He didn’t even get a crowd shot. Not one. Not even his usual blurry-ass-looks-like-he’s-rubbing-Chapstick-and-honey-on-the-lens crap. Just a “Sorry man, battery was dead.” It wasn’t dead ten minutes later when he was taking pictures of this sign and giggling like a schoolgirl at a slumber party:
We played at Three Kings, which is one of our favorite venues on the road. The staff rules, the crowd rules, everything rules about it. They always take care of us and we can wait to go back.
That being said, we are kicking it the green room, just being awesome, as usual, when the door opens up and this girl asks David for a cigarette. David, being the nice guy he is, gives the girl a smoke who takes this as a green light to wave her three buddies in the green room with her. This would normally not raise any eyebrows except for the fact that they were obviously hammered and put out this attitude that they were doing us a favor by hanging out with us. I should point out that earlier in the night I was mean-mugged by one of the kids when I stepped in front of the mirror while he was trying to make sure his beanie sat perfectly on the back of his head, as to not cover his perfectly coifed hair. So anyway, they come in and one of them immediately heads to the beer that has been put out for the bands and has this huge sign hanging over it:
So I ask the guy if he is playing and he just looks at me and nods. Not a “yes” or “no” nod but the “throw the head back, snarl on the face, what the fuck do you care?” nod. I ask him again and he starts telling me some story about being on tour and their show tonight being canceled, to which I reply “Oh, so then you know better.” Now he’s looking at me like I’m speaking in French. So I explain myself a little more, telling him we are also a touring band and if he drinks all of our beer, that means we are going to have to buy beer, which we cannot afford. At this point he comes back with “Well my show got canceled and I didn’t get shit, so I’m drinking your beer.” This isn’t some big metal head tough guy either, we’re talking about some shithead little emo kid. You know the type: tight jeans, purple shoes, Flowbee haircut…
At this point I have to walk away because I’m ready to knock this kids head off. As I’m walking out the door I turn around and see his other buddy loading his pockets with beers. All the sudden I'm the teacher everyone hated in grade school—yelling in this kids face about what he’s done wrong and demanding he empties his pockets. If there was a chalkboard I would have put his name on it with a check mark next to it. All that was missing was some glasses on chain and pants pulled up to my nipples.
He took off with his tail between his legs.
For a second I felt bad because John said he saw the kids at the bar complaining and closing out their tabs. But then I thought about it. You have a credit card at the bar, and you’re stealing our beers? Fuck that. I’m glad those kids left. You don’t pull that shit, especially if you’re in a band.
Sorry for the rant. That just bummed me out and I had to vent.
Alright, back to the fun stuff.
We got back to Aaron’s parents place about two a.m. and devoured what was about three quarters of a ham. It looked like a pack of denim-clad dingos on a kangaroo carcass. It surprising there is no actual teeth marks on that thing:
I think I was licking some ham juice off the floor when these came into view:
Pretty sure, the only things wishing they were living free or dying are those socks. You gotta love that David switched feet so the holes don’t line up with the toes that made them. So good.
Woke up way too early, made a ham sammich for the road and started the nine-hour drive towards Lawrence:
Car-thritis here we come.
Tour To Live!