinvigorated sense of good will and hope for this tour. Decent people can really make all the difference. I'd just like it if they weren't so few and far between.
Some glad-hands want the band to play house parties, plan on having the party, and fail to both A) charge at the door so the band from over 2,000 miles away might have a chance of retraversing those 2,000 plus home and B) obtaining any libation. A party without a keg just ain't a party, and if that's an affront to your straight edge philosophy, then you can cram your Minor Threat discography deep inside your precious drug-free behind. Judging by most of the promoters I've encountered along the road I'd have to conclude that they can't successfully use the big boy potty without drizzling on their own shoes let alone get a decent show off the ground.
Apparently the show here in Providence was a good one, but I expected nothing less since Jeff from the Midnight Creeps pulled this one off. I slept in the van for the whole show, which took place in an artists' loft in downtown Olneyville. The band was paid well and the band was fed. I think I'm coming down with something, but can't be too sure. ABC-NO-RIO in NY had plaster dust and insulation drifting down from the ceiling. The basement show in Boston had enough dust in the air to give a windy day in the Mojave desert a run for its money, and now today I find myself in a house with a cat who enjoyed perching itself above my head and staring directly into my eyes and a Greyhound who used the dead potted plant in the corner as a toilet. My sinuses have gone haywire. I'm sure the cigarette smoke, which is simply par for the course, isn't helping either.
Last night Kirsten, Adam, Haili, Aaron and I stayed with an old friend of Aaron's. Matt and Shannon stayed in some loft style apartment on the other side of town.
It would seem the latest fashion in Providence is to decorate your floor with a puddle of dog piss. Both apartments were up to this strange doggy water sport. A 15 year old chow with no bladder control wet the floor where Shannon and Matt stayed and a younger greyhound bepissed the hardwood at Aaron's friend. I'm worried that a terrible dichotomy is arising in the band that will create an irreparable rift. At the heart it's the small binary hierarchy of mind and matter; cerebral gray matter vs. little pink erections. In essence, Motley Crue against Naked Aggression, and since this is a Naked Aggression tour Motley Crue attitude simply can't win out. Naked Aggression fights for causes. Naked Aggression supports rape crisis centers, the national organization for women and has defended abortion clinics, but the current Naked Aggression tour is falling apart. The lofty ideals falling and shattering upon the ground in a genital froth of womanizing. And some may not want to call it womanizing, but what is it when a point system is devised? It's womanizing, plain and simple. It is not what Naked Aggression is about. Behavior on this tour is a mockery of all that Naked Aggression stood for. It's too bad this tour is in memory of Phil Suchomel. It hardly seems fitting.
Here's some more photos.

11/28/03
Tomorrow the tour resumes with two dates with Toxic Narcotic; the first in New York, the second in Cambridge (right next door to Boston, TN's hometown.) I'm sure those shows will go incredibly well, but after that the abysmal promotion that plagued the first part of the tour is bound to resume. Kirsten and I have been following through on the booking, attempting to get hold of clubs and promoters to discover what guarantees, if any, have been worked out. So far we've been checking club websites and discovering that the Naked Aggression shows are unlisted on their calendars, which leads me to the conclusion that the shows are most likely unlisted on any physical calendars in local newspapers. Almost every town played thus far has had ZERO promotion. Flyers are nowhere to be found around the clubs, on campuses or in the city centers. Club websites mention neither hide nor hair of shows (I guess the club webmasters are too busy jerking off to newborn animal porn). Promoters have disconnected or completely bogus phone numbers. Most everyone attending the concerts (and thanks to every last one of them!) have shown up strictly due to word of mouth, internet chat rooms and bulletin boards or the Naked Aggression website. This tour is more underground than naked Aggression's first tour back in 1991! If any one of the promoters would have given even two halves of one half of one miniscule sized gerbil shit, then this tour would've been a smashing success, but instead a bunch of drooling reprobates have caused shows to go played in virtual obscurity. Sure it's been fun, but it sure seems no one cares. If the music doesn't float your boat, then why did you get involved with the scene in the first place. Shit, I'm not even that big of a punk rock fan, but if every band (except maybe Great White) deserves better than this. If you choose to put on and promote a show, then do it; don't assume the band's name is so gosh darn big it should just draw everybody effortlessly. You have to put you shoulder into it, Sisyphus.
Just to leave on a positive note: Food Not Bombs in Rochester NY is operated by wonderful caring people who really are sweating, bleeding and putting their noses' to the grind stone for the greater good. Kirsten and I were honored to assist you all for the day. Sorry, we couldn't have given you a grand show.

11/26/03

It ain't no Niagara Falls, but we got the Rochester Falls. Rochester has a lot of natural beauty, but the town's evident sluggish economy has prevented the city from living up to its potential as cities like Madison, WI strive to do and succeed at.

Two days and both went bust. The show that was supposed to be played on the 24th in Pittsburgh went belly up, but at least that one expired before we actually drove out of way to get to the town of the Steelers. Since Pittsburgh was out we decided to head the van in the direction of the next show in Rochester. We'd stop off in Buffalo for a peak at Niagara Falls we thought, but we thought wrong. The weather near the falls turned vicious: snow whipped and blinded, reducing visibility to nil as the temperatures plummeted like a barrel over Niagara and showed no signs of stopping their dropping. The night before in Middletown, OH it was 67 degrees, and by the next morning it was below freezing. Winter was brought in like a lion with the Hoosegow's destruction sounding its kingly roar. We forewent the falls and staid the course through to Rochester where we found the venue. The venue was actually a house. The Rochester gig was to be a basement show. The one and only true house party of the tour, but it wasn't to be. Somebody dropped the ball. If I wanted to be mean I'd say some jackass was up to some jackassery and didn't properly extract his head from his big gaping nether eye in order to assure the presence of a P.A. thus causing three bands to be out of a gig: Swindle, Naked Aggression and local support Bludwulf. But I don't want to be mean so I'll say no such thing. The tenants of the house were great, however. They fed us vegan soup and burritos, provided a place to sleep and tried like the dickens to make sure the show would still happen after the show promoter who was supposed to provide the P.A. flaked like a diseased scalp, but all their attempts to acquire a P.A. proved futile and the bands loaded out. Swindle headed for New York, NY and we headed for Maine where I now sit typing at a real desk, drinking dark French Roast coffee and feeling very well rested. The next few days are all off. Thanksgiving tomorrow. Greenbay Packers tomorrow. Scotch and Russian vodka tomorrow.

11/24/03
Riot! Or so the police called it. More on that after a bit...
Overheard outside THE GOOSEGOW in Middletown, OH: Punk girl one says to punk girl two, "I really like my hair. It even looks cool in my shadow."
Also overheard: "Glen died," says one fellow matter of factly.
"No way!" says the girl he's talking to.
"No, really he died."
"Glen did not die!"
"He did so. He had Leukemia and it made him vomit over and over and eventually he just died. It's cool. He died like G.G. Allin from vomiting, and he died like Wesley Willis from Leukemia. So he went out a little like G.G. and a little like Wesley."
"Shut up!" said the incredulous girl.
"It's true. Go ask Boner if you don't believe me."
"Boner! Is Glen dead?"
Later I'm sitting backstage drinking Natural Light. I drink the beer because it tastes more like water than the water that comes out of the taps in this little Ohian town called Middletown. I'm drinking. There are some couches. I'm sitting on a couch and drinking my watery brew. The same fellow who brought up the death of Glen comes in. It turns out he was in the opening act, but failed to catch any of it. He asks Jesse from The Frisk how he liked his band. Jesse tells him he was the best part of it. That he was always right on time, and then the guy says, "Yeah my cat died today."
"Oh. Sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, he was named Glen, you know, for Glenn Danzig."
"Oh."
"He died from vomiting too much, like he choked on his own vomit. He also had leukemia like Wesley Willis."
"Wesley died of leukemia."
"Yeah, I know. So did Glen. He died a little like Wesley and a little like G.G. He was a lot like G.G. He use to climb up my shower curtain, shredding it while I was taking a shower and shit on my head. He was pretty cool."
"He sounds like he was."
"Yeah, then he choked on his vomit, but it's cool he died like Wesley and G.G."
"Like Bon Scott too."
"Who? Bomb Squad?"
"Bon Scott."
"Bone Scott?"
"From AC/DC"
"Oh?"
"He was their original singer."
"And he died that way."
"Yeah, misadventure."

Later that night the cops arrived, arrested the club owner and booked him with a felony count of starting a riot. I'll tell that story in pictures. Click

11/23/03
Currently, we're on our way to Middletown, OH. The show at Bernie's didn't turn out to be total shit, much to my surprise. The promoter initially attempted to cut the guarantee in half, but the band stood fast and wouldn't take no such crap from said promoter. In the end, that wily promoter ended up sweetening the guarantee, which the band got, with a free round of sandwiches and half price drinks at the bar. I enjoyed a number of Labatt's Blue beers on tap for a buck each. A helpful speed addict even assisted the band on the load in. He didn't work at the club, but insisted on helping.
"I just like to help. I really like to help, and you don't have to pay me or anything. Gratis, man. On the house. No charge. I know how it must be on the road. Hey, you got a cigarette. No? Well, that's okay I still wanna help. You won't owe me a thing. I may look like a pretty scrawny guy. No arm muscles to speak of, but I'm like a mule. Load me up. I'll take it. What can I take? Give me a couple of amps," said the helpful speed freak and grabbed the six foot bass rig, backed up with it off the trailer and promptly fell over backwards with the bass rig landing squarely on top of him. The bass rig was fine, and so was he, for the most part.
Word of advice, never eat at The Steak and Shake. Of course, I can't speak for the entire chain based on my experience at the High Street location in Columbus, Ohio, but it has to be the worst restaurant ever. They can't even get toast right. I don't know why the band refused to go to another White Castle for breakfast.
Here're a few pictures if you're interested. Click

11/22/03
On the road, passing along on the darkened interstate in Indiana and listening to a crusty voiced blues musician on the radio. I just finished filling my belly full of White Castles, 6 of the lil' buggering steamed hams to be precise. We're on our way to the show in Columbus, Ohio at Bernie's Distillery. I'm expecting total shit, but I usually am. Last night will undoubtedly go down in memory as the best show on the tour; too bad we had a ten hour drive today and couldn't enjoy late night carousing after the show. Kristy, the young gal who was in charge of show at the Union Hall in Madison, said it was the best attendance for any show she's seen there in the two and half years she's been on the activities committee.
Shit, this typing shit sure ain't easy as shit with this eleven passenger van bumping up and down, especially with lead foot Aaron at the helm. Right now we're only at 75mph, down from his usual 90. There's a convoy on the right, thus the left lane is filled with passing vehicles.
So far I've eaten deep fried walleye, gnawed on some venison chops and buffalo stew, sucked down Leinie's, Old Style and the Lacrosse Lager as well as a stiff belt of Absinthe, and now with the White Castles out of the way I've I've got all my midwest joys taken care of. Oh yeah, and the cheese curds too.
We just passed the large overhead sign welcoming us to Ohio. It says, "So much to discover." We have two days; we'll see.