man, i’m a real fuckin’ bonehead. no excuse for why i havent updated this thing, but also no real excuse for why i do a shit job at work and dress like a dunce. but because people are asking me about this shit, well, i’d better write it and close this. then i can watch the X-Files without anything hanging over my head apart from medical bills.
so nashville made us feel bad, physically and mentally despite being surrounded by reasonably cool people the entire time. but that air. so we traveled down the road to St. Louis, lamenting that we missed a killer show in Kansas City with Negative Degree and Civilized who we were gonna play with later. we stopped somewhere and somehow Aaron acquired a confederate flag license plate. after some minor arguing about what it represented, we were overruled and forced to look like racists as we traveled through the dirt-midwest, the hated and sparsely populated part of loser america, the forgettable except for how forgettable it was landscape. walgreens, walgreens, fuck you, target
we stopped at a Waffle House giving me a case of corporate guilt and diarrhea. i used to go to Waffle House when i lived in the south and it was always fine, but my morals changed when i came back to frozen honkey minnesota and i decided i cant go somewhere like that. but we went while logan and maybe dan wandered to a subway – a place i revile even more. i ate some “all the way” hashbrowns sitting next to a couple with “if you can read this then the bitch fell off” stickers all over their motorcycle helmets. some people trash talked Pat for paying for his meal with a credit card.
we left and stopped again at a gas station where we encountered DAVID HIRSCHBERGER, a man who will likely never figure out how to google his name. when we stopped to get gas, he hobbled up to us and began insisting that we were fucked in a way we didn’t know we were fucked – that our trailer wheel (which was crooked looking anyway) was burning up. and wobbling as the same as he wobbled out of his truck. i looked at where he came from and saw he slunk out of a shitty pick-up truck with ladders, tools, and paint scattered across it. an every-man handy man. i looked inside and saw an older woman who, for lack of a more polite way to put it, looked like she was having “a hard time”. and a ferocious chihuahua skipping back and forth, barking.
“your wheel bearing needs grease! there’s an auto shop just right down the way, i can pack it for you if you go up and get some,” he said.
“alright,” and i started walking. then he told me it was a mile down the road and i told him i’d just give him twenty bucks and a handshake and some eye contact, and his word that he would return. that’s when he told me he was DAVID HIRSCHBERGER, a danish man. i gave him my name and he asked me, “what are you?”
“uhh i sing in a band?”
he looked confused. “what’s your nationality?”
“American.”
he looked confused. “where’s the last name from?”
“it’s french, but i’m danish. someone was adopted at some point.”
“alright, drew, the dane, i’ll be back with your stuff.”
i walked to hardees and bought a side salad from a girl who would have been attractive had she not been raised in Missouri. she hated her job almost as much as i hated the side salad which was the shredded lettuce from the burgers with other fixings that hadn’t made it’s way into the trash just yet. i walked back and waited for Dave, who returned with the product and the receipt.
“alright, now i gotta call my buddy to come over and help do the work.”
“wait, what,” i replied.
“yeah, he’ll be here in about 45 minutes.”
“we don’t have a lot of time or a lot of money, man.”
at that point i learned a lot about Dave – he used to be a train engineer. he’s originally from St. Paul, MN. he’s out of work now because of a coal mine. now he sleeps in that handyman truck with that woman. and that dog. i hoped for a minute that the dog crawled on his shoulder and slept between it and his face, so at least Dave had something warm. the woman didn’t look very warm. Dave told me that to pack the wheel bearings, it would cost $125.
“we can’t do that. and we’re late. thanks for the stuff, we’ll figure out it when we’re in town, buddy.”
“wait! wait! no, my friend told me to tell you $125. but it’s really $75,” he said while nudging me. “see, he told me to tell you $125 and then when you got mad, he told me to tell you the real price. y’see? yeah?”
after internal debates amongst the road crew, we agreed to wait and let them do what they were gonna do. we’re paranoid and stupid. and dave seemed nice, although totally fucked. forever. we stood around while Dave talked to Ben from Much Worse who got pissed off and walked away. then Dave bothered me about my side salad, sticking his fingers in it and explaining to me that the lettuce was bad, convincing me i should go squabble with the 20 year old girl at Hardee’s over some shit that cost me $1.17.
then the other guy showed up and got out of a chevy lumina and fished around in his truck. dave brought me over and introduced me to a man with overalls and a nascar hat – maybe that fucking confederate flag license plate holder was a good idea, after all. like a pit crew, they rushed to the trailer and began dismantling the wheel and showing us where the wheel was wobbling on the road. i found out nascar hat guy’s name was Wes and noticed how he looked like Larry the Cable Guy.
a Mexican with tattoos and a huge mustache biked by us while four of our dudes went into a nearby Mexican restaurant to drink margaritas and wait for us to leave again. i stood by the guys, asking questions. at some point, Dave walked away and i started asking Wes a few questions.
“how do you know Dave?”
“i don’t fuckin’ know that guy. he pulled up to my house this morning in that banged up truck and offered me some firewood to fix some things on it. i don’t need any firewood, but fuck, the guy looks like he’s in rough shape. his old lady looks like she’s dying or some shit, too, so i figure it’s my responsibility to help the guy. to tell you the truth i don’t know why i’m out here doing this for you.”
“hmm, i see. so how much is this gonna cost?”
“shit, $20? mainly just to cover the gas it took me to get out here.”
“i’ll give you $25.”
Dave hobbled and wobbled back up and started talking to me about my black eye, telling me he has some vaseline and i should put some of it on. i ignored him and kept talking to Wes who had moved on to telling me a story about how he got stuck on the top of a mountain for a few days and had to rely on a bunch of people. it made him realize that you have to help people in life. it was some basic, unexpected wisdom from a dude who i would have regarded as a total dipshit had i seen him in any other setting other than helping me.
later, we realized that Wes did not look like Larry the Cable Guy, but instead looked exactly like the coal miner figurine we had picked up back in Tennessee that we now had duct taped to the dash board. eerie resemblance. we said “thanks” and i gave Dave about 10 or 15 coupons for free chalupas at taco bell, feeling bad he didn’t get to rip us off the way he originally intended.
we drove to kansas city and made it to some dude’s house to meet the legendary Rob Ruzicka, the king of St. Louis, LEAD FRONTMAN SINGER/SCREAMER/VOCALIST of Cardiac Arrest. he was hyped to us pretty hard by Andy from Fashionable Idiots and i was yelled at through texts from Andy to demand that Cardiac Arrest come to Minneapolis. Rob’s the kind of dude who you are instantly comfortable around, mostly because he’s a super nice guy, but also because you show up and he’s got beer, soda, and chips waiting for you.
chips, man. i fucking hate chips. but whatever these were i couldn’t stop eating. Rob told us that a lot of rappers talk about these chips, and now i feel like i’m fucking 500 years old because the idea of rapping about chips makes as much sense as time traveling in your own microwave to me.
we watched Ghostbusters as a few people came over, including some older fella that i talked to about Cop Shoot Cop and a band called Missing Foundation. Joel and Pat played the game where you slap each other in the face. my notes are unclear but i do remember learning that you can drink in the car in St. Louis, which we did on the way to the club which was some old mexican restaurant turned into a club, run by dude named Mr. Vegas who makes tacos. funny because i play a character called Mr. Vegas as a side job in St Paul, working for a minor league baseball team.
by the time we got to the bar we were all pretty toppled and crazy. we ordered tacos and the lady working the door gave us whipped cream vodka, clearly the most effective tool for child rape. what a bummer reality is. the place was dimly lit and very clearly a reformed mexican restaurant. there was a stage and a dance floor with a disco ball. i have some other notes i can’t put together very well.
“ben threw up”
“joel fell on his face and i called him an idiot”
“joel is fucked for life”
“talked about taking a shit with Negative Degree”
“joel yelling about prostitutes, chemicals created some anger”
saw John Waltmann, a great dude from Minneapolis who recently relocated to texas. saw the dude i talked to about Cop Shoot Cop totally hijack my tacos and then run into the night, crying, yelling, “AW MAN, I FUCK UP EVERYTHING.” saw some dude named Chris that i sold some metal shirts to years ago back with Logan from Much Worse’s old band.
we also played our most fucked up insane set every for a pretty big group of people. we had to use medical tape to hold pat’s guitar pickups in his guitar and while we played, they kept falling out. so eventually pat just laid on the ground and rolled around, playing fucking nonsense while joel stared at everyone like a wild rabbit and dan, predictable fucking stable dan, dan with tourettes, adhd, bipolar disorder, and ocd, was the only predictable fucking stable member of the band. i smashed the microphone on my head until it hurt too much and at the end of our set, pat threw his guitar on the ground and joel followed suit.
moments later, joel was seen outside throwing his bass against the concrete over and over again. apparently he cracked his headstock when he threw his childhood lover to the wood floor and decided they were on the outs, permanently. smash, smash, smash. joel was fucked up.
what a strong adult male
i argued with Pat about a cigarette lighter which somehow led to me laying on the ground, yelling at everyone who walked by me. pat laid in the van, belligerent again, and i have no recollection of what anyone else did. watched some of Civilized who, in my chemical rage, made me mad for some reason even though i liked them. watched Negative Degree where apparently i got hit in the stomach so hard that my balls hurt. while everyone was inside, Pat snuck out to the van and threw away the confederate flag license plate cover.
“angriest pit ever”
“cardiac arrest”
“crowd ripped”
“great show”
these sound like goddamn Wesley Willis lyrics. i watched some kid named Carlos get escorted out of the club by his father, bought some shit from Negative Degree and the Civilized tape.
“can we go home now?”
“i don’t care.”
“are we dead yet?”
“i hope so.”
“cool.”
this looks like there was a transvestite Silver Surfer moshing
we got paid and loaded up whatever remained of our gear and merch and had some conflicting plans on where we were going. Logan was going to his friend Chris’ house, which we were offered to stay at, while meanwhile, Rob told us he had purchased the world’s largest pizza for us. so we went towards the pizza and went back to that house where we came from, not knowing that Rob meant a different house that i’m sure he explained the location of and we didn’t listen.
we parked the van and scattered around the neighborhood, joel pacing back and forth in the street, shirtless, yelling, while the rest of us sat in the grass and waited for Rob who had kept calling us with updates on our pizza.
“alright dudes, you guys gotta get here fast. the guys from the other bands are guarding your pizza but there’s all these shitty anarchist train-hoppers that keep trying to eat it all. i don’t know how long we can hold them off. hurry!”
eventually the anarchists won after they stormed the pizza, overhearing the phone call where we all made the connection that we had went to the wrong fucking place. i yelled at joel to stop being a creep and started punching and headbutting a tree. rob showed up with what indeed was formerly the world’s largest pizza, but now it was just the world’s largest pizza box. there was a little pizza left and some of it was covered in dish soap. the pizza sentiment was still appreciated. we ate and Rob told us some tales about dudes from Acid Reflux eating that entire pizza themselves which is part of the pizza place’s ultimate challenge.
meanwhile, back at Chris’ house, apparently Logan was there by himself and Chris fell asleep immediately. he kept calling us, worried that we were going to leave him there and trying to convince us to meet him halfway on foot. but again, Rob is the greatest dude so he went and just grabbed him.
i went to sleep while apparently Rob talked to everyone about juggalos. apparently somewhere during the night, dan apparently fell asleep on the toilet and apparently we were all apparently partied out and left a ton of beer sitting out, unopened – a sure sign that we must be dead or stupid, apparently.
we woke up and hugged Rob goodbye. then we drove back to Minneapolis. on the way, at some stupid gas station, logan spent a long time rearranging a sign in a way that scared some teenage girls.
“what? do they really have hamster chicken? thats so gross.”
“of course they do. do you think guys like us would ever lie to girls like you?”
the last notes i have in this notebook came from a conversation either in my head or in the van. i think it was aaron and me.
“i experienced a lot of emotions i didn’t know i had.”
“like what?”
“heartache and a loss of god.”
we all went home and i spent a few weeks being incredibly depressed and reckless.