Took the scenic route from my mom's house in Oceanside yesterday through the Palm Desert, which was beautiful but stressful. Like I haven't spent enough time lately in the Desert of the Palm, ha ha ha, uh, shit. All these steep cliffs with no guard rails are just a little too tempting. I felt my hands clamping down on the wheel like I was fighting some unseen force beckoning me over.

The radio's dead, so I just spent the whole day examining my life. At one point, I think I'd actually made peace with breaking up with Allison. I realized that the same narcissim and self-involvement that contributed to the demise of our relationship is also a self-preservation reflex. So I will always be okay... but I guess I'll always be alone. It sucks, because I've had conversations with folks in the past about relationships and they've argued for keeping a little bit of yourself to yourself, and I maintained that for true love, you've got to commit yourself entirely and just trust that the other person won't hurt you. I guess I thought I did that with Allie and I tried to do that with Allie and it seemed at times like she did that with me. I guess, though, that at the end of the day that the gulf between two human beings is insurpassable. I'm going out of this world the same way I came into it-- naked, alone and screaming.

The show last night was good, but not as good as I think Ron or I had hoped. It was a decent turnout for one of my shows, but I think it was pretty slim for what they were expecting. One of my favorite performers, Paige the Village Idiot played, which was fucking awesome. Ron was totally hilarious, as expected. I sold two CDs to a couple of chubby girls-- which I'll complain about, but I'm secretly delighted. I'm reaching my target demographic! Ron threw me twenty bucks which I promptly blew at the bar drinking with Paige. Towards the end of the night, I realized I was going to be going home alone, so I made a half-hearted attempt at hitting on an unnattractive girl. Why are other folks not as eager to betray themselves as I am? I went home alone.

The show in LA last night was great, especially considering the complete and utter lack of preparation I put into it. Ryan was great, picking me up at the airport, then ferrying my drunk ass to the club and back to their crib afterwards (I fell asleep in the back seat). Then he even drove me down to my mom's in Oceanside today on about four hours of sleep with nary a complaint. He and Ron have really been struggling in LA, but it's heartening to hang out with someone who is totally committed to making their art work. LA's fucking bizarre, at one point last night I was standing on Hollywood Boulevard, looking down at Charles Schulz star right around the corner from the L. Ron Hubbard reading library.

I listened to the new record and, after hating it on my little boom box in the Pit Of Despair, I loved it on Ryan's car stereo. Ryan dug it, too-- but man, his face really lit up when he heard Beat the Devil. The Beat the Devil shit is better, and I can say that without any bitterness. Still, it's hard to see a friend and a fan have a deeper response to the band I've played bass in for a couple of months than he did to the shit that I've ruined my life for. I don't feel threatened by Shilpa's writing prowess and I don't feel the need to compete with her; she's so far out of my league that instead of feeling like I've got to match her or best her, I feel happy and lucky to be playing in a band with such a talent and I just want us both to become better writers. Of course, being BFF with her and Justin and having both of them be so sensitive and supportive of what I'm doing makes the whole thing easier. (Justin said the first thing he and Shilpa thought when they were getting ready to move into their new place is that they'll have to get a couch for me to sleep on). I'll come out and say it: I'm optimistic, both about Beat The Devil and my own stuff. The record's really good.

Denver Post is running something about my Denver shows! Man, for once it's actually going to be good to return to the site of my greatest defeat with some kick ass press heralding my return. I mean, it'll all end in heartbreak anyway, as it always does, but I'm looking forward to it right now.

I'm already missing Justin and Shilpa and Jesse and Jay, all my pals who have been so awesome in the last coupla months. I'm doing okay, but I know I'll be run pretty fucking ragged by the time I make it back to NYC. Either way, tomorrow, it's on.

The good news is that Jay and I finally finished the record. Or finished it until we decide to redo stuff. Shit, I guess we've still got to get rid of some noise on Taxes and Jail and Eating Alone... and Jay's gotta comp his amazing solo on Hellbound-- but then we may have to remix Hellbound entirely... and then there's mastering. Ah Christ, it never ends. I feel like I'm almost more invested in Beat the Devil now, just because it's not my stuff and I'm so sick of me. But then I'm not the only one...

Allison's absence still weighs pretty fucking heavily on me. That the dissolution of our relationship had much to do with my narcissim and bad decisions isn't bringing me a whole lot of comfort right now. And I think I may be getting sick, too...

What I've Done In the Last Year Since I Wrote Anything by Mishka Shubaly

Okay, so I'm not going to give you highlights for the last year, I'll just give you the recent news. I've been working my ass off on a new record with producer Jay Braun. He and I did So Long together a couple of years ago and we found out that we shared similar opinions on noise on pretty songs and pretty sounds on noisy songs. We have eleven tracks recorded and about four of 'em mixed. Jay, if you're listening, thanks a ton for ruining your life for a month to make my record sound great. I owe you a hooker.
I turned the rough mixes of the four songs we've got done into Alex Steininger, big cheese at In Music We Trust (home of I Can Lick Any Son Of A Bitch in the House) and he's interested in putting out the record. Now, in the words of Richard Marx "don't mean nothing till you sign it on the dotted line," but I still feel really good and really relieved about it all. This is the one thing I've been pushing for since I quit Luxx two years ago. It's been fucking exhausting, but shit, if it's going to get my music out to folks and make me able to tour without losing my ass, then it was fucking worth it.

2/10 NYC – Knitting Factory Old Office w/ Mike D (SOB), Love Story In Blood Red, The Vitamen, Julia Marvel

2/11 Baltimore, MD- TWO SHOWS-- Dangerously Delicious Pies and Mum’s

2/12 OFF

2/13 Nashville, TN- Springwater’s

2/15 Birmingham, AL - the Nick

2/18 Memphis, TN- Young Avenue Deli

2/19 Austin, TX – Long Branch Inn

2/21 Phoenix, AZ- Hollywood Alley

2/22 LA-- The Scene

2/23 LA – Mr. T’s Bowl

2/24 Las Vegas, NV - the Double Down Saloon

2/25 San Francisco, CA– Kimo’s

2/26 Portland, OR—Devil’s Point

2/27 Portland, OR – Blue Monk

2/28 Seattle, WA-- ???

It inspired a dream that I got an awesome write-up in NME, which I found out about because Nitebob handed it to me with a package of ramen. When I read the review, I realized that they had mistakenly written The Break-Up up as if it were me. Then I brought it to a wedding that was held at my old high school between the biggest jock and the President of Student Council. I was rollerskating around, waving my bogus NME write-up and no one cared. Ah, dreams.

But the real kicker for the day was seeing Talcott again. Talcott was one of my closest friends when I was seventeen, and a lot of times it felt like she was my only friend. She was pretty awesome, too, she had big fucked-up multi-colored dreads (until she shaved her head), was skinny as a weasel and perpetually whiskey drunk and waving a cigarette at me, cursing and yelling. She was the biggest tomboy in the world, and we hung out like a couple of dudes, just getting drunk and… well, we must have done something other than getting drunk, but I can’t remember it right now. It’s hard to describe how close we were, I guess we were both in pain and lonely and didn’t have the barriers to intimacy that there usually are in male/male or male/female relationships (god, listen to me, “barriers to intimacy,” I sound like Doctor Phil). We had a falling out in Massachusetts just before I left (she tried to beat me up over something—see, I told you she was awesome!) and somehow managed to not talk again until she e-mailed me earlier this year. Nearly ten years later, she looked exactly the same, still thin as a coyote, smoking a cigarette and grinning. But here’s the best thing: Talcott is pregnant. Yup, and unlike just about everyone else I’ve ever known who’s been involved in a pregnancy, Talcott and her boyfriend did it on purpose.

I’ve got to admit that I’m really conflicted about Talcott having a baby. Obviously, it’s awesome, Talcott’s been taking care of folks as long as I’ve known her and I know she’s going to be a hell of a mom and her kid is just going to have the coolest life. And I really can’t wait to make fun of Talcott when she’s really pregnant, she’ll look like a python that’s swallowed a basketball. But, woe is me, it means that I’m really not seventeen anymore. I know, I know, I have such a sad life.

My gig on the 12th was fucking excellent, though. It was kind of a bleak drive up to Stanwood, I was hungover and sleepy and depressed both from the crappy rainy/cloudy Washington weather, but also because seeing Talcott and being in Washington again totally threw me into a deep memory trip. The only two times I’ve been in Washington was when I was seventeen and had hitchhiked out here to see a girl, and then when I was twenty to see the same girl who had by then broken my heart several times. I think it’s safe to say that it didn’t end well.

My plan was to check in at the club (the Stanwood Hotel, highly fucking recommended) drink the bottle of wine (Christ, it wasn’t even wine, it was “strawberry wine product”—these are tough fucking times, folks) and then take a nap. But as soon as I walked in, a retired painting contractor/classical pianist (I wonder how many slashes I’d have to put in my occupational description) bought me a couple of beers. Then the soundguy showed up and told me I could drink bottom shelf cans for free. PBR of course, and Rainier, one of my favorite cheap beers of all time! Of course, the bar owner and his wife (Bobby Trash and Tammi, both excellent folks) mocked me for drinking the inferior Rainier but man, I’ve had enough PBR to last me a lifetime and the Rainier was ice cold and delicious. Bobby bought me a burger, and the bartender threw in the hard time for free. They let me play loud and even though there wasn’t a capacity crowd there, man, they fucking ate it up! And unbelievably, the other two bands were kind of cowboy punk, probably one of the first times I’ve ever played w/ bands that were even remotely similar to what I’m doing. The last band even dedicated one of my favorite Steve Earle songs (NYC) to me off of El Corazon, which me and my roomies used to listen to on Sundays over a bottle of Carlo Rossi. I would inevitably say “you know, someday I’m going to go to New York City.” To which they inevitably responded “yeah, have another drink, Shubaly.”

The last band let me crash on their couch and Mike, the singer, made us just about the best breakfast I’ve ever had in my life. Biscuits and gravy, sausage, thick cut bacon, eggs cuidado and homemade hashbrowns. When I complimented him on his gravy, he said “oh yeah, what you do is just mix in the bacon grease.” My kinda guy. By now incredibly sleepy, I drove back to Talcott’s, climbed into my bed (I have an air mattress on the back porch with my own exit. Unfuckingbelievable. And she’s cooked every meal I’ve eaten since I’ve been here) drank my strawberry wine and read some Stephen King (The Bachman Books, they’re excellent, of course) and just drifted off to sleep. Fat and sassy.

Last night was disheartening, if not disastrous.  Yeoman’s Pub in Tampa, FL—my gig there was pretty meager when I was coming through on my way out to the West Coast, but it had been during a torrential rain, and I figured that’s what did it.  But it was pretty empty when I got there and only got thinner.  When I went on, there was about four people in there including the two bartenders.  It didn’t hurt that I was totally fucking hungover from my exploits in Valdosta, either.  But then the booker and his pal were fucking with the sound and the volume on my guitar amp while I was playing… Christ.  Though I should have just trundled off to bed after my set and gotten the rest I so sorely needed, I stayed up late and got drunk and slept in the van.  Oh, the van, the van, the van. 

I ate at yet another Waffle House, then felt ill and had to lounge at yet another rest stop.  It was way too hot to sleep in the van, so I tried to sleep outside on a towel w/ a pillow, wearing just my cut-offs (the stares just roll off my fucking back now.  Oh, and inflame me with hatred both for the assholes who resent having me around their children and against me for being the kind of guy I wouldn’t want around my children).  It took about ten minutes for the fucking ants and bizarre flying insects to discover me and start biting me.  Still, I managed a pretty good mood on the highway for a while.  Things have been going well, I think, some decent shows, the encore at the Larimer Lounge in Denver, the spontaneous applause in the middle of “Home” at the Hi Dive in Denver, the encore and the spontaneous applause in the middle of “Home” at the Atomic Cantina in ABQ, the show in Atlanta w/ the Dirtbombs and .45s, the offer of opening for Neko Case in Houston (still yet to come through, and I think it’s going to go south, but still…), the news that Jay Braun put “Took You in My Arms” at the opening of his reel and that Jon Spencer loves the reel.  Last night was craptacular, but it sits ill with me not because things have been bad for a long time, but because things have been good and I’m getting spoiled.  Tonight promises to be a tough one, though.

What finally sank my mood today was reading the free weekly here in Gainesville.  God, so many fucking bands, all doing so much better than I am!  Granted, I’ve only been doing what I’m doing seriously for six months, and they’ve been doing it far longer, w/ the commitment and full velocity of a group of people behind them, and sometimes label support and money and whatever, but still, right now it feels like I won’t have any of those things and fuck it, I’m so alone right now.  I need someone else, and I really don’t want anyone else on board.  Except Allison, but somehow Allison doesn’t feel like another person, she just feels like another part of me.  But Jesus, just having her around to play cards with or shoot pool with would be fucking heaven.

Birmingham turned out to be great, or at least really fertile for the old tour diary.  When I wrote that last entry, I was really feeling pretty awful, the whole venture just seemed hopeless.  I guess it’s hard to put it into words now, as I’m feeling pretty good right now, even though I’m tired and still hungover.  I guess I just had the same feeling that I had that ill morning in Youngstown walking around freezing and hungover, waiting for Derek to pick me up where I would have cashed it all in right then just to be restored to Allie’s loving arms.

In Birmingham, I had been thinking about asking Josh to ‘rally the troops,’ i.e. give me a pep talk, but I ended up not needing it.  I took a fitful nap, which didn’t seem to revive me at all, then walked back into The Nick.  (The Nick is a total fucking dive, from the outside it looks like a roadhouse, inside it’s a dark, moist cave, the walls just papered with flyers and old posters, the ceiling papered with outdated glossy 8 by 10 publicity shots.  The exterior wall of the club is sinisterly saturated with staples, but not a flyer to be found.  Well, one—a lonely Supagroup handbill, looking only pathetic.)  Roy Owens, Jr. was hanging out, everyone in a pretty good mood, and the cute and sassy bartender—only a little plump—opened a can of PBR and stuck it in front of me without me asking.  Well, fuck it then.  Suddenly my ill mood lifted and by the time The High Strung rolled in, I was up and soaring.  Had another great conversation with Josh, this time about Orwell.

I turned out a great drunken set.  I made a coupla mistakes, but in general, it was the good drunk, where I put a lot of feeling into everything.  It was hard to read the crowd, but I feel like Roy Owens Jr. and HS applauded more at the be ginning and then the crowd applauded more at the end.  I’m getting through to folks, I just know it.
 
I just got drunker and drunker.  The rest of the bar seemed to follow suit.  During Roy Owens Jr., they launched into an impromptu cover of ‘Victoria’ and we all jumped up and sang along.  I poured half an inch of beer over Shannon’s head.  At the end of the song, two big black hoochie mamas came up and flashed us all their big floppy boobs.  So fucking great.  Then, of course, Morgan poured a full beer over my head in retaliation for what I hadn’t done to him anyway.  Oh well.  When HS played, we all jumped up for the end of WSV and fucked shit up together.  Mark Owen really cut loose and howled and jumped around, really just fantastic.  At the end of the night, I got carted off to Andrew the booking agent’s folks house and slept the sleep of the just, the just barely conscious.
 
Drove all day with Slow-going Mark Owen, which was great.  He drove almost the whole time, which was a well needed day of rest, but we had some fantastic conversations, about the exclusive nature of romantic love and the different levels of intimacy.  I love debating these guys.
          
I got stressed out driving into Tallahassee that we were going to have driven all day and then I was going to end up missing my time slot.  Tallahassee ended up being pretty good. I had time to suck down a couple of beers after all and turned out a great set to the drunken appreciation of everyone there, meaning the other bands. Chad was drunk and hilariously belligerent and the night turned a little ugly when the band before the HS (five bands on the bill that night) took for fucking ever to set up and play. But somehow everyone ended the night on a happy note. Except me.  I got too drunk and started freaking out about Jacob and then obsessing about Allie sleeping with some other dude after their show at the Mercury.  I knew if I called her then that I was going to start crying and totally freak out so, wisely, I didn’t call her.  But they’re going to be going on any minute now, so, fuck, I’ve got to call her now.

Never found a place to crash in Wilmington.  Just wandered around all night after my show, trying to find the author of my lousy write-up, just in hopes of her giving me a place to crash.  Finally gave up and just got drunk on vodka and slept in the van. 

Woke up early and drove for about four hours before I took a break in a rest-stop.  Managed to fall asleep after a while and dreamt about Jason from the Means and a partially flayed white dog that could talk.  When I got to Athens, I went right over to Bob and Amy’s and spent a lot of my night with them, just hanging out.  They’re both really great, they manage to be both sarcastic/bitter and genuinely hospitable.  Morgan finagled a spot on the bill for me, and I played a couple of songs to, shit, probably the biggest and most appreciative crowd of the tour, at least for me.  Got a few names on the list, sold a CD, watched Roy Owens Jr. and then took a dive for the bunk.  I just have not been able to shake this phlegmy thing that I developed as soon as I left NY.  I slept through the third band and The High Strung and then Bob and Amy woke me up and I followed them home and slept wonderfully in their guest bed.  Their house has always been an oasis for me, I always manage to make it to Athens when I’m on my last leg and I always leave feeling replenished.

They treated me to breakfast the next morning and then I had to drive straight to Nashville.  The High Strung had stayed up until seven in the morning and I couldn’t compel one of them to ride with me.  It sucked, third day in a row driving by myself.  When I hit Texas, I’m going to go insane.  A five hour drive quickly turned into a seven hour drive w/ a couple of well-placed accidents and I made it to The Bluebird Café on time only with the hour we gained by changing time zones.  Even then, I was all shaky and jittery from driving so fast for so long without break. 

At the Bluebird, I got really, really nervous, like I used to when I first went out.  I guess subconsciously I saw The Bluebird as a rubicon, you know, that’s where I started when I went out solo for the first time and it was a total joke, driving two days to play one song for no money. You’ve come a long way baby, now just driving one day to play three songs for no money… Anyway, I guess it was important to me for it to go well as I felt like it would be a sign of progress. 

It’s always tough being there because it’s so crowded and it’s so not my crowd.  It’s a bunch of older folks out for dinner and then a bunch of young bucks—one guy I saw had the black cowboy hat w/ the sharp creases and silver buckles, a full length rancher’s leather coat, black cowboy shirt w/ silver piping, new black jeans, black boots w/ square toes and a black goatee to match.  Christ on a crutch.  When I got up there, I was just fucked up, my face was all prickly and I wanted to shit my pants.  Four ultra-sincere chick songwriters had preceded me, so I said “It’s so great to see these strong women songwriters… and all of them singing about some jerk that left ‘em.  I am that jerk.”  And I had ‘em from there.  It was like I had a plant in the crowd, one woman laughed at the first possible appropriate moment and kept laughing the whole way through.  All in all, an unmitigated success.

I jumped back in the van and drove over to The End to try to hop on The High Strung bill.  Josh was great, he asked the soundguy for me if it was cool, then came over to me shaking his head.  “Wow,” he said grinning, “that was a pretty emphatic ‘no’.”  So, fine, I just watched last night. 
           
A high point last night was seeing the Hot Pipes, who were really great.  If I was uncharitable, I would say they had ‘emo’ leanings, but I’m not uncharitable.  After the show, I hung out w/ Roy Owens Jr. and we talked about the possibility of doing a tour together in the spring.  Right now, I don’t think that it’ll happen, but fuck, that’d be a good shot in the arm.
           
They roped me in to crashing on their hotel room floor, though I wanted to hang out w/ The High Strung.  I slept pretty well, but had a long, semi-coherent dream this morning that disturbed me.  Dana came to me because she was distressed about Jacob, I guess it was revealed that when he died, he was HIV positive.  At one point in the dream, I was riding her around on a bike, cradling her in my arms and I was really aware of her big breasts and I was getting hot for her.  Later in the dream, Allie came and told me that she was HIV positive, and I couldn’t figure out what was worse, if she had gotten it from someone else or if she had gotten it from me, and then I couldn’t figure out if it was worse if I had it or if I didn’t.  I’m still sad and scared thinking about it.  But the tumor on the base of my cock is gone.  Got to take my good omens where I can get ‘em.

Chad rode w/ me all day yesterday, from Morgantown, WV to Charlotte, NC.  It’s clear that the road has taken its toll on Chad’s friendships w/ the rest of the guys in the band, but man, I can’t imagine what he would do if he wasn’t in a band.  I drove the first leg, and then he took over driving for the last three or four hours and let me pass out enough to drool all over my pillow in the back of the van.  That’s like REM sleep for me.
           
Tough show last night.  Have I said that before?  Well, let me say it again, tough show last night.  Played at The Room in Charlotte, NC to a grand total of two people who weren’t in the bands.  Wow.  Soldiered through though, and managed to even win over The Roy Owens Jr.  Wasn’t sure about them at first, as they all seem to have large personalities, which I’m sure is fine w/ The High Strung, the most accommodating, non-confrontational band in the world, but it almost always spells trouble for me.  They made it clear from the start that The High Strung was headlining and that they weren’t going first, even though I’m playing through HS’s equipment.  But after the show, man, me and Morgan really hit it off and he insisted that I play with them in Athens and Nashville and that he would go out of his way to make it happen.  His plan is to tell the soundguy that I’m their lead guitar player and just let me do a couple of songs before their set, and then their real lead player (who used to play w/ Crooked Fingers!) will step up and do it.  Fucking great.  They really seem to be great guys so far, real dudes, I spent a fun half hour talking to Quinn, their guitar player, about the headstock repair on his Les Paul, whether the P-90s in it were original, etc., etc.  A good turn of fate so far.

At the eleventh hour, we were without a place to crash, so I just took a chance and asked the cute bartender if we could stay with her.  She was a little coy about it at first, but we ended up heading back to her place w/ a case of bud light, fucking fantastic after we were looking at sleeping in a rest stop in our vans and I was doing surface area calculations to figure out who would be warmer in my van w/ me, Chad or Mark.  Derek rode back in the car with her and seemed to be making good time with her, so I was happy someone was going to score.  Then he insisted that we all sleep in her bedroom (meaning Derek was going to get nothing, or we were all going to get a show), so we all laid out our sleeping bags on her floor, taking up every available inch of floor space.  I was the first one to lay down and I went right to sleep.  Josh slept right next to me, not an uncomfortable closeness.  Well, except for when I woke up w/ a huge throbbing boner in the morning.  For those of you keeping score at home, the painful tumor on the base of my cock is still there, still kicking ass.  I walked out to the living room and Derek was laying on the couch, watching TV.  He appeared sleepy, which could have meant that they had a busy night that I slept right through, or he could have appeared sleepy because he always appears sleepy.  After a while, the whole crew except for me and Derek adjourned to the thrift store, and I was finally able to ask him what happened.  Apparently, after we all laid our beds out and I passed out, Derek and the bartender adjourned to the living room to “watch some TV.”  And apparently, while they were “watching this TV,” Derek fell asleep and the cute bartender slept alone in her bed with a bunch of smelly band guys laying at her feet like stray dogs.  Derek, to this date the most reliable High Strunger, showed me that even the MVP sometimes fumbles the ball at the one yard line.  Man, nice work.
           
I felt sick this morning, sinus trouble and a head full of phlegm.  I’ve been drinking too much beer, well, drinking too much in general, but specifically too much beer.  Managed to get some time making booking phone calls and got some internet time on the bartender’s computer.  After about ten phone calls to a place in Houston that went unanswered, I got an e-mail from the booker that he’s got a show for me and asked me how much ‘compensation’ I was looking for.  Fucking great.  Still no word from anyone in Denver, though.  A booker in Flagstaff wrote me back w/ suggestions for other venues as he can’t help me, what a nice guy.  Then today I got two calls, one from a booker in New Orleans who, though she can’t give me a show because their club is closing, she wanted to call to try to hook me up with some other good bands and tell me that she enjoyed the CD.  Great shot to the confidence.  Then I got a call from a booker in Nashville, who told me she had an early slot for me for three songs, so now I’ll have two shows when I’m in Nashville, when I had been planning to just take that day off.  I was in a great mood all day, feeling like I’m really making progress.
           
Took the Pod in for a carwash to get all the salt off it.  Found out that it so noisy to drive because the seal on the driver’s side door doesn’t work at all.  Found that out by getting fucking drenched by the carwash.  Christ.

Made it into Wilmington dead on my feet and managed to get a nap before the show, another tough show.  Played to about four people who weren’t in the band tonight… so I guess it’s actually a step up.  The write-up that I got here is pretty decent sized, the picture of me is totally huge and gratuitous, but somehow it wasn’t good for any people, so far not even the writer who wrote it.  Now if I can just find a place to crash tonight…