RED FANG

Where the hell was I? Oh yeah… Buffalo, NY 11/26/11 Okay, so we stopped at Niagara Falls, and it was great and beautiful and all that shit: But the best part was the signs that they have all around the park. While we only spotted maybe three that actually told you anything you wanted to know about the waterfall (that fact that 650,000 gallons a second gave over that bad boy was pretty badass) there was a few others that really got us thinking. Here’s a couple favorites. If you really need this sign to tell you it’s a bad idea to crawl over the fence, well—maybe you should climb over the fence. And it turns out, if the sidewalks get wet up there, it makes you dance like an extra in the Thriller video. Washington DC 11/27/11 On the way to the show we got stuck in a traffic jam that lasted close to three years. When we finally got moving (at this point we were already an hour late to load in and close to two hours from the club) the lady behind us was nice enough to rear-end us. At the ti...

There’s no crowd photo. Don’t ask. I’ve been watching the cursor blink for about two hours now. Nothing. Can’t come up with a damn thing. My brain is fried. Too much time in the van, it’s not like nothing happened. It was Henry’s birthday and he still went out of his way to put on the show. That was awesome. We finally got to spend some of our Taco Bell bucks: That’s a whole lotta number three. Bryan and I got to do the last of some good-old-fashion smoking—inside like god intended. Nothing like smoking in the great indoors. The burning eyes, the smell of a heavily smoked shirt… Beacons back to a time when light cigarettes were considered a wise health choice and mayonnaise was still considered salad dressing. All this talk about healthy living makes me want a butt, we'll talk soon. —Coyle Tour To Live!

If you asked most people what life on the road for a touring rock band is like they would most likely think it was a drug fueled orgy where the only time you are not doing drugs out of a stripper's belly-button is when you're playing to twenty-thousand screaming fans. What they don't picture is five dudes crammed into a van that smells like a combination of Marlon Brando's hemorrhoid cushion and the corpse of John Belushi—in the sun. There 's no roadies (except me and I don't do shit), no tour bus, no groupies, no drugs off strippers, just a bunch of dudes, most of us married or close to it, sitting in our own filth, driving for hours on end, hauling in the gear, playing, hauling it back out, and hopefully finding somewhere to stay when it's all over. Don't get me wrong, we live for this shit, the only reason I bring it up is after five weeks on the road I am having trouble recalling which show is which. I know we played at the Drunken Unicorn. I remembe...