It looks as though Floyd (our bass player) has set us up with a bus driver for this autumn’s tour. His name is Marc, but his friends call him “Krash.” Should I be disturbed by this development? A superstitious person might shy away from such a chauffeur, but for some reason I like the idea of having a bus driver named Krash. It’s very Muppet Movie. Nonetheless, when introduced to my mother, he will be introduced as “Marc.”
The record company bought us a tour bus. 
It looks dope from the pictures on the Internet. The mechanic we hired to give it the once-over said it is ready to roll cross-country with a brand new transmission, spotless interior and functioning tires. All it needs is shocks. I believe shocks are important, so we’ll be looking into that. The owner prior named the automobile “Relations.” Not sure why it would be named that, so just in case, I will be doing a thorough inspection (with ultra-blue light) of all cushions, carpets and mattresses. You can never be too sure…
The last month-and-a-half has included trips to Vermont, San Diego, western Florida, and ridiculous driving days to make three gigs within 24 hours.
Back in July, we had the pleasure of playing the Jackson Gore Music Series at Okemo Mountain Resort. While setting-up for the night’s outdoor festivities, an ominous rain cloud hovered overhead. I stared it down for an entire ten minutes as if to intimidate it from precipitating. The cloud obeyed my wishes and the three-hour concert went on without a problem. It was nice to meet new fans of many different ages afterwards at our merchandise table. The band later made fun of me for tying Izzy to the table during the show, pointing out that leashing an excitable pit bull pup to our product stand might not be the best way to attract customers…
After the show, we went to Christopher’s in Ludlow and sang karaoke with partying locals. Late night celebrations continued at the band condo, where we drooled over its location- right next to a lift. The condo must be worth thousands during the season. I can’t wait to go snowboarding again.
San Diego was a quick trip in which I surfed at Ocean Beach, scarfed down a
burger at Hodad’s, and recorded a quick, solo-acoustic set at Lestat’s. Lestat’s is a hipster coffee joint that, aside
from lattes, has served-up some of San Diego’s finest singer/songwriters (Gregory Page, Carlos Olmeda, and Jason Mraz to name a few). I will be returning there with the Bush League Band on Sunday, October 28th. Should be a fun, all-ages show. Hopefully, I will get to visit Tijuana while we’re out there.
My trip to Panama City Beach, FL was for a weekend of shows with my friends, Sex Toy Party (yeah, you read that right). The ensemble includes Floyd, Jon B (from my Concrete Jungle days), and Tommy Diehl (formerly of Acoustic Junction and Spookie Daly Pride). We performed three nights at the United States’ largest nightclub- La Vela.
My favorite part about performing with this band, aside from wearing full-bodied asbestos suits and seating my ass off, was their “Wheel of Misfortune.” Between songs the band would invite audience members up to take a spin with options that range from removing articles of clothing to winning free alcoholic beverages for you and your friends. Insanity.
The band house was a dump with holes in the wall, torn couch covers, and a mildew stench that permeated all of my belongings by the time we left. Thank God we spent most of our time out of the house partying with locals. After the first night, the band went home and I went out about town with some of the La Vela staff. There was an establishment that was a liquor store/bar. I couldn’t believe it. I was dumbfounded. It’s like “Here, in case you haven’t gotten tossed enough with us this evening, take home a bottle of Goldschlager.” They even had a drive-thru!!!
Two humiliating incidents happened while on this trip. Now, most people
would not admit these kinds of things for fear of looking un-cool. However, I consider laughing at one self to be of the coolest nature, so let the stories commence…
Story Number 1:
While dining at a restaurant serving alligator bites, I made a bet with Floyd and his girlfriend, Audrey. I challenged them to consume six Saltines within one minute without any liquid aid. (In case any readers are unaware, it is nearly impossible to do this. No matter how you approach the task, the crackers end up cementing in your mouth; making it extremely difficult to swallow.) As predicted, their efforts were futile.
While watching me gloat in my rightness, a waitress challenged me to shoot a glass of cinnamon. Being a lover of the spice, I obliged. She prepared the shot in what I considered to be a large plastic cup. You know, one of the ones in which they serve you ketchup (yum) and BBQ sauce. Hardly an ounce shot. More like two ounces, at least. Regardless, I sized up the challenge a slammed the container’s contents.
Puff! I cough out a quarter of the cinnamon and reach for the nearest glass of water, which only makes the situation worse. The seasoning turns into a thick paste blocking all paths through which air reaches my bronchi. I rush to the restroom with the sounds of my band mates laughing in the distance. Once I reach the men’s room I begin purging my mouth of the death beverage with my fingers. Tears in my eyes, my digits frantically remove the caked substance from my cheeks and throat. All I could think of was my future reputation. Stevie Ray Vaughan dies in a helicopter crash, Jimi Hendrix of a drug overdose. I would be dying on a bathroom floor from downing too much cinnamon.
In the end, everything worked out. I still tipped my waitress and my throat felt well by the time I got back to New York.
Moral: Only do this to someone you really hate.
Story Number 2:
I blew out a flip-flop. I was not in Margaritaville. I was in the band house on the stairs wearing a towel after taking a shower. Jonny B was in the living room and I was singing in the style of Placido Domingo. The flip-flop gave way and I tumbled down the stairs in my birthday suit; really not much more to that story.
