Sunday, August 01, 2004

Hello everybody. One day long ago I said to a friend who is now dead, "I can't call myself a writer, what if I find out one day that I have nothing more to say?" And he replied, "Shut up you Fuck!" And then he gave me a hug.

I tried to write something for this tour, but in the midst of tears, frustration, sweat, biting sarcasm, long drives, passive aggression, hugs and kisses, nights with friends barely seen, uncomfortable silences, bursts of misguided anger, contemplative walks questioning every aspect of the band and life itself, kindness met with hostiity, and hostility met with patience and compassion, selfishness over band needs, stupid fart jokes that you can't help laugh over, personal conversations revealing aspects of ourselves that only band mates can understand, anger at the world for not appreciating our sound right fucking now!, smiles from accross the room that say I can't believe I still love these guys even though I've been in a van with them for almost 5 weeks, night after night of broken drumsticks and guitar strings (85 packs of strings to be exact), warping necks on brand new basses, new guitars that stop working in the middle of a set because too much sweat has seeped into the electronics, audiences cheering, audiences staring at you blankly not letting on whether they enjoy the band or not, playing an all ages show but not going on till 1 in the morning after all the kids' parents have come to pick them up, small towns' overwhelming appreciation for stopping in their city, the cynicism and over abundance of music in over populated areas, learning that the distinction between being in a band for stardom sake and for the love of it is often complicated but lately too often too obvious to feel good about the work you have done for 20 years, and finally coming to terms with the fact that a tour is a day to day bi-polar experience, because of all this I never wrote enough to post here. I started one early on, this is how far I got:

- So It’s 120 degrees on our way through Phoenix to LA. Our incredibly durable big black van, which we lovingly refer to as “the Jug Bug”, pushes it’s way through this desert land. We are proud of our van, it gives its all and we pat it on the dashboard daily and say, “good Job.” I don’t think we actually feel that the van responds in any human way to our sympathies and accolades but why take the chance that it doesn’t need comforting. It is part of our band, sentient or not. Somewhere three fourths of the way through this scalp melting heat, juggy loses the coolness ability. We are not too sure at first, it IS a black van and it IS 120 degrees for god sake, perhaps the air conditioning is just struggling, fighting a losing battle. But when we all start getting a little faint, and all our bodily water begins to dry up, we become confident that our automobile band mate has lost its ability to keep us comfortable. -

Yep, that was it. I think I need rest. I can go home knowing that this time I took care of myself and did not end up with bronchitis, mega man vitamins saved my health.
The five of us have been to hell and back on this tour, and we can still look at each other and say, "my god these people mean alot to me. I want to work with them forever and ever. But right now how can I tell them to get the fuck away from me without offending them?"

Reverend John Jughead Pierson
And his loving band of misfit toys, Even In Blackouts
You're all a big part of my world, Brad, Dan, Liz, and Bice.
thanks for being here.