Mood Surgery

Ok, tour problems have all been resolved.

I'm leaving in like three minutes, so this has gotta stay short and factual. Wish me luck. I'll try my best to update along the way.

Tour! Wooo!
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I'm... going... to... EXPLODEI'VEHADIT!

My brain is mush and my guts are twisting into painful new configurations with each passing minute, and that song has been on permanent repeat in my head for about a day now.

This tour is going to hell in a handbasket. Five days till our first show, and we still don't have a means of transportation. The show is at Sneaky Dee's. In Toronto.

"What kind of retards are you," you must be asking, "to have booked a tour without even procuring a fucking vehicle?"

Well, see, it's like this: Will and I tried to reserve a van several weeks ago. He's the guy with the credit card, and I'm the guy who's of age to rent the thing. Whatever, right? Wrong. Perhaps this was stupid of us, but we simply didn't forsee the fact that every goddamned rental agency in this ENTIRE FUCKING PROVINCE has a policy stating that the credit card holder and driver must be one and the same person. Fuck.

But still, we don't panic. We are cool. Like cucumbers. We decide that I'll just apply for a credit card myself. There's still time for that. Piece of cake, right? I hang up on fuckers trying to jam their plastic wafers of wanton debt down my throat on a daily basis, so this should go off without a hitch, right? All we gotta do is sit tight for a couple weeks and wait for the plastic to arrive, and then it's home-free, right? Right?

Of fucking course not. DEE-NIED. I got the notice like three days ago. Remember when my phone got shut off? Yeah. So I guess I do have a credit rating after all.

Now, at this point, my natural impulse would be to just fuck it. We tried valiantly, but it was not meant to happen. The booking of this tour has been riddled with complications, cancellations, rescheduled shows and all kinds of other general bullshit that there's no point in me getting into here. This is the final nail in the coffin; just let it go, guys. Right?

Right. Except for the fact that, not two days after this news arrives, we FINALLY recieve confirmation on the "big" show that we'd initially started planning the entire tour around. We'd long given up on it, and had for weeks been trying to book another show for that night. Talk about timing. Now, we're not a carreerist sort of band, but we spent a lot of time, money and energy on putting this record out (ourselves), and we have three hundred copies to sell. If we manage this, maybe I'll even be able to afford a pair of shoes without gaping holes in them. And Tobias some pants. So yeah, a somewhat high-profile gig would tend not to hamper this.

There are several other reasons to continue trying to make this tour happen, foremost among them being that Ross will be moving shortly thereafter. We will not be breaking up, but this will effectively be the end of our current incarnation - the one documented on the record- and we will never again have the opportunity to tour with this version of the band. Plus, like, dude, WE WANT TO FUCKING TOUR. None of us have ever done so before, and Tobias worked so very, very hard on setting this up. The prospect of this not happening now is just beyond comprehension.

So it's hare-brained last-minute scheme time in the addled house of TMWSD, and this is what's proposed to me:

And I don't really expect anyone to be able to follow this. I sure can't.

I get my mother, who lives in Bathurst, New Brunswick, to rent a van from an agency there that allegedly has different rental policies than the ones here. I rent a small car here, since credit cards are not required for smaller vehicle rentals, and drive to Bathurst, drop off my dog, do... something or other with vehicle #1, pick up the van, and double back to Moncton. Meanwhile, with the assistance of various car-owning aunts and parents, the rest of the band, along with Ian (who is to be our merch guy) and all our records and equipment is driven to some unspecified place in Moncton to rendezvous with me. I'm not gonna bother explaining the logistics behind all this, but trust me, there is a reason for everything. Anyway, then we drive to Toronto. All in one day.

Can anyone say "ludicrous?"

But whatever. As batshit as this all sounds, I'd have done it anyway. In a heartbeat. But, well... and I hate that I'm breaking this news on my stupid blog, but my mother just called as I was writing this, and it's a no-go.

I'm gonna go put that Black Flag song on now.

Oh, and we're playing live on CKDU Saturday night. 9:00 sharp-ish. Tune in for the sound of a band at its collective wit's end.

And buy a record.

And drive us to Toronto.

Please?
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Massive fucking overhaulcore!

I'll fix the rest of the links later. I can't stand looking at this thing any longer for the time being.

And... anybody care to explain how to mess with the properties of the comments dealies? They look fugly.
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Shit, I broke the internet.
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Hey, why the hell not? Sorta seems appropriate after my last entry.

Take my Quiz on QuizYourFriends.com!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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See, now that last entry there was originally conceived of with the intention of making a point. It was actually some relatively-recent (albeit much less out-there. And no, nothing to do with drugs or sex... don't worry everyone, I'm still in the process of regrowing my virginity) stuff that got me to thinking about that night, and I'd planned on simply using that story to kick off a rant about the other stuff I'd been mulling over in my head. But bloody hell if recounting that tale didn't take FUCKING FOREVER, and I was sick of typing the damn thing out before I was even halfway through, so I just rushed through the last few paragraphs, said "to hell with it," and clicked "publish."

I've sorta lost focus on the other stuff I was gonna write about, and it doesn't really matter anyway. I'm glad I got that story outta my system. That night really fucked me up for awhile. Not in the "uh-oh, acid broke my brain" way, but in that it really challenged many of my more comfortable notions about other people's perceptions of me. I simply couldn't believe she thought I was serious. Sure, I'm many varieties of asshole, but I'm never smug. One first needs to be self-assured, methinks, to be genuinely smug, and if there is one single quality that I do not posess in abundance, it is almost certainly self-assuredness. It freaks me out to no end when I'll say something like that in jest, only to be met with a literal interpretation and have the room go silent. In my mind, it's glaringly obvious that when I say something like this, I'm making a jab at myself. But I guess it's not always so obvious to others, because I encounter this problem on a somewhat-regular basis. It sucks, too, because I only ever come out of my shell enough to crack wise at myself around people I know relatively well and am comfortable around. I guess it unconsciously follows, in my mind, that these are people who know me well enough to understand the intent behind such comments, and it's disheartening to think that anyone I know well enough to feel that way around maybe doesn't know me as well in return. I'm just a nervous little man with astoundingly low self-confidence; I NEVER think I'm like, hot shit or whatever. My brain simply doesn't work that way.

Hell, it'd probably be nice if it did, but whatever. For the moment, I'm over it. And with that, I'm gonna post some lyrics from the song that was in my head all last night, and go to bed:

You got to tell me, brave captain, why are the wicked so strong? How do the angels get to sleep when the devil leaves the porchlight on?

How frickin' awesome is Tom Waits?
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One of the very last times I ever did acid, a female friend and I had been driving around my hometown on a Sunday evening, mostly aimlessly, looking vaguely for something interesting to do, knowing there was nothing. We eventually ended up at another freind's apartment, where he and this other guy had just dropped. I'd been sorta slowly getting outta that scene for awhile at that point, but the night seemed to be shaping up to be pretty dull otherwise, and Nathalie, for reasons that I'm left wondering about to this day, was egging me on, so I took the couple hits they'd offered me. Nathalie, although all for the idea of me tripping, declined. In hindsight, I probably should have found this a little off, but, well, put simply, I can be talked into just about anything by a pretty girl. We hung out for awhile. I'm not sure how long; the plan seemed to be that I'd drive Nat back to her place and come back to finish my trip with the guys, but at any rate, I know I was more than buzzing by the time we left.

We talked for awhile after pulling into the parking lot of her building, and things got flirty. Now, Nathalie and I were never best of friends (and, to be blunt, I think she thought of me as much more of a "best" sorta friend than I did her), but we'd known each other a long time, and had the sort of Platonic relationship that allows for like, goofy sexual innuendo at parties, but you both know it ends there. This was different. I mean, yeah, by now I was shooting-lasers-outta-my-eyes high, but this was definitely different. We talked about sex for a long time, and glances started to become more and more meaningful, and as it dawned on me where this was going, my mind went into... well, the only way to describe it is fight or flight mode. Internal dialogue was frantic, and went something like: "You are fucking flying on acid. You are incapable of understanding fully what is transpiring here. This is not good."

But flee I did not, and when she asked me in, I complied. Once we were inside, sprawled on her giant bed, in her cozily-lit room, my anxiety started to lift; her, the situation, the acid, all of it seemed to fall into place, and it maybe even seemed right, in that way that passes for profundity when yr on drugs. She put on a tape of like, whale music or something (which, in a drug-free mental state, screams "FLAKE! FLAKEYFLAKEFLAKE!" at me, but at the time felt like an amazing gesture of intimacy and reassurance), and we got naked and spoke in hushed tones and kissed and writhed around like a ball of snakes, just being primal and intimate for what seemed like days. The kind of intimacy where you have prolonged eye contact from half an inch away, lips almost-but-not-quite touching as you steal each other's breath and pinch each other's flesh. She said she'd do anything to please me, to comfort and reassure me, and I just melted inside.

It seems silly to go into details here (obviously this isn't Hot Action), but she made me feel about as free and comfortable as I ever have with a woman. No small feat, considering that by this point I was totally peaking on the acid.

I think I understand now why strippers and prostitutes don't kiss. Sex is nothing compared to what a kiss can mean. Apparrently.

See, now, keep in mind that we'd both agreed that this was to mean nothing before I even gave in and entered the building. I hope this doesn't strike the wrong chord with anyone, but, well, girls can be weird when it comes to this stuff, and I probably should have known better than to take this agreement at face value. Bloody hell if it didn't seem right though, what with the acid and her saying so.

So anyway, after a bunch of whatever, we got to just kissing. Like, really kissing, and it was pretty intense.

She pulled back for a moment, and said "I'm starting to really like kissing you."

We were still intertwined. She was on top. Her wallpaper looked like attack lizards. Her breasts were vaguely shimmering in and out of phase. I was cool with this. I was cool with her. I was cool with her and me. Everything seemed really right.

And then I said what I guess is the stupidest thing that could ever be said in this particular situation:






"Hey, how could you not?"





Whoa, oops? Obviously I was kidding. Or at least it seemed obvious to me at the time... and it still sorta does. I mean, I tend to figure that anyone who's known me for more than three seconds is able to sum me up as an insecure, self-effacing sorta guy who'd never make a comment like that in any kind of seriousness.

But I guess I shouldn't make these assumptions, because she fucking FREAKED.

Keep in mind, now, that I'm the one on all the drugs. I'm still peaking here.

She climbed off me cold, and slithered angrily up and into the wall. From there she began her sermon:

I'd changed. I'd gotten too full of myself. I wasn't the person she used to know. Things had "gone to my head."

I didn't know what the fuck she was yelling about, but I understood the implications. I tried to explain. I tried to explain, but all-of-a-sudden she was just the wall, and I was talking to myself. The wall told me to shut up. I stood and tried to dress, and the room became a colourful vortex. Like a muted-tone rainbow on the event horizon of a black hole with me naked and aroused in the middle of it. The whale music didn't sound so good now.

I managed to mostly get dressed. Things had gone to shit, and I didn't understand. I didn't quite have my pants done up when she came at me from the kitchen, which was odd, considering I'd last seen her ganging up with the bedroom wall against me. She threw herself at me, and begged me to stay.

I said nothing. I just left. I knew I hadta get out of that place, to get away from her before she did something truly mindbending. Her hand draped across my shoulder as I walked out the door. She was still talking. My dick was still hard. It wasn't easy leaving.

Driving home wasn't much of a cakewalk either, but it wasn't far, thankfully, and it was all rural from her place. Parked the vehicle, retreated into my shed, and just curled up into a little ball on the floor.

Stayed like that for at least six hours. It was fucking strong acid.

Imagine how paranoid I am about people misinterpreting the flippant things I say now.
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Hrm, lemme see if I can piece together the last few days.

Left for Truro around 7 pm Friday. We ended up having to bring way more gear than we'd anticipated, so the drive was fucking cra-a-amped, and we got there later than we'd planned on. Missed the first couple bands, but we managed to find the place in time to see Gamera (Neimatron---------->'s new band). They played a half-hour or so set of obnoxious, confrontational, unabashedly-unmusical noise, with the mantra "IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT I SAY/YOU'LL DANCE ANYWAY!" And everybody danced like maniacs. It was fucking fantastic. Neima wore some kind of full-body pyjama suit, and bitch-slapped some kids in the front row. There was a guitar... it ended up just feeding back on the floor fairly early into their set, and various audience members took turns making their own versions of unholy noise with it as accompaniment to the mayhem. There was a pillow fight in the mosh pit. Whoa. Definitely not in Kansas anymore.

A couple traditional sorta punk bands played next, and they were pretty good, for that sort of thing, I guess. Lots of stuff about BEER! and UNITY! and, uh... STUFF! But they played well, and the audience dug it, so that's cool. I'm not so sure what the fuck is so "punk" about regurgitating a bunch of regimented old cliches, but that's another rant entirely, and I really don't give a shit. To each their own, and kids seemed to be having a good time, and that's what counts, right? The pillow was destroyed around now, which sorta disappointed me -I was hoping it'd be around during our set (of new cutting-edge cliches!) too- but whatever.

There was another short set by some "experimental grindcore" band, but I wasn't paying attention at that point; the batteries in our tuner turned out to be dead, and I was trying to zone the noise out in an attempt to tune all our instruments by ear. Which is, outside of shows, my preferred method, but it just ain't so happenin' when everything around you is cranked to 11 and pumping out atonal noise. And I really fucking hate bands that tune onstage. Heh, I remember a time when it'd have seemed absurd to play a show without a soundcheck first...

Anyway, we played to a bit of a weeded-out crowd (I think by this time it was past more than a few of their bedtimes. I say this without sarcasm. There was seriously like a whole flock of 12-year-old kids moshing it up earlier on. Freeeeaky) but I think we played well, and everyone in attendance was boogying down. Neima and Payson were like my own personal go-go dancers, and I cannot stress how much more I will get into playing for a crowd when I am surrounded by dancing fools. Funny how that works. 'Specially considering I'm not much of a dancer. It's a vibe thing, I guess. So yeah, that ruled. We flubbed the song we'd written three days prior, but I think we just came across like we were doing some sort of intentional US Maple-styled everyone-playing-in-a-different-time-sig thing, and before we confounded the hell outta everybody, we jumped into the next song and nailed it the fuck on. I even had some of the leather spiky punx come up to me afterward, raving about the show, and how we have "something nobody else has." Wow, cool. How the hell do you respond to that?

I dunno, but Dave Brown took some cool pictures anyway.

I like this one, 'cause I look so deep:



So we crammed back into the car and headed back to Halifax. I'm an idiot, and hadn't anticipated headlining the show, so I rolled into work about an hour-and-a-half later than the two hours late I'd already said I'd be. Thankfully Fridays are slack as hell, and I only ended up having to say an extra hour or so past when I'd normally have left. If it hadn't been for the fact that some higher-ups were coming in to review the store Saturday morning, I'd have been outta there in two hours. Oh well.

Got home and ended up in one of those exhausted-but-can't-seem-to-fall-asleep modes, so I stayed up till noon or so reading about this John Titor dude. I blame Tobias for that. Slept a little under three hours, and took off to Will's young bohemian household to figure out some last-minute tour stuff. We hit a bunch of brick walls, and ultimately got nothing accomplished. Somehow, in the midst of all this, I ended up applying for a credit card? What the fuck? Anyway, we were getting nowhere. Will works the same shift as me, and had had about the same amount of sleep, so we decided some sort of breakfast type meal was in order. Hooked up with Cara and Siobhan and some guy whose nickname was "Poo" (nice guy though), and headed over to Dio Mio for smoothies and a meal. I'd never been there before, and holy fuck, that place has the best vegetarian chili I've ever had in a restaurant. Shame it's all the way down in the south end.

Cara and Siobhan had been to the previous night's burlesque show, and all the giddy talk of it got us all pretty excited to check out the second night's revue. I'd originally planned on going with Tobias anyway, but he'd wussed out earlier in the day. Cara took us for a spin by the place around eight, and there was no way in hell we were getting in; the lineup was around the block. That was a pretty big letdown. Next time one of these things goes on, I'm totally getting advance tickets.

I live right around the corner from there, so I jumped out to go shitshowershave, and everybody else went on to Siobhan's place. I'd planned on going too, after a decent shower, but the phone was ringing off the hook for me to go jam with System Poop as soon as I walked in the door. So I had one of those quick, late-for-work type unsatisfying showers and motored on down to the jam spot. Everybody there was on shrooms. Weird jam. But it went ok, and everything seemed fairly normal after a few beers. Wrapped that up and headed up the street to Siobhan's, where I got made fun of for being so characteristically late. Nobody ever believes me when I say "something came up." This is how my life works. Every damned day.

So we hung out for a bit, and I had every intention of taking off from there to go see C'Mon and MRR at the Seahorse, since I'd missed their show the week prior. But then somebody mentioned Scrabble. This is yet another rant altogether, so let's just say I'm a little obsessive about Scrabble, and leave it at that for now. So I stuck around and kicked everyone's asses. By the time we finished, the show would've been effectively over, so I opted to go smoke a joint with Cara, Will (who'd just wakened off the bathroom floor. I coulda totally pissed on his head earlier, haha) and Tobias (who'd magically resurfaced while I was off jamming) in the Commons, which is something I never do these days. But it was cool, and I barely remember lugging my three-ton Epiphone semi-hollow back to my place before I passed out and slept the sleep of a thousand professional somnambulists.

Woke and slept and woke and watched television and worked and slept some more. Sitting around trying to write this thing, I first got a call from Old Marky, who is one of the maybe ten people in this world that I truly love. I'm totally gonna scam him outta his Gibson SG. Wooooo! For the tour, even! So fucking awesome. But I didn't even have a chance to write that down before my old roommate Mike stopped by, freshly-tanked from the bars. Mike loves my dog, and has been known to steal her on occasion. His deal was that, much earlier, he'd seen these plaster-cast sculptures of people buttfucking, placed not-so-inconspicuously in the southern corner of the Commons, and that we should take Java for a stroll and check the scene out.

Now I'm starting to sober up, my dog is long passed-out, and there's a lifesized plaster-cast of an obvious "bottom" person sitting on the loveseat in the other room.

Sometimes I think I oughta quit drinking, but then I'd haveta learn to regret way more mundane stuff.
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Take me down
to the infirmary
lay me down
on cotton sheets
Put a damp cloth
on my forehead
lay me down
and let me sleep

I know the whiskey won't soothe my soul
and the morphine won't heal my heart
but if you take me down to the infirmary
I won't have to sleep or drink alone.

So, take me down
to the infirmary
walk a sound that's as blue as her eyes
Oh, sister Magdalene won't you fetch the
doctor's flask.
He's gonna need a steady
a steady hand

I know the whiskey it won't soothe my soul
and the morphine won't heal my heart
but if you take me down to the infirmary, oh yeah
I won't have to sleep
or drink alone.

So, take me down
to the infirmary
lay me down on cotton sheets
put a damp cloth on my forehead
lay me down
let me sleep
lay me down
let me sleep

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