WATERSHEDcentral | SXSW 2003


SXSW 2003
...as remembered by Colin and Rob. Sunday, March 9th, 2003 WHITE LINE DESTROYER: Marquette, MI to Memphis, TN Our heroes are slow to wake on another frigid morning in the UP. I, on the other hand, can't seem to sleep very well, so I arise about 9a.m. and enjoy a pleasant solo breakfast in the hotel restaurant. By now, everybody who works at the hotel knows we are in some kind of band, and I can't help but notice the I-think-this-guy-is-kinda-crazy look I am getting from everybody. Not exactly turn-the-page, but I am sure that if I could see my hair, I would laugh too. Do some laundry, get our picture taken standing on a frozen Lake Superior (first time it has frozen in 25 years - and in March, no less). Pile in the van and start driving south. (Thank God) On the road at 1 p.m.- watch Spinal Tap - Biggie gets us to Milwaukee by 9p.m. We eat dinner at an Arby's in a Pilot truck stop (yum! Just kidding). Joe gets us to Effingham, IL about 2a.m. I roll out of the loft and take over the wheel for the graveyard shift. Perfect night for a ride. The boys are snoozing in the back, and I am wired to the dashboard. I sip some coffee and play a live Police disc to get things started. A healthy dose of Sportstalk am1000 out of Chicago and I am officially eatin' up the road. A couple of vitamins (only different) and it is time to crank up the volume. Swerve all over the highway as I fumble around looking for the perfect disc to compliment my mood, I settle for Guns N Roses' Appetite for Destruction. That's the stuff. At this point I decide to step up and take us all the way into Memphis. The sun is rising in the East as we roll South into Arkansas snaking along the Ole Miss. Got some Elvis going to fire me up for our day off. I love Memphis. Monday, March 10th PLEASE READ AND OBSERVE: Memphis, TN - 60 degrees, Sunny Get to the hotel about 9am. I am still up, so a quick workout (might as well stretch out after such a long ride). A couple zzzz's and we are out the door at 1pm. Lunch at Wendy's while Biggie gets the van washed, then it's off to pay our respects to the King at Graceland. Graceland is a must. I always get emotional at the end of the tour. Such a tragedy. He was an amazing talent and a good person, people just used him up until there was nothing left. It is easy to poke fun at Elvis in his final years, but this was a human being that was clearly crying out for help and nobody helped him. His so- called friends took from him and never gave him anything in return. Please read Last Train to Memphis by Peter Guralnick. It's the best biography I have ever read. Ignore all that cheap trash they show on cable. After Graceland, we head down to Beale Street for a couple of cocktails. Biggie and I loosen up the purse strings and buy a couple DVD's for the road. Chuck Berry Live, U2 Elevation Tour and Gimmie Shelter by The Rolling Stones. We end up at the Rum Boogie Café checking out a cool blues band and watching the Lady Bucks lose to Purdue in the Big Ten B-ball Tourney. Back to our Marriott Courtyard for a late night double feature: Gimmie Shelter followed by Starship Troopers. Tuesday, March 11th WHERE THE TWAIN SHALL MEET: Memphis to Austin, sunny and 75 Hit a truck stop in West Memphis (about noon) and punch it West on I-40. Morale is very high. Fresh troops are waiting for us in Austin. Poochie, Rob, Ron (our manager), and Jeff Hassler (our website guy) are all flying in for the show. Poochie, Hassler, and I are sitting in the Columbus Airport bar. Vacation has started, so has the drinking. During takeoff, before he gets the OK from the pilot to use electronic equipment, Hassler breaks out his digital camcorder. (It's his first flight and wants to document it.) Now, I don't know exactly why you can't use electronic devices on take off and descent but I take the pilot at his word that they interfere with something. If the pilot told me I had to hold my left shoe in my right hand while I balanced my right sock on my head or else the calibrations would be off, I would do it with a smile. True, nothing happened, but still... Our seemingly drunken, possibly coked up, stewardess came by with drinks. A can of Budweiser. Four bucks. Kick a buck to the waitress in the sky. Fuck it, I'm on vacation. The born-on date is six months old. Don't know if that is good or bad. All I know is that it's deliciously intoxicating. We ask for a third round. "We will be making our descent soon," she says, as if to suggest we don't have time. "We'll make it quick. Promise," I say, waving the vacation bread. She returns as the plane begins to pitch down. We ask to borrow her pen and shotgun our beers. We pop in the Chuck Berry DVD and next thing I know I am popping the top on a cold beer. There is nothing better than driving across the country (Biggie is driving - I am riding) on a sunny day rockin' to Mr. Berry. Fookin' great, Mon! A quick stop in Memphis for our connection to Austin. An even quicker beer at the bar by the terminal as they chauffeur the 1st Class folks and those traveling with children on board. Hassler is wandering the terminal interviewing/documenting/scamming any chick who passes by the lens of his camcorder. Where are you? What's your name? Where are you going? He gets more willing participants than you'd expect. He even scored the cell number of an Austin-bound lady. From Memphis to Austin, I am sitting in an Exit Seat. There's something a little fucked up about giving a drunken traveler the responsibility of the other's safety. I'm trying to focus on the small print of the "So The Lives of Five Hundred People Are In Your Hands" pamphlet when the stewardess comes up and asks if I am OK with the Exit Seat responsibilities. "...um. yes-yes. Just reading through it now. Thank you." What a slurring mess. I hope she still sells me beer. She does. I'm going to fly in the Exit Seat from now on. First Class leg room without the First Class price. And really, there isn't going to be a crash, but if there is, we aren't going to be using the door. So, I just sit, drink my beer with my legs outstretched, and read the in-flight catalog. The two most ridiculous items found in the in-flight catalog: #1: A lap pillow for airline travelers. It's about three feet high, couple feet wide. It looks pretty firm with a flat bottom and an angled top. You sit it on your lap, lean forward, wrap your arms around it, and go to sleep. This thing is huge. It's got to count as a carry on. The guy is smiling as he demonstrates it in the picture, but it can't be comfortable. Hello back pain. #2: So your dog is a little old. Can't quite jump into the car like he used-ta could? Why strain you back lifting him when you can buy a ramp for him to walk up? It's only EIGHTY DOLLARS! Dallas looks Beautiful. Stop for Cajun food in Waco (and couple more beers) and drive the final minutes rocking to Queen (not very Texas of us). We are waiting for Ron to pick us up at the airport. I have a hard time breathing. It's been a while since I've felt humidity. Stupid moisture. As we pull up to the hotel, I am thinking, "What a great day, time to get a good night's sleep so I will be refreshed and feeling good for the show tomorrow" Yeah..right. We run into our troops along with our sister band The Fags (They are staying at the same hotel.) and are told, "Drop your shit off, we are going out!" Lordy. Before we leave the hotel, I can't help but notice that Poochie is planning on wearing an Alice in Chains T-shirt out for our first night on the town. Now, I don't want to sound snobby, but you never know who you might run into. I really can't introduce a guy who is helping us out on guitar wearing this shirt. I know rock n roll appreciation seems pretty subjective, but it really isn't. Granted, it is hard to get an honest review in your hometown, (somebody slept with somebody's girlfriend or what have you) but bands are like baseball players, some hold up over time, some don't. Poochie asks innocently enough, "You wear your Cheap Trick shirt out, that's like Alice in Chains, isn't it?" Actually no. "You won't see any Alice in Chains shirts down here. Only nerds in cover or camouflaged hair metal bands would wear something like that. Those bands don't play places like SXSW, Pooch." Just to illustrate the point, I wrote down every "Black Concert T-shirt" I saw that first night in Austin. I find the results interesting and encouraging. 3 Cheap Trick (they are the official rock n roll band of rock n roll bands) 3 Kiss 2 AC/DC 1 Supersuckers 1 Ryan Adams 1 Ramones 1 Van Halen 1 Black Sabbath Watched some good punk bands play at Emo's. (One opened with "Hello There". Good sign.) I was on to my 15th beer or something when Jeff said he needed a "wing man". I guess he met some "slutty roller derby chicks" that wanted to "Party." He asks if I could help him out. Normally, I would decline. I mean, I have had more than my fill of "slutty roller derby chicks" (or something similar) in my day, but Jeff does so much work for the band that I felt I owed him some support. See, Jeff has never.. uh.. "Been with a woman" as far as I know. He hardly ever leaves his one room apartment in Dublin. We always invite him to come out on the road, but even on the rare occasions that he does, he usually spends most of his time locked in the hotel bathroom with his laptop working on a project (as he calls it) while the rest of us are watching Starship Troopers with our new "special friends" in the other room. We always tell him that he needs to relax and enjoy life once and a while. "Don't worry about me" is all he ever says. Sweet young guy. He looks so mischievous with his blond hair, omnipresent shades, and his trademark Black turtleneck. If you didn't know better, you would swear that he was a swinger. Jeff Hassler a swinger, now that is a smile! Next thing I know, Jeff and I are in the back of a faded red Chevy pick-up truck with Anya Jack ( Jeff has fallen in love with Anya. Who could blame the guy? She is sexy, smart, wild, and is the captain of the only slutty roller derby team.) and three of her roller derby friends, screaming through the back roads of central Texas at 70 miles an hour. As the southern wind tore through my hair, I held on to the truck bed for dear life. Briefly, I wondered who was driving, where was I going, and would I die tonight? Then I thought, "Jeff, give me a shot of that whisky" Making my way though Emo's, I notice that everyone is tattooed. The high concentration of rock bands could attribute to that, but I think Austin is just a heavily tattooed city. You can't go two blocks in this part of town without coming upon a tattoo parlor. The option of getting "Don't Mess With Texas" tattoos is there. The question is who's drunk enough. On the way back to the hotel, we stop at the Taco Cabaña. While we jam what will be one of the few meals I will eat in the next five days, Joe notices that Colin and Hassler are gone. Poochie says they got a cab back to the hotel. Dave says they went to another bar. Biggie mentions something about a truck. The truck abruptly slowed and I could still taste the roadside dust in my mouth as we climbed over the side of the truck and started walking through the woods towards a light in the distance. As I took off my clothes, I couldn't help but notice the temperature difference between Texas and Wisconsin. The pool was beautiful, Olympic size with a bathhouse bigger than a Pizza Hut, and a full moon over head. What could be better than this? Just my good friend Jeff, a slutty roller derby team, and me, backfloating naked in some pool somewhere within a 35-70 mile radius of Austin, Texas. Normally, I don't skinny-dip. (So scary in pre-school, but so sweet buzzed up in the heart of Texas.) But then again, normally, people (hot chicks) don't invite me to skinny-dip. For all I know, I could be a skinny-dipping maniac. It just never seems to come up a lot in Columbus, Ohio. As I doggie paddle through the cool blue water to grab my lukewarm can of Bud resting on the pool's edge, I can see the glow of Jeff's computer turning the inside of the pool house an errie shade of green/gray. Poor Jeff, he finally gets Anya all alone and he is too scared to do anything except show off his computer. If he is gonna be a big puss, the least he can do is bring his handheld video camera back outside and resume filming me attempting a kick-ass cannonball while I shotgun a beer in mid-dive. If I have told him once, I have told him a million times, "Jeff, if you must insist on dragging that video camera around everywhere you go, let's, at least, record something that is worth watching. Don't be afraid to take some chances. Pretend like you are directing Starship Troopers." I tell him, but he doesn't seem to want to listen. Suddenly, I see flashlights coming through the bushes. Looks like more party go-ers have arrived. Kick-ass, Texas is my kind of state. No up-tight conservative jivers raining down on my parade. Just cool blue water, friendly roller derby chicks and … that's odd…. the new party go-ers are dressed up like policemen and are screaming "FREEZE WHERE YOU ARE!" That's not cool man. Wednesday, March 12th TWO IN THE PINK, ONE IN THE STINK: The Venue - Austin, TX Standing out by the cop cruiser, Anya explains that she thought this was her step-Grandmother's house and that we were really sorry for disturbing the Senator and his wife so late on a weekday night. The cop looks skeptical, but finally he relents and takes off our handcuffs. We climb back into the truck and Anya drops Jeff and I back at the hotel. The glow of the Great Ball of Fire is glowing in the East as we walk back into our hotel room. I try to sleep a little, but with 8 guys in one room, it ain't happening. Pooch likes to ask me questions while I am sleeping. Things like, "When are we going to eat?" and "What songs are we going to play tonight?" His power is too great, so I get up. We get some Subway. Get cleaned up and head down to 6th street (the SXSW main drag) to hangout before it's time to play. The Venue is one of those few SXSW gigs that are created for the sole purpose of the music festival. It's normally a pool hall. The guys are playing first so Biggie and I set up and wait while the Venue's team of light and sound replace blown fuses. Once everything is set, I give the sound guy some appropriate pre-show rock. Royal Crescent Mob's Midnight Rose's. What was supposed to be our opening music turns out to be everyone's. The sound guy never takes it out. All night long, Columbus is heard. And probably still being heard. I got all fucked up and forgot to get it back. Sorry Dave. I'll find you another copy. set list: SUCKERPUNCH JUST FOR SHOW ANNIVERSARY CAN'T BE MYSELF NEW LIFE ROMANTIC NOISE GIMME SHELTER (The Rolling Stones) MERCUROCHROME - ONE TRACK MIND (Johnny Thunders) BLACK CONCERT T-SHIRT [Check out Steffen Paulus' thoughts and pictures of the set at Turn It Up or Turn It Off.com] Great club! We have a really nice turnout, so that is encouraging. A fair amount of various Watershed T-shirts can be seen from the stage. After the set, catch up with some friends. Watch The Fags' set. They rock as usual. Then it's a six-block hike to catch Dash Rip Rock. They cancel. Van broke down. Bummer. Me so sleepy. Everyone else is ripped. I think someone threw pizza or something. Dash is canceled so we walk back to 6th Street. We decide to stop for a drink at The Amazon. The decor is as you'd expect it - trees, vines, A/C cranked for the cool, tropical feel, and a dance floor. The first round is on me fellas. …fellas? I am all alone. That's cool. I'll meet up with them later. A shot and a Bud, please. Decide to walk back to the van after a while. Pizza by the slice? Don't mind if I do. Austin has the worst pizza pie. The doughy, hardly cooked crust makes up twenty-five percent of it. I learn this later. Right now, it's the tastiest pie I've ever had. Some people are sitting in the van in front of The Venue. The rest are in the club watching Sponge. I tell those in the van about the amazing new bar. C'mon everyone. It'll be great. We make our way back to The Amazon. Hey barkeep, line 'em up, and we'll knock 'em... dudes? I am all alone. A shot and a Bud, please. Pizza by the slice? Don't mind if I do. I thought you guys were right behind me? What did you fucking say? Take that back or I'll give you what for. A punch to the grill, a knee to the headlights, a kick to the tires, and Biggie pulls me into the van. It seems someone is making the scene. …or creating one. I forget. Back at the hotel, Dave, Joe and I recreate the Thunderdome match between Mad Max (me) and MasterBlaster (Dave on Joe's shoulders) inside the elevator. Open the door to the room. I tell everyone to "check this shit out". With a running start through the lounge area, I slide over the first bed head first, but before I can make it to bed #2, my body dips below the bed plane. My shoulder catches. My ankles kick over my head as I feel my back crack. [fade to black] Thursday, March 13 FINDING EQUILIBRIUM I get up from between the two beds. Not hangin' as hard as I should be. Got off easy. I glance into the mirror to see words and figures of deplorable taste written in black marker all over my face. Well, I suppose I had that comin'. We don't rebuild; we reload and head back down to 6th street. The boys go for a little rooftop lunch with The Fags and the rest of the IDOL Records crew while I go for a solo walkabout. I can only move in large groups for so long. It is not my strength. I like to wander around and checkout things on my own. Get some ice coffee and read the paper. Beautiful day. Rendezvous back with the boys, and take off to try and see Tim Easton at the private New West party. Travis and Troy from the former Coolhand Band have given me the secret code word for entry. No luck. A huge line waits to get in. I can hear John Hiatt playing a solo set. Tough day. Nothin' I'd like more than to go to the hotel and sleep this off, but since I don't know where the hotel is, much less the name of the joint, I've resigned to drinking my way back to life. I'll have the salmon and one of those beers with fruit in it. Might as well get some nutrients. Time to get drinking. Get a sweet table right on the strip at a place called Shakespeare's, Me, Dave, Pooch and John Speck tip a few and break down some advanced rock philosophy. In a nutshell, there are pros and cons, but by and large, playing in a rock n roll band kicks the shit out of selling insurance. Colin's found his people-watchin' perch, so Joe, Ron and I head down to one of the many mid-day parties. There is so much going on here. Much more than any of us knew. The Village Voice party is by invite only. (Be somebody!) "Watershed" is on the list, so for crashing purposes, I am Colin, Ron is Dave, and Joe plays himself. That's some Cracker Jack security. Didn't even ask for ID. We see Electric Six play - crushing - then make our way back to Shakespeare's. Our table is right on 6th street, so we decide to hold court for the rest of the evening and I figure, sooner or later Tim Easton will have to walk by. He doesn't, but everyone else does. By sunset, the streets are packed and limos start arriving in front of our bar. It turns out that Maxim Magazine is having a party right next door. I borrow Jeff's video camera, and Joe and I start interviewing people saying we are from Comedy Central. People seem to buy it. Watching one of our former entertainment lawyers (who we owe money) get turned away from the Maxim party while we heckle him is a classic moment. "Just don't have the juice, huh?" Jeff has been out scouting the town, so he takes us to a sweet rooftop bar called the Speakeasy (you have to enter the bar from the alley). Unknown to us, this is where BMI is having their party. It's a little odd because Joe and I are ASCAP writers. It gets fuzzy now. We hangout at the bar with some guy who claims to have been in a band that opened for The Beatles in Hamburg, Germany. That's kinda like saying, "I was the waiter at the Last Supper" or "Gandhi and I used to play racquetball together every Tuesday." In other words, that is some serious shit. "Whoa. I almost barfed." Dave rubs his stomach and takes a drink from his beer. Everyone is shootin' cards and shakin' hands, so Poochie and I decide to go see Nada Surf up the street. And another lesson of SXSW is learned: If you really need to see a band, you'd better set camp at that bar all night. It was an hour and a half before their start time. The line was a block long and wasn't moving. I realized that I haven't had a game plan so far and I've done alright, band-wise. Every band I've seen to this point has been decent. So, we turn tail and go back to the Speakeasy. The dudes head off to a late night party in a airplane hangar with the Sugar Hill Gang. (Sounds sweeter than it actually was. So tired. Barbecue? Don't mind if I do.) Jeff and I end up at some outside bar. Things are kinda breaking up, so I just chill at a table with my final drink, and wait for Jeff to come back from taping an "interview" with some woman he ran into. She kept calling him "Mike" for some reason. I guess she was fucked up. Friday, March 14 WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU ATE? Wake up around 9:30 a.m. with Pooch asking me, "Do you like waffle fries or steak fries?" Take a shower and go next store to hangout out with The Fags. Tim offers me a beer, and I accept. It is officially a bender. Have a nice chat with Tim. One of my favorite guys. Try to convince him to join us as we head off to some sweet outdoor bars. No luck. They got a radio gig in Dallas. The first bar Jeff takes us to is right on a river, bathed in the sweet Texas sun. An attractive blond waitress brings us all some cold beer and starts talking to Jeff, "I heard that you were in town. Do you have enough money for rent?" and then they both laughed. I asked Jeff what that was all about and he said it was just an Internet friend. Poor Jeff. Reduced to meeting girls through some pitiful chat room. I tell him that he needs to loosen up and take some more chances. Man, the beer tastes good. I can't properly express how much fun I am having. From here, we head to The Oasis bar. It has a stunning view of Lake Travis, and it claims to have the most outdoor decks in the world. I can't argue. Everybody is together. Joe, Dave, Pooch, Rob, Biggie, Ron, Jeff and me. We get a nice big table in the sun and the beerfest rolls on. We start telling stories about growing up and the laughs are long and loud. Say what you want about Watershed, but we really do enjoy hanging out together. An attractive blond and a brunette women ask Jeff if they can join us. "Mike do you mind if we sit over here with you guys? It just looks like y'all are having so much fun." She said Mike, but she was looking at Jeff. I look at my can of Budweiser for about fifteen seconds and figure that it must just be me. We watch the sunset over Lake Travis and my survival instinct kicks in. I am lucky in that way. Some people can just rock on and on until they end up in jail, or paying child support to a daughter named Misty living in Ruston, La. Not I. Just get me back to the hotel where the worst that can happen is that I eat someone else's leftover room service food and fall asleep in the hall. Everyone splits up at this point. Some go see Lucinda Williams & The Jayhawks. Jeff goes out with the girls we just met. Pooch and I end up jamming with some dude on the front curb of our hotel. Not much of a jam really. The guy is hell bent on teaching me his original, clever, 14 chord pop gems. "Dude you may not of noticed, but I am sorta out sorts here. Could we just do "Gloria" or something?" sez me. "No man, this one is easy.. ready? It starts in 'A' then go to F#-G-B-C#-D-F-F-E- then the chorus.. A-A#-E-B-F-B#… got it? Ok… here is the bridge….." "Pooch, let's go upstairs and watch Starship Troopers, this jam sounds like Metal Machine Music by Lou Reed." "OK… who is Lou Reed?" Dave and I are sitting in the hotel room, watching Mr. Show, gassed from the ethyl they sold us at the hotel bar, when Colin and Mark walk/stagger in. "…I see. Well, who's Jerry Reed, then?" Colin sighs, and put is guitar away. "Fuck it. Who wants pie? And we're watching Starship Troopers next." Colin has definitely imbibed more beers than hours he's slept in the past three days, so watching him order pizza is a treat. At the end of the phone order to the local pizzeria, he notices the special on the flyer: buy one, get one FREE! (pick-up only). He suggests to the order taker that they extend this special to him, even though he is unable to pick it up. "I would like another pizza, but I am too drunk to drive. Any way you can hook us up?" No. "How about if I meet you half way? Where can we meet?" That's not how it works, sir. "Look, I'm going to be honest with you. There's going to be trouble if I don't get that other pizza. I'm here at a hotel party with Snoop Dogg and I am responsible for the food. But, such is the case when a party that's off the hook, I got a little too carried away - with the chicks, guns, fire trucks, and the like. Now, my job is in jeopardy. If you don't do it for me, won't you do it for Snoop? Hello? Hello… uh, he said it'll be about an hour." So, the pizza show up and the first words out of Colin's mouth is, "Where's the other pizza? We were supposed to get one free." Pizza Guy frowns and explains the policy again, takes his money and goes away. We figure that they at least spit on it. Regardless, Austin has the worst pizza. I fall asleep around 4a.m., and wake up around 7. Hassler is passed out the desk next to the TV and his lap top computer is on. The room is stuffy and I need a drink of water, so I get up and decide to get online to check the spring training scores. I accidentally click the 'back' button and it takes me to a site called "Mike's Apartment." That's not Mike! That's Jeff! And what is he doing with those women? Apparently, Jeff hasn't been focusing solely on watershedcentral. I decide to keep this little bit of news to myself for now. Saturday, March 15th CHARLES BASS OFF THE GLASS - Club Clearview - Dallas, TX We check out, drag ourselves into the van, and make a stop at the convention center for a proof-of-attendance T-shirt on our way out of town. Man, there's a lot more to SXSW than bars, rock, and drinkin'. Movies, rock poster and multimedia exhibits. Next time I'm going to pace myself a little better. While I'm on vacation, I never wear a watch. It's always time to relax. However, there's a difference between not wearing one and not having one. My watch has been missing since Wednesday. The last time I remember looking at it was at that jungle bar. We're driving up 6th, so I ask Biggie to stop. As I approach The Amazon, one of the barkeeps is propping open the front door. I don't recognize him, but he remembers me. "Hey! Budweiser!" I ask about my watch, he checks behind the bar. "Sorry, man." Ah, it's alright. I know a lot of people with a watch. I can get them to tell me the time. Sleep in the back of the van on the ride up to Dallas. Get lucky and catch the Basketball Buckeyes upsetting Michigan State on the TV in the van. Jeff rides up with Ron in a separate car. It's kinda awkward with only me knowing his secret. I figure there is no point in upsetting everybody. What good would that do? Plus, I know I am kinda cranky since I stayed up all morning checking out his apartment. Good thing hotels have unlimited cold water. Anyway, we check into our sweet Courtyard by Marriott and head over to the gig. Club Clearview is several bars in one: live band room, go through a door, lounge, circle around, dance club, continue on through and you're back to front. It's a pretty sweet set up and the sound doesn't bleed through from the other rooms. It is an all-Idol Records line up again, so it should be a blast. Get some coffee at a cool shop and pretty soon it is time to rock. set list: SUCKERPUNCH NEW LIFE BLACK CONCERT T-SHIRT ANNIVERSARY CAN'T BE MYSELF JUST FOR SHOW ROMANTIC NOISE GIMME SHELTER (The Rolling Stones) MERCUROCHROME - ONE TRACK MIND (Johnny Thunders) Good crowd, Good show. People seem to like it. All the chicks dig Dave's pants for some reason. Jeff introduces me to his friend "Cocoa". Jeff must know that I am on to him because Cocoa tells me that she is a present from Jeff. Nice try Hassler. I am not that easy. They say he has diamonds on his shoes. Little known Joe fact: He is the innovator of several dance moves - Five patents, three pending - the Orb, the Hypnotizing Snake, the Kinsu Knife, the similar, but far superior, Sprinkler, and, making its dance floor debut tonight in Dallas, 41 White Castle Fish Sandwiches. Named 41 White Castle Fish Sandwiches because of people's apparent dislike for it, the dance is simple. Just dance to the half beat. With a room of manic grinders, it will look like that camera trick where the subject is moving at normal speed, but everyone else is sped up. It looks sweet, but the drawback is that not everyone can do it at the same time or else it looks like everyone is slow dancing. Dave, Joe, and I take the dance for a second trial run. We position ourselves on the platform of the dance flood, and let it rip. Slowly. A guy looks up at us, "That's badass!" He and his girl climb up and he bites into the Fish Sandwich. I suppose there are some people who must like White Castle's fish sandwich. Otherwise, they wouldn't offer it anymore. Funny how fast food commerce is reflective of the dance floor. While The Fags are rocking the house, Biggie digs down into his bag of shenanigans and pulls out a Dash Rip Rock favorite - The Ol' Pennies in the Hubcap Trick. Five pennies and a Watershed CD to act as a calling card. It makes a helluva ruckus and takes some time to pinpoint, since the noise stops when the vehicle does. Good times. Everyone goes back to Erv's pad (president of Idol records) but I am spent, so Poochie, Ron and me hit Denny's (yuk) and turn in early. Actually, just before bed, we fire up Ron's laptop and check out "Mike's Apartment." Ron jokes that he should start managing Jeff since he is the only one partying like a rock star and making some money. That Ron is always kidding. He didn't really laugh though. I think he was kidding. Sunday, March 16th END GAME I wake up before everyone else and sit out by the pool reading the Sunday paper. So nice to be all alone. 6 guys in a room every night can be trying. Treat myself to the breakfast buffet and pile into the van around noon. Before we can start our ridiculously long drive home east, we have to drive an hour west to drop all of our friends and roadies off at the airport. Then turn around and drive the hour back to where we started. We are probably the only band in rock history that drops its crew off at the airport and then drives home with the gear. Sigh. I sit at the airport food court, mustering the strength to bring the spoon of ice cream to my mouth. Poochie doesn't look so good either. Hassler won't shut the fuck up, droning on and on about all the chicks he banged in Austin. I'm not really listening. Poochie plays some video game on his cell phone. The past five days felt like my first trip to Vegas - hit the ground running and didn't stop until it was time to go home. The only difference is that my first trip to Vegas lasted 50 hours, not 114. No mas. About 40 miles West of Texarkanna, our serpentine belt snaps. No choice but to drive to the next exit, which is 35 miles away. This is not good. The engine is smoking but we have got to keep driving. We are literally miles from nowhere. We roll the dice and make it to a Sears in Texarkanna. "No luck Yankees, Sunday at 5 p.m. in the South. We will sell you the belt but you are on your own until tomorrow at the very earliest. Better find a hotel" Normal people would accept their fate. But Mike "Biggie" McDremott is no normal person. He is gonna fix it. Things get off to an ominous start when toolbox flies open and spills onto the parking lot asphalt, but undeterred with assistant Dave Masica, Biggie starts taking our motor apart and reading instructions to himself. I express my full confidence in his abilities and start walking through the mall looking for a job. I figure as along as we are going to be here 4 or 5 weeks, I could get a job at a Subway or Starbucks or something. After 2 hours, the van starts and we are back on the road! I knew Biggie had it. Although I felt slightly guilty for not getting someone to cover my shift at Subway the next day, I was happy to be heading home. After a five-hour game of Grand Theft Auto, we pull off to a rest stop 2 hours North of Memphis at about 4 a.m. We walk through the door and run into The Fags. You have got to be kidding me. These are long odds. It is truly a small, small world after all. "Good one, guys. Real cool," they say. I don't know what they are talking about, but Biggie won't leave the van unattended while they are around. Strange. I sleep some, and take over the wheel 40 minutes East of St. Louis on I-70. My goal is just to reach Indianapolis, but I dig deep and drive the 5 hours straight through to Columbus. No stops. Monday, April 21 AFTERMATH jeff - Look, I haven't said anything until now because I wanted some time to think and talk it over with the guys, but after this update I don't think we will need your web servicing any longer. We were pretty shocked about your site - surprised, really - and a little hurt. I mean, we don't like porn? Why didn't you offer up free access? I thought we were friends. Anyway, hurt feelings would have eventually been forgotten, but Biggie found out that you were using our server to host you site. A little shady, very prickish, to say the least. You say those girls are 18, but I don't know, dude. Natalie. Heather. Jenny. I would really like to see their IDs. Call us paranoid, but with everything that happened with Townshend, we'd rather not risk it. You're a cool guy, and we hope there are no hard feelings, but this is how it's got to be. Sorry. Later, Colin Colin, First of all, so, I didn't share. So what. Fuck you. I knew you Jesus Preachalots would freak out. Man, wouldn't that suck if people found out that you rock for the Lord. You try so hard to keep it quiet and put up this "rock and roll lifestyle" front on this sham of a site. All this grandstanding in the "tour notes" about how much you "rock". Please. I guess it goes to show how stoopid this lactose intolerant Cowtown is. Christ, NYC, LA, and Chicago all took three seconds to smell your stigmata stink. "Watershed". "Anniversary". "Can't Be Myself". "New Life". Man, this town, and your fans, are daft. Next: Shit yeah, I piggybacked your server. I've got to make a living. You guys don't pay me for shit. If you haven't noticed, things aren't going well in the workforce lately. But why would you notice? You're in a constantly touring, constantly rocking band (allegedly). Fuck you, mother fucks, Jeff PS: You can't fire me; I quit!