Sitting under a huge piece of wall-art of a bald woman's torso giving birth to a demonic baby, the wall behind them covered with huge fake clumps of viscera. Hairy Mary's, in Des Moines, Iowa, so far already the best club we've played even though the place is still empty at ten thirty (we play at midnight, with no draw band as the fucking Means dropped off the bill at the last minute). There's a Harley behind the bar with a cowskull on it; next to it hangs a mobile made of bones and motorcycle 'ywheels. Wolfing down the last couple of slices of pizza that Hairy Mary's bought for us. God bless you, Gus, you're a good fucking man. Free beer again tonight, oh shit.
Lots of irrational anger floating around today. I almost snap at Danny about leaving the car keys on stage, then almost snap at Aaron about my guitar getting dropped. I wonder if perhaps I may be tired… Last night ended up being pretty fucked up. Though Aaron had sent the promoter several e-mails trying to add me to the bill, the message apparently never got through. With a little fancy footwork, I not only get us on the bill, I get us out of the first slot (we played second). I pop a couple of ephedrine pills to wake up for the show-I was awake enough when we showed up, but I had to drink about four beers to relax/recover enough to play-and Danny and I turn out another solid performance. We do an unrehearsed cover of Folsom Prison Blues in honor of the man in black and it's too fast and I fuck it up, but it goes over pretty well. Danny said later that he thought it was the best of the tour, which is fucking great because by now we've established a solid upward trajectory (not hard considering where we started, but still…) and it fucking blows because no matter how well we get the shit down, Danny's still just a fill-in. Can't say I blame him. We've done really well, played great every night so far and gotten a reception to rival that of the Giraffes, but Danny's a guitar player and a good one. He needs to be doing his own stuff.
Andrea from Brooklyn turns out and we hang out a little bit after the set. It's a nice break to see a familiar face again. Still, I hit the beer pretty hard-it seems like every time we get free beer, I set out to make the bar regret their generosity-and can't seem to leave the bottle of trucker speed alone. I can't and won't go this hard when I'm out by myself, but I've been having fun living it up. And wearing myself down. When what you eat is dictated by your ten dollar a day budget and the charity of bars/strangers, you don't eat so well. I almost get kicked out of the bar for buying drugs for the Giraffes. Well, fuck it, we were leaving anyway. The Note (the club we played) sucks anyway, another hip hop/eighties party club trying to hold rock shows before their moneymaking parties and neither the people nor the space seem particularly enthused about it. While we were loading in, Danny got into a conversation with this chick Shari who used to live in NYC and she offered us a place to stay, so we head towards her place. I call her twice before I get her, and then as soon as I get off the phone, realize that it's two thirty in the morning. Whoops. Still, she's friendly when we get in, she gives us beer and gets us stoned and I pass out on the fold-out couch she's set up for us. I feel really horrific waking up, I'm shaky and riddled with doubt and fear about doing this by myself. I make up my mind to lay off the ephedrine, but even now as I'm writing this, I know I'm going to need it to make it through the night. I want to score some coke, too, if we can.
Shari cooks an incredible breakfast for us, a frittata with eggs, cheddar cheese, feta cheese, spinach, and grape tomatoes. It's fantastic, cooked perfectly. She's pretty great, a crazy pot smoking single school teacher in her forties. She seems totally delighted to have us and promises to put us up again if we come back. Taking a shower again is a revelation. I talk to Allison briefly and she's hungover, too, from her birthday celebration with just her and her roommate, which strikes me as more than a little sad. I miss her desperately. Once we get in the car, I hit the bunk again, hard, and my exhaustion overcomes my claustrophobia and I fall in and out of sleep. When Danny finally pulls over for gas, he's driven for four hours, leaving me a measly two and half hours to drive us into Des Moines. It's the best part of the drive, too, the sun is going down and the whole horizon is lit up in blazing pink and orange, framed by dark clouds on top and dark ground on the bottom, shot through with mottled columns of mist. It looks like we're driving into the cloud city. It's probably pretty clear that I'm eternally grateful to Danny for letting me sleep myself well, but I know I can't rely on him totally, as it's just unfair and it embarrasses me that I may not be pulling my own weight on what is essentially my project that he's just helping me out on. I just have to trust that when he's sick of driving, he'll say it. But tonight is Hairy Mary's and it promises to be pretty fucked up and we have tomorrow off. I'm not looking forward to what the morning has in store. But for now, onward and upward. Or at least onward.
(After I finish writing this, Jon, the Giraffe who I hate the least, comes over to read my latest entry. He cracks up about me jacking off in Kinko's, then Drew reveals that he spanked it in the bathroom of their hotel room, shooting on the sink. Jon laughs and admitted that he doused rear wall of the shower. Damien walks over and, lo and behold, he jerked off in the same bathroom last night, to a fat chick mag. Of course, we hypothesize, Aaron didn't. Aaron doesn't. Aaron is above jerking off.)
Posted by Mishka at September 13, 2003 12:48 AM