People ask "What" and "How"

Astroland is a Phantasmallegory (put Trademark symbol here). 

The story continues to reveal itself in clangs and whispers, just as the problems of arranging it come clearer. (We are two weeks from our dress rehearsal.) [Cue sound of teeth popping off hard candy to sound like biting nails.] 

There's THIS...Less the band started focused work on Astroland a year ago, but the seeds of the story started shaking in a few of us much earlier.

OR...In early 2005 I took a hit of weed in the back of a rental van traveling east from Pittsburgh to New York City and had a mild yet transformative breakdown. On the previous day, Less the band had breakfast with my Dad at North End Cafe in Louisville. Afterwards, we got in the van and I left Louisville for what seemed like permanently. We had to drive to Pittsburgh to play Gooski's, and then we would drive to New York City where I would wait for Traci to join me to begin the rest of our life. I was on my pilgrim's ride to a new home, to a place where I would always be a visitor, with four guys I barely knew.

By time the van pulled in to the rest stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I'd cleared up the whole fascination with aliens thing: "Of course we relate. We're not at home, either. We think of aliens because we are them." (Things I've added since that talk: we think of God for much the same. If only we didn't have to spend so much time getting over ourselves.)

We ate Mc Donalds outside on the handicapped ramp. Two pudgy kids in cardboard-colored Boy Scout uniforms locked the doors of a station wagon and walked into the food court.

"Poor bastards," said Paul. 

Everyone has memories of that talk at the Rest Stop on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It is part of the picture of Less the band. It's in our history. Thank God.

Last night at Mercury Lounge Paul told the audience anytime we played an "old song". (Funny to have old songs when we've played less than 75 shows in our lifetime. ) Later as we rode in the back of the Zip Car with Rob's ten speed banging our knees Paul said, "Ray, remember after that one trip, how you had to piss real bad and we pulled over on Canal Street so you could do it?" 

How could I forget? It was the end of the big trip, my first moment in New York feeling like a New Yorker. I stood on the curb and filled two McDonalds Extra Large cups with warm piss. Adam held one of the cups for me just for the hell of it. 

Riding in the Zip Car last night I had another flashback to the "old days". It was also a day when Less the Band returned to New York from a run of shows and mixing our record in Chicago. Unlike the first trip, this one was a little more tense. No one was volunteering to hold the cup.

But as we crossed George Washington Bridge, Chernus told us that a photographer friend of his had called and asked if we wanted to play a battle of the bands at a metal club that night. Chernus thought the guy might take band photos for us if we did. We discussed extending our time together one more day.

"Are we fucking high?" asked Paul. But then he volunteered to go rent a U Haul for the gig. 

We didn't qualify for another slot in a future band battle, but we played the best show of the year that night.

Blue Tooth

I got a root canal. The tooth on the back lower right part of my jaw couldn't handle it anymore. The nerve was too big to stay exposed like it has been and it had been through a lot in a matter of weeks. Two dentists tried to put it back together before dentist #2 yanked out a sliver of broken tooth and said it was hopeless.  It was time. I had been unreasonable with the foods I'd asked the tooth to chew for a long time. The Welsh I think first I cracked the enamel years ago biting on an olive pit, but the final irreparable split of the tooth's walls came from a piece of breakfast sausage containing a mean and nasty fennel seed. CarrRACKK!

Tomorrow I'll visit my dentist to make my weekly payment for her work and inform her that the right side of my jaw hasn't taken well to all the recent attention. I am worried about any more bad news (really hoping to put off the crown work). Everything had been going great until last week's appointment to fill the root canal. I could not physically sit still and deal with any more mouth trauma. I tried to get it under control, breathe deep and think myself a ut eventually she finished with, "I did as good as I could with you moving." I told her I understood.

If this were Facebook, I could post that Ray Is Chewing Up A Bowl Of Popcorn With The Left Side Of His Mouth. 

She's gonna love seeing me.

Why Wouldn't We say...

"Have you ever heard people say that they are worried about figuring things out because then they'll die?"

"I've heard you say it."

"Seriously?"

"You say it all the time - "

"No, I mean seriously I'm the only one? Because I hear a lot of people saying it. (pause) Men mostly. Maybe its a guy thing."

"Everything ends in death with boys."

"No, no. I think when you hear someone say, "I'm figuring it out", they have pulled themselves from their usual strand of living towards a new approach, a new idea. Some of these new ideas can completely shift a person from their axis and by doing so, give them a new life. As the new life starts to take hold, the old struggle, or the old life, disappears.  This can be very frightening for people my age who feel like they are figuring things out."

"Your age?"

"Forget I said that. The point is, when a revelation of that which is happening around you comes, you feel yourself in that same moment one step closer to nothing. Someone might take these feelings for the sensation of being near death - "

Traci has the keys that get us through the door of our apartment.

"- and that sensation could make people afraid to see things in a new light. Afraid enough to remain with the things they know. Because knowledge, my love, is destructive of many things we aren't sure we don't need."

She opens the freezer door. The sound of ice in a glass.   

"Bourbon?"

"Yes. Please."

  

 

Oh. (or Lost in Space)

I excused myself from the rest of the house guests here in Austin and rushed upstairs.

"I have to go take my passport photo off of the internet and go to bed."

The conversation had been winding down when Traci finished her description of soft red winter wheat by turning to me and saying, "...that reminds me. You have to take your passport picture off of your my space."

My first thought: "Huh. Usually I’m the one being paranoid..."

My second thought:  "..........................................."

"What’s the matter with it,"asks Kat. "Is his picture that bad?" 

"No," says Traci. "Its that has a picture of his whole passport up there. A scan of his entire passport!"

"Oh," says everyone else in the room.

My second thought finally arrives. "That’s not good, is it?" 

"No," says Guitar Shorty, shaking his head lightly and grinning. "Somebody could have some fun with that."

With that I excused myself and came upstairs. If you spied my passport while it was up on my My Space, I'm sure you were as stunned as I am now to see the precision and detail with which my HP Officejet 7410xi All-In-One Scanner/Printer rendered my document. Amazing.

If ever I thought identity theft was something worth putting on my list of worst case scenarios, it is at this moment as I read all the letters and numbers of my passport from my My Space page, displayed in erotic clarity on the screen of somebody else’s computer. If ever I questioned the integrity of my liberal come-one-come all attitude towards accepting My Space friends, well, that's now, too.

Now I am definitely the one being paranoid. What happens to our Gmail accounts when we move on or die? Did Google really just make search engines for advertising? ARE WE ON LOCKDOWN????

I think being paranoid is the best alternative to asking myself what kid of idiot puts his passport online. Therefore, in these final moments when my internet naivete still lingers in Texan air,  I must go full Rooney.

Does every space we cut out for ourselves in this universe an eventual pit for someone else’s stuff? Are we really this ready to give our world away, or make commerce with it? Some of my friends wondered how Borat got those people to say things in the movie. I thought they were crazy. Look all over this My Space Facebook world. Most of us are all too ready to hand it over. And we don’t even know what it is.

The space.

What to give to the space?

Soothing as these deep thoughts are, I'm still little anxious and, well, paranoid. So since I am fairly certain in this moment that someone who peeked my passport on my My Space page is capable of being an identity thief, (I don't mean you necessarily - but maybe) I feel that its time to start clearing out of the My Space digs and have Tom spray for bugs. This may seem extreme and I don't want to make too much of this, but in the wrong hands, my identity in particular (compared to, say, some other peoples identities) could be, well, lets just say DANGEROUS!

In the meantime, I’m wondering if this blog is better transmitted from my more secure, as-yet-to-my-knowledge unbreached site at www.mooselamp.net 

At mooselamp.net get Vicodin for .12 each.

I want to mooselamp.net and ssee big penitty stuff.

Rayd

This blog ownedz by Google.

Nate Dawg

Last week on a date that doesn't really matter, the second anniversary of life without Nathan quietly passed. Phil and I observed it simply and in a way Nate would have appreciated - we went to a bar and got drunk.

If Days of The New are a constellation (and we are) then Nathan Robinson is very likely the black star at the center, keeping up the gravitational pull.

At the time of Nathan's death, Travis and I hadn't talked or seen each other in a few years. We got back together to play a memorial for Nathan. We played "Wish You Were Here" and Nate's brother accompanied us on guitar. It was the first time we had played in four years and, in ways that I still don't think we understand, it was the beginning of a new chapter that runs up to and includes this moment. The following is a piece I wrote for the Louisville Eccentric Observer (LEO) the week of the memorial.


Nathan Robinson Remembered

by Ray Rizzo


I cannot tell you about Nate in 500 words. I will try to find him in a few haikus printed in a paper that I am pretty sure he never read. Not that he disliked LEO. I think Nathan appreciated LEO because his friends and the musicians he spent his time working with read it, if only to see their names written inside.

It is good for the paper – hell, this city - that Nate’s friends are among its community.

It is good of this paper to give 500 words to Nathan Robinson, sound engineer, musician, friend, brother, son, grandson. All over the city this week, many of Louisville’s Most Eccentric Observers can gather upon this quarter page memorial, smoke a Red or a Green, toss back some Makers and ask our newest space traveler, “S’uuup?”.

It isn’t good that we’re here and Nate is gone.

For those who didn’t know him, Nate would like you to take these 500 words and rearrange them in any manner you see fit so that they may work for someone you know who might leave this world loved but with not as much in print.

Now you know.

For those who did know him, 500 words are just not enough. And yet – Nathan: one word opens a universe. Nathan, a memory: “Let me eat it!” Nathan, a sign: “Peace!” Nathan, a sound: “The bass tone is the fuunk!”. Nathan is reaching beyond his body now. That is some wild shit, Nate! It’s crayyyzy!

You better cut this out and put it on your fridge. Because any place of Nathan’s was a place worth gathering. Dog shit on the floor, ashtray runneth over, fuck it. In Nathan’s home, pizza from last night’s crew was daily bread. You bet your ass I gave thanks to have it. Nathan showed me that there was nothing in the loaves, ya dummy. It was the people you broke the bread with. He also tried to talk me out of eating stale pizza.

Nathan never sat at table, at a bar or recording studio where he didn’t take you in as a friend. I believe the ledger of Nate Dawg balanced all debts, graces, and minor thefts in the currency of essence. Now, Nathan would be first to say that “essentials” like friendship, sonic alchemy, and laughter were not as good as cash when you are starting your own recording business, but he was just starting to get calls from people who understood his worth. In his presence I always felt lucky.

I’ve thought about Travis Meeks a lot this week. The day Nathan died, Travis told me he saw Jesus once. In Los Angeles, late into an emotional night. Travis looked upon his couch to see Jesus sitting smoking a Marlboro Red. When he outed Jesus from his disguise, Travis says Jesus sat back on the couch, got real quiet, and grinned a shit-eating grin until the sun rose.

Nathan, the word in Hebrew: “God has given!”

One more thing – I’m sure I’m over my limit, but this is important. I’d like to tell the other driver, on behalf of at least a few of Nathan’s friends gathered here at the Quarter-Page Memorial, there is nothing you need forgiveness for. But if it helps, you are forgiven. I mean, I am sure if Nathan could have got up and kicked in your bumper and cursed for a month, you would have heard nothing like it, laughed your ass off, and eventually become “cool”. If he were here Nathan would tell you that this is just some fucked up shit that happens. I know you don’t know me, but here it is in Nate’s 500 words.

Or you could take Travis’ Mom’s word for it. When she called Travis she said, “Goddammit, Trav, I know that boy, and when he went into critical condition I knew he’d take one look at the other side, look back at us and say, Fuck ya’ll!”

Van Talk #3

So the Saudis really own a shitload of this country.

Don’t rule out the Chineese.

Its amazing that there haven’t been any attacks in a while.

There have been some attempts while we were out.

Really? What?

Fort Dix.

The London Subway.

That was years ago.

No, this just happened – or they say it just happened. Who can really tell.

In 400 feet turn back.

There it is.

Its huge.

In 350 feet turn back.

This is the best Starbucks ever.

Look. Super Target.

This compound of stores could be any American city we have passed through. The Express are next to the Limited, Barnes and Noble likes to be near the Whole Foods.

It’s a dick sucking planet we live on.

Whoa. Look.

Yeah, but she’s been out in the sun. If you put your face down there it will smell.

Who do you think wants to control more?

I think at first the Saudis would have been fine leaving themselves from -

I have this dream about this country being taken over by the worst. Someone else running this country. Right now we are delusional slaves. We’re slaves and we don’t know it. But soon we’ll be slaves and we’ll know it.

I will be dead.

In a strange way I look forward to that.

A manifestation of what hell is will be here on this continent.

People have been leaving for years.

Phil says the Bible says Bear from east and Roman government.

Those decisions the government is making – its not staying true to the Declaration of Independence.

Theres a few trillion, a couple billionaires, some million and a whole lot of Milli Vannillionaires who think they have a lot money but don’t have shit.

It would even be benieficial to have jars of seeds. If we get nuked, there might be places where you can’t grow food.

Seeds don’t last forever, bro.

Like in Total recall when they...ah...fuckin...

I’ve never seen Total Recall.

Like last night when I was taking about my reality – this is it.

That’s why I worried about you calling it all delusion, because some of it is just the frustration of living when things are fucked up. Some of it is your sanity.

I know how to get with God. I’ve known how to get with God my whole life.

What if this is between God and man and there is nothing an angel can do. It’s like, nooo - you can’t go back to your air conditioner.

It’s between man and God.

I think its between man and man.

I can agree with all that because I think we are God. The conversation is between us and us.

Instead of meditating and communicating with God I am going to turn to my computer. Son, come to me. No, I’m just gonna go to my computer. It’s comforting.

This is beautiful when it ends how are you ever going to describe it when it’s over. This is peace. Embrace it.

The awesome thing is I don’t know if you mean the world outside the van or inside the van, but I say yes to both of them.

We were given the little things to exercise our appreciation…. Did you know those are the words to Touch of Anger.

Yes.

Instead of blowing up buildings, that was me crying to God.

Emrace the mistakes. That’s all he asked.

Some people would say the mistakes are the best part.

Yeah, but that would be the punk rockers and fuck them.

I dunno man, you with your acoustic guitar and how we play to these rooms – it’s pretty punk rock. What you're calling punk is cartoon music.

They’re all makin deals now. Its all been a movie that’s been going on. People think they’re right it’s like wrestling they’re not really mad. They’re just acting. They’re all in on it.

Does anyone know this band Chevelle?

Yeah. Yeah.

What are they like?

Nu Metal?

A hard working suck-ass band of imitators. But that was 6 years ago. They may have refined their suck-assed ness to something cool.

Someone broke into their trailer and stole all their shit.

My fear is that theres a big ass lion coming to eat me.

What is the greatest betrayal is that what is happening on top isn’t really what is happening.

That is the hoodwink.

All betrayal is is that within yourself. You’re coming into another knowledge.

Like the Matrix.

This isn’t Matrix dawg, its Constantine. I’ve seen that shit my whole life.

I’m getting used to the fact that the two films that best express the collective understanding of this van both star Keanu Reeves.

Yep. I really conjured up some fear. Its scary all that stuff we talked about. I spend a lot of time avoiding giving any light to that subject.

Outside Lake Charles

Everyone piles back in the van to leave Baton Rouge for our next-to-last show in Houston.

“Dos Mas,” says Fresta.

Outside Lake Charles we stop for gas. I reach Traci on the phone.

“I have eaten like shit on this tour.”

“I thought you were going on a raw diet with Malcolm.”

“Didn’t do it.”

“That’s a good thing,” Traci says. “Remember - before you left you were giving up red meat. It sounds like you’d have to eat a lot of it.”

“I know.”

“ Think of your cholesterol.”

“All they have to eat here is chips, Community coffee and tamales.”

“I like that they drink coffee called Community,” my awesome wife says. “Because that’s what coffee should be.”

I grab a curious looking black bag of Doritos. Under the brand logo, printed in block black lettering it says:

This is the X-13D Flavor Experiment, the bag says. Objective: taste and name Doritos flavor X-13D. Receive additional instruction at snackstrongproductions.com or text “X-13D” to 24477 (‘CHIPS’).

Tasting notes: An All Amreican Classic.

“I’m getting Doritos,” I tell Traci. ”But they won’t tell me what kind they are. They need me to verify that they actually taste like something and then tell them what they should be named. In New York, I have been paid upwards of 150 dollars an hour to do this kind of work. Test marketing they call it there. But our here in the humid mossy regions of Louisiana, Doritos expect me to pay the .99 and do the work for free. I even bet they already know what flavor it is."

“Doritos?” Traci says. “You could eat better than that.”

“Not here I can’t”.

“Don’t they have any pork cracklin’s?”

“I’m sick of pork cracklin’s. The X-13D’s will be fine. Plus, if I’m going to eat shitty food, this way I can be productive. These van rides are hindering my sense of accomplishment in the daylight hours.

"Actually, this is a great idea. Why don’t we go into business making shitty food products that we bag in non-descript packages, then tell people to call us and tell us what it is. Make a few bucks on the phone call while we’re at it."

“You’re so smart," Traci says.

Van Talk #2

Glad you’re here

I just had to make up my mind.

But then again it is a miracle

Parts of it, I made a conscious decision. Other parts were working for me.

That’s wickid.

Its amazing.

(Sung) Very superstitious writing on the wall.

Van Talk #1

“Dookie juice can be poo juice, but it can be anything. If you stay in the place of open mindedness it evolves.”

“A friend of mine told me her husband would get these porns where these chicks shit in spaghetti then ate it then puked in each other mouths.”

“That’s deep, bro.”

“Have you ever seen a snuff film?”

(Silence.)

“Yeah, but snuff films…shitting in spaghetti and then eating it – you gotta live with that shit. Snuff films you die.”

“Well, you are right there”.

“You know what would be more appealing to nut cases? Pooping butt to butt.”

“There would have to be a narrator saying, ‘There is no exit here.’”

Rockford

Alpine Lodge is an all-purpose reception hall with a wild west façade. It is located behind the race car track where tonight they will be playing car soccer.

As we set up the stage, Phil says, “The radio DJ said last time Days Of The New came to town Travis dumped a gallon of milk on his head and pissed out a second story window before the show. Do you remember that?”

I tell Phil I do remember, which is true, but I cannot see it in my mind. I don’t remember Rockford, Illinois with an image of a venue or a freak out. Its not like Providence, Mercedes, Los Angeles, or Carbondale, whose memories come back with everything from the first song of the set to the smell of the back stage.

“What’s the weirdest thing that ever happened,” Malcolm asks. Before I open my mouth I know I’m going to disappoint. I start to tell them a story that is a strong emotional memory.

“Once before a show Travis took mustard put it on a piece of bread and smeared it down a dressing room mirror…”

My heart isn't in it. Malcolm and Phil give me blank looks and go back to setting up the stage.

A little later Travis returns with Steve the radio DJ who is still talking about the last time we came through.

“You guys were playing in De Kalb,” he starts.

“De Kalb! Holy shit,” I say. "I totally remember De Kalb!" As the memory surges back, I realize the milk and second-floor window piss were only supporting details.

I tell Steve the DJ, “I did not think we would make it through that one.”

“Really,’ Steve says, and proceeds to repeat his story for at least the third time that day. “I remember being up in the band room and Travis dumps milk on his head and pisses out a window and then the band up and leaves him and gets onstage without him. And I’m like, Travis, your band just left you. What is going on?

“Yeah well –“ I say, uncomfortable.

Steve continues: “So I walk down to the stage with Travis and the band is playing and he gets up there and I’m thinking, is this even gonna happen? And suddenly it was like a switch went off and you guys started rocking. It was amazing.”

“I know,” I say. “It became a kind of thrill-addiction for me – cliffhanging before the show, wondering if we were going to go down in a ball of fire and then turning around and playing some of the meanest music I’ve ever played.”

I want to talk, but my heart still isn't in it and, having no clear indication that Steve is interested or listening to me, I quit while I’m ahead. I would have enjoyed telling him that the perspective of Travis suffering, caged, and left backstage by his band didn’t say enough for the other people involved who were, like Travis, trying to negotiate a caged, maddening situation. I'd like to have sat, had some coffee, and explained the experiences with some relaxed perspective sharing. But there isn't time. Steve is a great DJ and DJs work best with soundbytes, antecdotes, and quick one liners.

Travis exhales smoke and tells Steve, “Ray’s been with me longer than anybody. I had to suck his cock just to get him to come back out with me.”

“Now he just does it for fun,” I say.

“Good comeback,” Travis says.

Exactly.

Marvin

The sun goes down before we reach Chicago. In the passenger seat Travis is excited for the ride, turning the lights on occasionally to look for cds and smokes and . I fall asleep listening to “Here My Dear”. For the first of what will be countless listens, I am immediately struck by the tone of Marvin Gaye’s voice at the beginning of the album. It is a tone I have never heard on any of his records – contempt. This is going to be a hard listen.

Porno for Jesus

South of Indianapolis Travis gives the signal for a pit stop,“Yeurrrinn!”, and we pull into a quaint gas station across the street from an Adult Store. Outside the fence of the porn store parking lot a wooden shack has been erected for protesters who have been present since the store opened. A bus is unloading well-dressed citizens from elsewhere as we pull up. They appear to be reinfoorcements for the ranks of do-gooders in the shack.

There is some picketing involved with the protesting, but more impressive is the group’s paparazzi tactics. Poking out of the tent are lenses from cameras. “WE WILL TAKE YOUR PICTURE AND SEND IT TO YOUR EMPLOYER” says a big wooden sign by the shack. When Malcolm and I see that there is a photo op for walking in the store, we check our hair and press our shirts and get ready for our close up.

For being along the side of an Indiana Highway, the porn store is as clean and neat as The Pleasure Chest in Manhattan. The attendant is very helpful with Malcolm’s request for certain titles and performers. Then Phil comes in and asks her where the Hustlers are and buys one.

“There she is,” Phil says proudly. In the centerfold of this month’s Hustler is the dear Tera, complete with a purple dong in her snizz and a message for every man looking to receive the love she transmits from the photo.

Malcolm becomes so comfortable with being filmed that on his way out he takes a piss behind the dumpster right under the security camera. Then we load into the van and drive out for one last photo op with the protesters. Only this time we take the pictures.

Every generation is represented by the protesters, making it easy for me to see that what for some is an idealogical battle is for others a safe place to be involved and purposeful. The protesters are of a Christian bent, but I don’t see how threatening a truck driver with unemployment can be considered charitable. What distresses me the most is the protesters’ use of shame as a primary force in their methods. This distresses me because generationally-bred shame is often what divides people from themselves in the first place, making it difficult for them to coexist with natural sexual impulses, and making things like pornography such an irresistible and unhealthy digression. Taking pictures of such people will not make things better – it only intensifies the divide within them. So if the main goal of these porno protesters is the health of their suffering community, they should really go the fuck home.

Porn isn’t perfect, it could use some improvement. I can’t really get into some of the material that gets passed around the van. There is this one with a girl and bananas and a monkey with a video camera that is pretty dope, but for me I like to see porn with better story lines and more for the imagination. Rather than curse the candle, I offer a submission:

RAY’s 10 Minute Porn

Fade in to wide shot of Indiana Countryside. Camera pans past the corn and soybean fields to a seven foot concrete wall surrounding the perimeter of the pastel colored porn store. Camera pans along the wall past wooden signs saying “Porn kills” “Smile, we’re taking your picture.” “Truckers, we will send your photo to your employer.” Camera settles on the image of a makeshift wooden shack built like a kids jungle gym and a tree stand for a deer hunter. Camera closes in on the door.

Cut to Interior of shack. REVER, JORDAN, and CURTIS are seated around a small table. Behind them a calendar with a picture of the Virgin Mary has dates crossed off for the two years they have been at their post. Curtis is loading data from a video camera into a laptop. Rever is crossing off another day on the calendar. Jordan is sipping coffee from a thermos.

JORDAN: Two years and they still haven’t got us a portopotty.

REVER: When we did a Strike at Ford a few years back the union pulled up a mobile latrene and had food catered. At least for the first week they did.

JORDAN: Here’s one.

Curtis has finished loading the laptop and hands the video camera to Jordan.

CURTIS: Make us proud Man Ray.

JORDAN: It’s a van – with a trailer. Must be four or five guys in it. Looks like a few of them have beards..

REVER: Be sure to get a picture of the license plate.

JORDAN: Holy - (Turns nervously towards Rever and Curtis) Fellas. Their liscence plate – (takes a quick picture) Look at it!

Jordan shows Curtis and Rever the photo on the camera’s display screen. Rever hasps and makes the sign of the cross, taking a step backwards. Curtis takes the camera from Jordan and stares at it closely, then looks up as if to the setting sun.

CURTIS: Still Saving Lives.

JORDAN: Now, I know Jesus when I see him and that there is Jesus fucking Christ on that license plate. I know it!

CURTIS: Still saving lives.

JORDAN: They got big ass beards.

REVER: Fellers – fuck the portopotty. They sent us the big guns this time. (Takes a look at the Virgin Mary calendar) Our forty days and forty nights are over!

CURTIS: What are they doing now?

JORDAN: I can’t see they went behind the wall.

(Sound of van doors opening and closing. From far away the sound of a sprite like voice)

VOICE: Yerrrin! Oh, Yerrin! I yearn for your yerrrin!

Voice is followed by sound of a hanging bell on the front door of the store. Curtis Rever and Jordan stare at each other.

REVER: They went inside.

CURTIS: Surely he will be turning over tables in the market.

JORDAN: And making his body flesh for us to eat.

Curtis and Rever stare at Jordan.

JORDAN: We must prepare ourselves, right? Do something.

REVER: Let’s genuflect.

CURTIS: Out loud or in silence.

JORDAN: Oh, in silence please.

CURTIS: So be it. SO BE IT!

Rever, Curtis, and Jordan kneel on the floor of the shack in silence. Minutes pass. A few passing cars go by. At one point, Curtis sneaks a self portrait of himself with the camera. There is a noise outside and the flap is pulled back on the entrance. CHASTITY walks in with a casserole.

Jordan, Rever, and Curtis look up at Chastity and the food.

CHASTITY: Well, don’t ya’ll just stare at it – eat it! Momma was worried ya’ll was hungry so she made me bring you some casserole.

JORDAN : Shut up, Chastity!

CHASTITY: You shut up. The fuck are you doin?

JORDAN: We’re genuflecting you dumb cunt.

CURTIS: Jordan, don’t talk to your sister that way! (turns to Chastity) Little one, your Lord and Savior has arrived. Now get down on your knees and shut up like the rest of us.

Jordan grabs his sister and pulls her down to the kneeling position.

REVER: He’s still saving lives.

JORDAN: They’re inside.

CHASTITY: Who?

JORDAN: Jesus and his guys. They’re tearing the den of evil from it’s foundation.

REVER: Sanctifying our blessed nation and laying to waste the wicked infidels!

CURTIS: What happened to no talking? GENUFLECT!

CHASTITY: (Starts to cry) I didn’t bring enough casserole.

JORDAN: He can multiply it if he’s hungry.

CURTIS and REVER: Shhhhh!

The four kneel in silence. Two more cars pass. Then they hear the sound of the front door bell.

JORDAN: He has come.

CHASTITY: Oh, shit.

In the distance the same voice as before makes a cackling laugh. Then the sound of doors opening and closing on a van and the van starting up.

REVER: Here he comes.

Sound of van gets closer and then stops. All gasp. Door to van opens and there is the sound of approaching footsteps. They stop just before the entrance. All look down to see the feet of the one who approaches.

:JORDAN: His sandals are worn.

REVER: And his toenails are silver.

CHASTITY: Jesus, I’m sorry I didn’t know you were –

Suddenly an object is hurled into the shack and lands in front of them. It is a 14 inch dildo. As they stare, they hear the footsteps walk away. The door to the van closes, and the van rides off.

JORDAN: Sweet manna from heaven!

REVER: What is it?

CHASTITY: It’s a 14 inch silly swizz rocket double dong.

CURTIS: No doubt it was pulled from the dead carcass of the beast who did reside in the den of evil pornography.

CHASTITY: There’s a note on it.

EVERYONE screams.

JORDAN: What does it say?

REVER: No no no, don’t read it – if you look right into the word of God your heart will explode.

CHASTITY: It says, Enjoy.

CURTIS: Enjoy.

REVER: It is a gift from the Lord Savior for our hard work. Should we share it with the rest of the group when they get here?

CURTIS:” No, no. This holy gift meant for us. It is here to engender us with joy so we can administer to the multitudes. Yur – IN. En – Joy. Like the oils used to rub down our mighty savior on the eve of his destruction, we must not let temperance guide us in this moment. We must celebrate. And enjoy. For he has come and bestowed joy upon us, we must open ourselves wide to receive that which he has administered. Children! Let us be children again to feel rapturous joy with every inch of our bodies!

CURTIS CHASTITY REVER and JORDAN have every kind of sex imaginable with the dildo, each other, and the casserole. When they are done, they are overjoyed. On her way out, CHASTITY looks at the Virgin Mary calendar, circles the date and takes the calendar with her.

The End.

Departure

We could hear the van pull up from inside Phil’s house. The stereo is that good. Phil started laughing. “Mutherfucker’s jamming to Thriller,” he said. “This is gonna be a good trip.”

Outside Travis jumps out of the van holding a tall cup from Starbucks. “Yo Ray Ray!”

Taylor is packing for his first trip out with us. All week during rehearsals he has jumped to any task that is within his grasp to do. I wonder how long it will be before his enthusiasm is tempered.

I pack my drum cases and luggage and go sit with Phil’s roommate Mike to watch a few minutes of “American Psycho”. Our entourage walks in and out of the room as it plays. Everyone knows the line “Sabrina, don’t just stare at it. Eat it.”

Tracey from Massachusetts and her dog Zeus are along for the first few days of the trip. Zeus is intoxicatingly happy running around sniffing Mike’s dog Duncan and playing with his tennis ball which had the air blown out of it long ago. Tracey has a trailer with Harley Davidson logos that she bought cheap. I give it a once over to see if we might rely on it in the event our trailer is blown apart in a wind tunnel.

Christian Bale has just dropped the chainsaw down the stairwell when Travis walks in.

“We’re a bus, yo.”

This means it’s time to go. But its still two and a half hours before we will cross the Ohio and drive North through Indiana. Wal Mart. Big Lots. Music Go Round. Mc Donalds and Jiffy Lube. While washing the windshield at the gas station I coin our newest phrase: Dookie Juice. It takes it’s rightful place among the ranks of Dewey, Dewger, and Warm Worm Pee.

The Mound

I pointed at the mound of raised earth at the edge of the field. It started to move.

“There will be times when this is going to be this in front of you,” I said to Phil. Phil had been discussing getting over a painful breakup so I thought I'd to give him some of my extra crispy - the type of wise shittalk I used to drop on girls in High School. “Emotionally, mentally, there will be things that block the view. When you can’t get over them you need to get high enough to see past them.”

“Or turn them into frogs,” Phil says.

“Not that kind of high,” I said. A wave of nausea washed over me and I leaned harder against the wall of the Days Inn. “Ugh. I think I smoked too much.”

“It was that second cigarette,” Phil reminded me.” That’s what got you.” I was turning green. My mind wandered back to the mound.

“You’re totally right,” I finally say to Phil. “How great it would be to be able to transform our inner obstacles into living creatures. It would be closer to the truth to treat our problems with the respect of living organisms.” I said and looked at the mound. “Turn them into frogs.”

“And then eat them,” Phil said. “Make frog legs.”

Baby Wipes

I took pictures of myself and the graffiti on the wall of the Agora Theater then walked back to the van. Taking my seat I could tell the mood was more relaxed. Travis was in mid sentence explaining to Phil how I would write about the moments just before I got out of the van.

“Ray’s gonna write, Travis slams the insence burner on the dashboard and yells at Taylor,” he laughs, adding “But what makes it good is the Baby Wipes.”

“Totally,” I say.

“It could have been about anything,” Travis says. “A coke, a soda, cigarettes…but it was over Baby Wipes.”

“That’s what makes it awesome,” I say.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I forgot them,” Taylor says from the back seat.

“Those were good Baby Wipes," Malcolm said.

“I know," says Travis, still feeling the loss. "They had Aloe Vera and shit.”

Every person that has handled our rider on this run has commented on how little had been requested. Water. A few soft drinks. Perrier. Three avocados. And a box of Baby Wipes. When getting so little, there is the potential for the items to take on greater meaning. Last night Malcolm was bemused that they gave him San Pellegrino instead of his Perrier. “These don’t even have twist tops,” he moaned. “How am I supposed to open this?

“Fuckin bullshit, brah.”

But Malcolm was also quick to spot the jade green plastic box in shrink wrap. He knew immediately that whoever had handled the rider at Machine Shop knew their Baby Wipes.

"Has Travis seen these," he asked me, holing up the Wipes.

"I don't think he's been in here yet," I said.

"Well he's gonna love these," Malcolm said. And he was right.

“I really got excited about those Baby Wipes,” Travis reminisces. “I went on stage at the Machine Shop and played the set and the whole time I was thinking about those baby wipes.”

Travis left town for this week of shows and forgot his black jacket. This was a serious matter in the realm of comfort and security and much was considered about stage dress before the first show in Illinois. Luckily, Travis had his cool mulit-colored shirt to settle into. But two days ago Travis left the shirt in a motel in Michigan. All of this was met with frustrated resignation, making for a palatable build up of tension by the end of the week when Taylor, the nubie on tour, leaves a box of Aloe Baby Wipes at Machine Shop.

Travis’ freak out was, like the Baby Wipes themselves, safe, non-abrasive, and containing no alcohol that can irritate sensitive skins. The dashboard took a beating, Taylor was maybe a little unnerved, but no one was hurt, which is why less than 5 minutes later, Travis was writing the blog for me and everyone was laughing.

Hilton Head (Show day)

Freddie at Monkey Business is a hospitable guy, running a pleasant venue with an army of guys around him who make sure stuff gets done. His reputation is nationwide. The catering person at the Hinder shows told us of Freddie’s greatness. Monkey Business is a venue that makes all its money doing hip hop on the weekends and opening during the week for national rock bands that are either on their way up or on their way down or , as some might suggest of Days Of The New, are holding steady in Netherland.

Alligator sushi after sound check. Malcolm watching cable in the band room. On MSNBC a child pornographer has been captured in Asia. On MTV a young man is interviewing two girls for a date while his buddy gives him direction from a remote location.

The sound at Monkey Business that night is hard to deal with. Its like we are playing in a furniture store showroom. Its never easy to come off of an amazing show and play as well the next night, but I know the real lack of greatness for our show in Hilton Head: I try for one last time to wear the beard. I knew better, but I had to give it a shot – just to be sure. Bad move.
After the show, Malcolm grabs his bass to sit in with the guy playing piano and singing in the lounge next door. I grab my snare and hi hat and follow. An overly enthusiastic rocker guy who seems to be a regular at this hang almost spoils “Superstition”, growling the few words to the song before Malcolm asks him to stop. Then Big Momma comes to the stage and lays out “Down Home Blues” and “Chain Of Fools.”

Travis is agitated after the night is over. On top of the issues on his mind, he is also agitated with being agitated. “I wish I had a manager who saw me for what I really am,” he says before exiting the van and heading to his hotel room.

Malcolm, Phil and I congregate in our room. A few minutes later my phone rings. “You have your computer on you,” Travis asks.

“Yeah.”

“Look up Aspergers.”

I do so.

“This is why I am how I am,” Travis says. “And it’s why this whole thing may not work.”

As we talk I move from the computer to pace the apartment, eventually walking out the door and up and down the sidewalk in front of the hotel office. When Phil heads up to bed, he takes the outside stairs and is able to see that over the roof of the office, Travis is also outside, also pacing.

“Those fools,” Phil says to himself.

Travis finally spots me and we end our talk face to face. Aspergers moves on to the dysfunctions of our situation. It is the first discussion I have with Travis where we address the real work before us, considering each other and Phil and Malcolm and Fresta as people who might be working together for a while and not just some guys willing to get in a van.

"When this started I had all kinds of ideas about Nathan and how Phil was meant to be here," Travis said, "But I have to let that stuff go. This is a business. And it has to be done right."

I don't see how one point excludes the other, but I can agree: this has to be done right. I tell Travis I'm not sure what I'm ready for exactly, but that I am here to make more of things and not less. If it means more responsibility I'm willing, I say.

Travis think about this. "I ask alot," he says finally.

"I know," I say. I feel anxiety that comes when I fear I am in too deep, but I don't step back. I don't step any closer either, not now, but I don't step back.

When I get back to the room I chat Malcolm up until he passes out on his bed. I have to admit to myself that I am tired, too. Part of me wants to sit still all day and write tomorrow, but I have decided that whatever happens when I wake is what I will do.

To Hilton Head

I am starting to love the midnight rides after shows. Everyone seems to be getting in the groove. There is no complaining or agitation. Travis and I discuss the greatness of the show we just played …and the beard extensions.

I feel a little bad that I played the beardage as real to some fans I spoke to, but in ways explainable and unexplainable, it was what I had to do.

To start, I thought of the excess beard as a celebration of our return to playing together. I felt like it would be part of the visual language of Days Of The New for the first shows we played together and I liked that it suggested age and wisdom. Plus wearing it made me feel like our old soundman and friend Gus.

As I nightly clipped the extensions onto my real beard I also appreciated that after our first show in January, Rick the Manager had suggested to Travis that the beard I was growing was evidence that I wasn’t a good fit for Travis anymore. I half expected this after the Tampa show when he said, “I know you have to grow the beard for a role, but why no long hair anymore?” (This is a guy who doesn’t think I’m playing good drums if my arms aren’t flailing like an octopus.)

The beard is also one of the things I brought on tour from great experiences I have had since Travis and I last worked. There is the tattoo on my ring finger from Traci’s and my wedding. The beard and OM shirt are from the two roles I’ve played in Adam’s plays. My gut is from Stromboli’s Pizza on 1st Ave and St. Marks, and my penis extentions are from the goodie bag I got at CMJ.

However the beard looked, it felt right – right up to the point before the show when I got so upset I had no choice but to bring only the bare essentials. After my meltdown, I could not dress up.

When I tell this to Travis he says, “You finally were in a place where you needed to be yourself. That was the difference. I mean, I’m sure you’re a good actor and all and those things probably work well for your characters, but at some point this is no longer about being character. It has to be you that you bring.”

With much gratitude, I place the extensions back in the Ziploc bag where they remain.

Birmingham (Show day)

Phil drives to the airport to pick up Malcolm, who seems refreshed from two days at home with his wife. For the rest of us, the days off has been invigorating as well. In fact, next to playing, I’d say my favorite part of touring is the talks during the long drives on days off. I’d like to think it does everyone some good to ride a stretch without a show schedule, let the mind wander, and feel your place in the geography.

But okay, Fresta did wake today saying,” I don’t think I am respected here,” and he has more reasons than bogus laundry detergent to be missing the warm glow. During the long ride south we discussed ideas about what’s happening with Days Of The New and more than a few times Fresta’s name was left off the proverbial roster of “players in the game”. This was probably most overt when I spoke, but I wasn’t being mean or playing power trips. I spoke from the truth that, like it or not, Fresta’s role in the grand web has yet to come clear to anyone currently on tour. I (hope I) spoke with respect for everyone in the van who was trying to figure out how and where to dig in to this crazy operation and move things along. At this point in our journey, Fresta was 100% bro, but his position in the touring constellation had yet to identify itself.

( NOTE: at this point you should know that my imagination is pretty limited but I have a few choice metaphors to describe relationships. Webs. Constellations. Symbiotic parasites within the intestines. Some of my metaphors are so pretty they impede anyone from making a distinction for what might, by any lesser metaphor, be called a “shit deal”.)

But Fresta isn’t showing signs of a shitty deal – not yet anyway, and he really doesn’t seem the type. He’s a New Yorker for Chrisssake. But he is bumming. When we talk, I learn that Travis and Phil have, at different times and in ways I can only call “well-intentioned”, communicated to Fresta their frustrations over expectations that he would be selling merchandise on this run. Without t shirts or cds to sell, Fresta’s position on the field (another good metaphor!) remains nebulous, his ascension to the role of Meister of the Merchandise without bloom.

Of course no one knows the ridiculousness of this better than Fresta, who came out expecting to get Travis’ tour store in shape and make some money from commission to offset the weeks he took off from work. As Fresta and I talk, he tells me he feels taken advantage of. I’m pretty sure getting fired from washing the windshield at the truck stop burned, too, but he doesn’t mention it. There is only so much I can say to the man because his perspective on everything actually seems to be the most rational and logical. It’s just, well, out of place.

A surge of fear or false weightlessness is in my body when I realize this. I then tell Fresta the only useful thing I can think to say – “You and Travis need to talk.” “I’ll do it when the time is right,” he says. Almost on cue, Travis comes to the door.

“How are you doin” he asks Fresta.

“Fine,” says Fresta.

Travis leaves and Fresta continues watching Mystery Science Theater on his laptop.


What a great glow I have in Birmingham. It is truly a High Pro Glow. Rah tour, rah bonding with dudes, rah when I stand by and watch as a scheduled radio interview falls through our fingers due to our lack of competence. I’m pretty sure any one of us could have prevented it, (except Fresta) but no one in our group feels themselves in a position to assume responsibility for making it happen. Before we know the window of opportunity is past, Phil decides it is more important to get to sound check than deal with the confusion and he pulls the plug. I could see that he was making the wise call considering how much resistance he had to deal with, but as we drive to the venue I am mad for the first time on tour. So I am cautious about who I talk to and what I say. My level of aggravation is intensified watching Phil take 10 minutes to back the trailer up to the door of Zydeco. I quietly implode as he drives and navigates the vehicle on a tricky incline where there is no even ground to settle.

When the van is parked a guy walks up and says he’s here to help us load in. Then he asks me, “Is that Travis over there?” Without looking I say yes. He walks up to Phil.

“Hey, man. I saw you on Intervention – “

“Wait,” I say. “Not him.” I point to Travis sitting under a tree against the building.

“Him.”

The guy tells Travis that he was in rehab and fucking up when someone showed him Travis’ Intervention episode. Later he tells me “When I saw that I was like, “Man, if that dude can do it, I can.” He has been sober for a year and a half.

We are in a different world this time around.

Steve is the soundman at Zydeco and he is immediately a great collaborator with Travis, who, not having the interview to do, is able to take part in sound check. (There is always an upside!) It is divine intervention that we have Steve to work with on one of the days when we can take time for Travis to completely and properly check the guitars, which have been a significant source of the sound problems. The sound check is very long and productive. Travis gets behind the drums and demonstrates ideas for Flight Response that have been missing in my approach and we finally wrestle the song into shape. Everyone leaves sound check knowing a great show is ahead.

But it is a law of humanity and certainly of Days Of The New that many a beautiful event will end with someone taking a shit, and on the ride back to the hotel the van becomes a venue for mad frustrations to be voiced at the expense of sanity. Thank God Malcolm has had a break for a few days. He has stamina to remain the voice of reason. As for me, any remaining threads of resilience I have are shredded. When I arrive at the hotel, something has broken. Another level has been reached, but what to say of it? Suck ass shitball? Fuck wad doody puss dick? No metaphor feels right. I grit my teeth as all things in the tiny universe come down to me and God and no one else. (Such states of being are often denoted by my screaming, “Fuck everybody!”) Maybe if I wasn’t so disposed to the metaphors of being part of a group, I could channel my resilience in ways that would keep me from feeling so shitty about the moments when I finally breakdown and expel the bad ju ju that has been vexing me. But I usually just feel mad and ashamed and alone.

But especially I am uncontrollably pissed, which is often the state I'm in when I finally catch a new breath for things.

I leave my beard extentions in the room.

Travis apologizes in the van ride to the show.

During the set, Malcolm’s bass farts through the busted speaker in my drum monitor, making it sound like a bow played against a double bass.

From the first note played by Days Of The New in Birmingham Alabama, we have the best show of the tour.

After the set we meet with fans who give back the good energy. I meet Charlie who used to roadie for Yes back in the 70s. “You know, you know,” he said winking at me, “You know the drummer was that band.”

"I like you, Charlie," I say. Our show was so fucking good.

In the dressing room, two drunk dudes are drinking our Red Bulls. One says, “Man, when are you gonna bring the metal? Pull out an electric guitar? I hear it in your music.”

“If you hear it in the music then it’s there,” I say. Do we need to spell it out?

We say goodbye and thanks to Steve the awesome soundman and head back to the hotel to grab our things for the late night drive to Hilton Head. I hit the one hitter and leave my toiletry bag with my tooth guard and favorite soap in the room. I also leave the battery and battery charger for my headphones there, too. Fuck. It is the most stuff than I have ever lost on a tour.

I read the news today, oh, boy.

Last week there was a disaster at Ground Zero. A demolition company had been hired to destroy the Deutsche bank Building at the World Trade Center and things went badly. Fire and death of two firefighters.

The demolition company had been hired by the city after many other demolition companies had been passed on because they did not have enough integrity or reputation to do the job. But now, as the tragegy is being investigated by - who else? The Department of Investigation - we are learning that NO ONE knows anything about the demolition company or the corporation that runs it. The apparent head of the company had to be located by searching city records (didn't anyone have his card?) and then said that his contract for the job prohibited him from talking to the media.

It is not uncommon for a corporation to be created in order for a smaller company in order to avoid liabilities associated with dangerous jobs like demolishing buildings at ground zero, BUT - did I already say this? - no one has ever heard of the company that was hired to do the "monumentous" job.

No doubt, the people on my street who continue to watch the fallout results of 9-11 with an eye on cover-up have just been handed a plump fish to fry.

...but so have readers of Ayn Rand.

...the Mystery Corporation's name is JOHN GALT.

And no one seems to know where he is.

So beginning with todays headlines, everyone in New York - from the workers with conscience to the homeless asking for your quarter - could ask, "Who is John Galt?". Just like page one of Atlas Shrugged, a book that describes the "machine" of man's society. A head trip to say the least. But to my mind, there are no accidents.

Atlas Shrugged is a book I never finished, so I'm gonna go back and read the second half and see what happens.

Birmingham (day off)

The manholes of downtown Birmingham have steam rising from them 24 hours a day. I sleep late on our day off. In the late afternoon, Phil, Fresta and I head into town for food. We almost settle for Chick Fil-A, which is, in my opinion, a shitty meal on a day off, but providence reigns and it is closed. The Roots are on the stereo in the van. We persevere and find good barbeque. Fresta has never had Fried Green Tomatoes. We find a record store and music store where I get sticks. Jack Dijonette (sp?) and a weird mallet stick. (Both by Vic Firth for any drum geeks.)

For those who don't know, wash day on the road is serious fucking business. While we are out Travis wakes and asks that we pick up detergent. "What kind should I get," Phil asks me. "Why don't you call the olfactory genius," I say. Phil calls Travis back - liquid detergent with fabric softener. I suggest we stop at a market downtown but Phil waits until our only option is the gas station by the hotel. Fresta emerges from the mart, snaps a photo of a bumper sticker on a black woman's car that says "Forget the thrills, Dope Kills!", and shows us a box of powdered soap called Trend. Uh, oh. As Phil already knows, this is not going to bode well. When his assumptions are proven right, Fresta feels like he was set up to do the wrong thing, and Travis and Phil head back out for the right stuff.

Later that night Travis and I take a walk. We walk down dead end roads behind the hotel and talk about being kids. The air in Birmingham is warm like an Oxycontin buzz. Behind the gas station a black man is relentlessly hitting his crack pipe. "Poor guy,"Travis says. "He'll never get high off that stuff. It's meth that has the real high." Travis tells me more about Meth addiction than I ever imagined we might discuss. His awareness of the need and the consiquence of his addiction is scary - it has a kind of self-awareness that one could, if not careful, use to justify the drug as much as steer clear of it. But Travis is careful. "Being sober means telling the truth," he says. "If I don't stay with what is true, I'll get high. And then it's all over." We walk down Arkadelphia road to a truck stop. When we walk in, an older black man sees us, and with an air of recognition says, "Old Testament brothers! Born in fear!" I get an AC adaptor for the van, waters, and a live Gram Parsons cd. Emmylou Harris is from Birmingham.

Travis and I walk back and take the van out into the city. It doesn't take long before we are gloriously lost. We listen to Midnight Marauders, although I think we'd be just as happy with silence. We drive though poor parts of Birmingham with the windows down singing,"Suka nigga - Nigga Nigga!" We talk about drugs, porn, God, and being children, all subjects intersecting at various points of essence. "My old dealer will be coming to one of the shows," Travis tells me. "Will I know," I ask. "I won't tell you until after its happened." I believe the heat and air of Birmingham in the middle of the night would make the mind of anyone who has used turn to drugs. But the only crystal scored on this night starts with a K and comes on a square bun. We call Phil so he can lead us back to the hotel with his GPS.