the fuck chronicles
with your host, Eugene Haggis
Hi. My name is Eugene Haggis - friends call me Gene. I am the acting U.S. tour manager for the 1997 summer/fall fuck tour. It's not a great job but it's better than what I was doing before I met the fuck guys (I was head of security at a dumpy west side thrift store in Portland, Oregon). Anyhow, acting U.S. tour manager for a small-time band like fuck is not a particularly demanding role. Consequently, their label, Matador, was able to convince me to spend some of my free time documenting the trivial and meaningless details that pass for life on the road.
July 24, 1997, Day One - Los Angeles
OK. July 24th. Day 1. Our mission is to drive from Oakland to Los Angeles and arrive in time for a radio interview on KBLT. We leave Oakland two hours late but somehow make it to the interview on time (sort of). Since I slept through most of the trip, I'm not sure how we made it to Los Angeles in near record time in a big underpowered van on one of the hottest days of the year, but the smoke pouring from our vehicle's engine compartment could be a clue. Our host at KBLT is Paige and she is absolutely charming. My suggestion of canceling the tour and moving in with Paige is discussed briefly, but ultimately voted down.
After the interview and a tear-choked goodbye, we're off to our sound check at Spaceland. I should diverge for a moment and comment on what a fine establishment this Spaceland place is. Mitchell and Linda stand out as some of the best club bookers in the country. While we are loading in, we meet Dave, Tim and Steve from Two Dollar Guitar, who are sharing the U.S. tour dates with us. I can already tell that these are cool cats, much more interesting than the duds I am traveling with. I notice that they do not currently have an acting U.S. tour manager and make a mental note to investigate the possibility of a career move.
|Ted with "Hot Dot on a Stick" Hostess|
The show at Spaceland is uneventful. Two Dollar Guitar serve up a grand set with lots of songs from their last cd and lots of new stuff I haven't heard. We hook up with our ever gracious and entertaining host, S. Quinn, who has always functioned as a sort of guardian angel to fuck (she taught them how to silkscreen t-shirts, gives them a place to stay in LA, and helps them find good local car mechanics). I suggest we cancel the tour and move in with Quinn, but Quinn and the band say no.
July 25, 1997, Day Two
There is a photo shoot scheduled for tomorrow and another show at Jabberjaw on Sunday, but no official band business is planned for today. Ever enterprising and productive, the fuck guys create some official band business by parking illegally and letting the van get towed.
July 26, 1997, Day Three
Today we head out to the Santa Monica Pier for a photo shoot for Bikini magazine, where we are greeted by our lovely photographer, Rebecca. After the required pictures have been taken, we retire to Hot Dog on a Stick for vegetarian corn dogs and lemonade. Across from the hot dog stand (which is staffed exclusively with darling young high school girls) is a women's volleyball tournament. Certain that my life could never get any better than this singularly perfect moment, I quickly lobby for the idea of canceling the tour and spending our remaining days on earth with Rebecca at the Santa Monica Pier, but no one is listening.
|Me and Rebecca|
After the pier, we visit the Museum of Jurassic Technology. Ted says it's great and Ted is usually right about these things. After the museum, we pick up Eric (longtime friend and acquaintance) and head over to a barbecue at Tom and Diana's house, where Two Dollar Guitar is staying. We meet lots of nice people and have a great time. Ted gets to meet his hero (Mike Watt) and Eric gets to meet his hero (Nels Kline). Tom and Diana, our excellent hosts, are quickly becoming my heroes. By the time I get around to mentioning my idea of canceling the tour and moving in with Tom and Diana, everyone else is too drunk to discuss it rationally.
July 27, 1997, Day Four
An interesting Sunday show at Jabberjaw tonight. The guy at the door tells me not to wander too far from the club "for my own good." Wow. The opening act, some solo guitar guy, shows up for sound check but then decides not to play and goes home. Does he know something we don't, or is his seemingly bizarre behavior best ignored? Not being one to take any unnecessary risks, I spend most of the night in the van, hiding under the back seat.
We leave for San Francisco after the show. On the way home, the van's behavior becomes increasingly erratic and frightening (I am easily scared by unexplained car issues). We make it all the way back to San Francisco safely, but it is obvious that something automotively foul has cometh our way.
July 28, 1997, Day Five - San Francisco
I am of the opinion that nothing can bring a semi-successful tour back down to earth quicker than the onset of debilitating vehicular mechanical problems. I have also learned that when car troubles are afoot, my talents are best plied elsewhere. Consequently, today is a shopping day for me -- I guiltlessly abandon the fuck boys and their dysfunctional Dodge drivetrain and embark on a relaxing day of sampling the wares of a capitalist society run amuck. When I return to fuck world headquarters later in the evening, the van remains unrepaired and the noxious fumes of doom are everywhere.
July 29, 1997, Day Six
As the band continues to struggle with the errant van, I manage to polish off an entire box of out-of-date peanut brittle and six gummy bears I found under the sofa. After my nap, I do what I can to help prepare for tonight's show at the Great American Music Hall. Much to my surprise, the band manages to rise above the threat of impending immobility and offer up their best set of the tour. Special guests U.S. Saucer are exceptional, and Two Dollar Guitar are characteristically splendid. The show is a great success in every way and I graciously accept all the credit.
July 30, 1997, Day Seven
After much deliberation, it is decided that Tim and Geoff will ride with Two Dollar Guitar to tonight's show in Eugene, Oregon, while Ted, Kyle and I will remain in San Francisco and attempt to make some progress on reinstating the fuck van as a functional member of society. During the course of the day, the van's problems are finally diagnosed (accurately) but not corrected. Out of options and time, Ted, Kyle and I leave for Eugene around midnight while Tim and Geoff serve as the official fuck representatives for the show at Sam Bond's (with help from Two Dollar Guitar Steve).
July 31, 1997, Day Eight - Seattle
After limping for 500 grueling miles up I-5 all night in the battered Dodge, we meet up with Geoff, Tim, and Two Dollar Guitar in Eugene. Over the course of our trip, I have concocted a clever plan which will allow us to get the van fixed without missing any shows. On the way to Seattle, we stop in Portland, locate a credible mechanic, have our diagnosis confirmed and make an appointment to return first thing tomorrow for the necessary repairs. We then continue on to the show at the Crocodile in Seattle.
|Me and Cece|
Seattle has always been strangely friendly to fuck. Along with New York, San Francisco, Chicago and Moorehead, it has become one of the preferred fuck tour stops. At the Crocodile, we meet up with Christine (Crocodile booker), Meg (Velvet Elvis booker), Diane (Crocodile cocktail wait person) and Cece (Sub Pop publicist extraordinaire). Inspired by the proximity of these four irresistible vixens, I decide to commence the breeding dance and select one of these females as my mate for the season. Unfortunately, I am unable to make my choice quickly enough, and the moment is lost. However, the balance of the evening comes off quite nicely, with superb performances from fuck, Two Dollar Guitar and Seattle locals, Juno.
We leave for Portland immediately after the show, and after a brief repose in a fine Washington State-sponsored rest area (they offer free coffee and cookies), we make it back to Scott at the Portland Arco station (our mechanic/host) in time for our prearranged van therapy session.
|Me, Christina, and Diane|
August 1, 1997, Day Nine - Portland
While we are making the final repair arrangements, our pal Alyssa pulls into the Arco station for gas. She is on her way to the beach with a couple of friends and two very big dogs. Alyssa invites us to join the party and I am truly tempted, but I have a long and ugly history with big dogs. Torn, I reluctantly decide to stay with Tim and Kyle to monitor the van's progress at the Arco station. Ted and Geoff, obviously free from any crippling large mammal phobias, head off with Alyssa, her friends and the big dogs for what will certainly be a grand day.
After we drive the Dodge onto the gas lift in the service bay at the station, Tim and Kyle somehow convince me to remain hidden in the van so as to be certain that no mechanical flim-flammery occurs once our wounded chariot is airborne. The next nine hours pass uneventfully as the van is fitted with a shiny new torque converter and external engine balancer (the wrong parts had been used when the new engine was installed some 30,000 miles ago, resulting in a progressively violent series of vibrations and related maladies).
The show at EJ's is ok. Two Dollar Guitar and Transparent Thing are both very good (I missed the first band); fuck is nefariously oblique. Upon arriving in Portland, fuck were greeted with a particularly vicious and scathing review of their new cd in a local music rag. I think they really wanted to set the record straight with a special show. I don't know what they were worried about -- the critic (one John Graham) who penned the diatribe was obviously a victim of his own fears. I think he saw the name of the band, suffered a justifiable outbreak of penis envy and lashed out accordingly. I don't think he's vindictive by nature -- in another article he heartily recommended the new Bon Jovi record. Oh well.
|Meg and Ted playing Post Office|
August 2, Day 10, Boise
Tonight's show at the Neurolux is fuck's first ever Boise appearance. I have to
admit that I don't have any particularly interesting insights on this evening's
events, with the exception of being overwhelmed by the unusually high
percentage of total fucking nutcases. We leave after the show and drive all
night to ...
August 3, Day 11, Laramie
Laramie, Wyoming. No show tonight, but a special evening for fuck, nonetheless,
as this is the first night of the tour that we get to stay in a motel. Our
original plans for a night of bowling are dashed by the local alley's
restrictive hours of operation, so we spend the evening watching a pitiful Lana
Turner movie on cable TV. The highlight of the day was a pit stop at a Utah
rest area. I was sitting in the men's room, working on a haiku about the
unusually short stalls (even by my standards) and generally minding my own
business when I noticed a gentleman who had apparently been washing his hands
in the sink for at least ten minutes. I originally dismissed his behavior as
one of those tragic obsessive/compulsive Lady Macbeth things, until a bottle of
"Ferret Glow" shampoo on the counter caught my eye. Could it be? Sure enough,
he was giving his ferret a bath in the sink (literally, not euphemistically).
It was the kind of tender, heartwarming scene that could make me reconsider any
preconceived notions I might have about Utah. Oh, yeah - I eventually finished
The stalls are too short
In Utah rest stop men's rooms
To jack off alone
August 4, Day 12, Denver
Upon arriving in Denver, we are greeted by a torrential downpour which
threatens to wash the van off the highway. The show at the 15th Street Tavern
is fun, but the real highlight of this stop is dinner at Wolf's barbecue joint
in downtown Denver. I inhale two barbecue tofu sandwiches, complete with
fixin's (potato chips and pickle). Yumyumyum. After the show, we are accosted
by some freak-boy who says he used to be Perry Farrell's personal assistant. As
he continues his slurred and dubious tale, we quietly slip into the van, lock
the doors, start the engine and head out of town.
August 5, Day 13, Lawrence
We arrive in Lawrence, Kansas early in the afternoon. Tonight's show at The
Replay is good, clean fun. An otherwise harmless evening is marred at the last
moment by a rogue parking enforcement officer who issues a $10 citation to the
fuck van for being parked backwards in a parking stall. Even though we point
out that parking any other way would mean loading our gear in the middle of the
street, the friendly but dense officer stands by his original assessment. I
would like to go on record as a concerned traveler and point out that the
dullards who penned this bizarre addition to Lawrence's parking penal code
should be ashamed of themselves. Was Bob Dole in on this?
August 6, Day 14, St. Louis
Tonight's show at Cicero's is the first of several shows we will be playing
with Smells Like recording artists, The Clears. The Clears are from Memphis,
and you can't really describe their music or live show without some reference
to early eighties new wave. It's fun stuff - and great stage outfits to boot.
The show is comfortably uncrowded (as in, aside from the band members and their
families, the fan base consists of two drunks and some guy who thinks this was
supposed to be reggae night).We spend the night with Geoff fuck's family and
shoot some hoops before heading out the next morning. On his first attempt,
Timmy fuck picks up the basketball and executes a perfect 180 degree
behind-the-back slam dunk. Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are.
August 7, Day 15, Chicago
Personally, I love Chicago - the people, the city, the lake, the Cubs -
everything. This visit is a glorious reaffirmation of those sentiments. Lounge
Ax, rightfully beloved by all touring bands, is a welcome oasis in the oft
"difficult" Midwest. We have a hectic schedule today - after loading in, we do
a quick sound check and meet up with Cyndi (hereafter known by her new code
name "SuperGoddess"), a writer for Magnet, who will be conducting her interview
while we drive to WNUR for a radio show. I spend the bulk of the evening
following Cyndi around the radio station and club, collecting any loose hairs
or stray clothing fibers that fall from her perfect form, with the honorable
intention of utilizing these bits and pieces of her essence to construct an
elaborate shrine to her overwhelming beauty.
Eric and Mike, our hosts at WNUR, are equally charming, and nice enough to let
me live out one of my life-long dreams and host a radio call-in show. Due to
our restricted schedule, I only have time for one caller, a hard-lisping drunk
from East Chicago. Still, his insights on our topic "Do Monkeys Make Better
Lovers?" are valid and provocative. I am thrilled.
Tonight's line-up is chock full of goodies, with Viewmaster (who will be
sharing several dates with us over the next couple of weeks), The Clears, Two
Dollar Guitar and fuck. The show is pretty well attended and things are running
smoothly, so I decide to celebrate with a frosty cold Leinenkugel. In light of
the fact that I almost never drink, and certainly not on an empty stomach, this
is maybe not one of my better decisions. After blacking out, I wake up at 9:00
the next morning, face down on the floor of the van with a handful of what
appears to be Cyndi's hair clenched in my fist. On a more positive note, a
quick inspection of my immediate surroundings indicates that I did not soil
myself during the evening.
August 8, Day 16, Detroit
What should have been an uneventful trip to Detroit turns into a twilight
zone-ish nightmare when the alternator on the van fails and we are stranded for
six hours in a small town in Indiana (I don't remember the exact name of the
city, but it was something like Stepford or Stepfjord). We arrive at the Magic
Stick in Detroit after midnight, just in time for a brief, inchoate fuck set.
The lovely Kim (well-known proprietor of Zoot's) is our gracious host this
evening. On the way to her house, the fuck van starts complaining anew with an
unidentifiable grinding noise. I am becoming increasingly envious of the other
bands' rented vehicles. Unrelated personal aside: I make a mental note to
discuss with my therapist my recently developed fixation with the size and
shape of grown men's nipples.
August 9, Day 17, Columbus
In spite of the van's newest unidentified malady, we make it to Bernie's in
Columbus. We've got some time to kill before sound check, so we wander down to
Used Kids Records and meet our host for the evening, Bela. The show is fun in
that kind of subterranean drunken 90% humidity vomit soaked college town locals
kind of way. It's a fine bill, including Moviola, Two Dollar Guitar and
Viewmaster. After the show, we attend a garden party not far from Bela's house,
joining a number of revelers who are probably drunk enough to be declared
legally dead. I am still feeling the pain from my booze binge in Chicago, so I
stay away from the hard stuff. Good thing, too, because tomorrow's gonna be a
big day at . . .
August 10, Day 18, Toledo
The Ohio State Fair! Wow - a completely unexpected treat. The Ohio State Fair
in Columbus is an enthralling, sprawling, full-on middle-American freak show.
As the meat, poultry and dairy industries have recently fallen out of grace
with health-concious consumers, much of the fair is now devoted to shoring up
the soiled and scuffed public image of these hapless foodstuff producers. For
instance, I learn that eating pork two or three times a week may not
necessarily be bad for me, depending on my age, height, weight and immediate
Speaking of physical dimensions, I am unjustly turned away from all but the
kiddie rides because of some absurd minimum height requirement. However, this
does not prevent me from enjoying the other treasures the fair has to offer,
including but not limited to the bi-hourly fair parade (complete with marching
band and the Ohio State Fair Queen and Her Court - hubba hubba), Grand Ol' Opry
star Whispering George Anderson (he finishes his first song bobbing and weaving
evasively, as innumerable women from all walks of suburban life are showing
their appreciation for his craft by heaving their control-top panties and
Depends in his general direction), life-size butter sculptures celebrating last
year's Ohio State University Rose Bowl victory, cotton candy, peanut brittle,
maple candy, blue-ribbon fruits and vegetables, ultra-avant garde flower
arranging, heavily scarred flame-jugglers and new product demonstrations galore
(slicers, dicers, water-less car washers, the mop designed by NASA, super
absorbent everything). The only disappointing aspect of an otherwise perfect
day (aside from the aforementioned problems with the rides) is that I don't get
to fulfill my lifelong dream of having unprotected anal sex with a carnival
worker. Oh well, maybe next year.
Sadly, like a perfect dream, the fun ends abruptly (but with no stains), as we
are unceremoniously thrown back into the cruel reality of our business at hand
- the tour. This means climbing back into the piece of shit that used to be our
cool van, and chugging on to Toledo. I don't remember anything about the show
except the last band, The Unearthlies, an unholy marriage of shitty punk and
shitty metal. The bass player is entertaining, but the drummer and guitarist
make me wish I hadn't forgotten my pepper spray at the Denny's in Kansas City.
These guys act like they have the inside line on the punk aesthetic, but I know
better. You know what my idea of anarchy is? Kill all the wanna-be punks.
August 11, Day 19, Cleveland
It's raining in Cleveland, but that doesn't matter because we get to hang with
Sharon, bartender at the Euclid Tavern (site of tonight's show) and longtime
friend of the band. After the show, when it's time to leave, I try hiding in
the bathroom, hoping that Sharon will discover me, take pity on my plight of
apparent abandonment and bring me home to start our new life together. In a
predictably callous twist of the fate screw, it is Geoff fuck who discovers me,
and as punishment I am imprisoned in the van cooler for an hour. I get even by
eating a putrid peanut butter sandwich and shitting all over the rest of the
We spend the night in Kent with Bobbi and Alex. Very nice people - I even like
their big dog, Earl, despite my history of problems with big dogs. I suddenly
realize that for me, this journey has been one of deep and boundless spiritual
growth. With my inner glow completely renewed, I climb back into the van and we
continue eastward. Ted fuck starts whining about having to sit in the middle,
so I summon my newly balanced chi and kick him in the balls.
August 12, Day 20, Pittsburgh
We get to Pittsburgh early, so the fuck boys go record shopping. Having spent
nearly three weeks away from my supportive friends and family, I am in
desperate need of a self-esteem boost. Knowing that there's nothing like the
glimpse of a life more miserable than mine to recharge my ego, I head over to
the local Radio Shack and strike up a conversation with one of their typically
pathetic employees. After less than two minutes of single-syllable interaction
and thinly veiled sexual Star Trek references, I am completely rejuvenated and
ready to tackle the world.
The show at the 31st Street Pub is mostly amorphous. Note for future bookings -
when presentedwith the opportunity of appearing as the fifth of five bands on a
rainy Tuesday night in Pittsburgh, the correct response is "no thank you."
After loading out, we drive all night across Pennsylvania so that we can spend
our day off in Manhattan. I support this plan wholeheartedly, as I was always
the only one in my family who really identified with Zsa Zsa's character on
August 13, Day 21, New York City
Wow - a whole day off in New York City. I begin the day in high fashion with a
trip to my favorite New York restaurant, Five Roses (on 1st Avenue, between
10th and 11th). They do this thin crust oil and herb pizza - no sauce, no
cheese - for $1 a slice. In heaven, they serve the same slice for a dollar, but
it comes with a free large root beer. In addition to being delicious and a
great value, this royal fare can really help firm up your stool, especially if
you've been riding in a van all day everyday for the better part of a month.
A quick glance through the local press indicates that I am not the only one who
is "stool aware." There is quite a buzz in the air over the "Plunger Gate"
scandal which is taking place in Brooklyn. The word on the street is that some
of the NYPD's finest have developed an exciting (though not currently
"officially" approved) new interrogation method whereby a male suspect is
sequestered in the precinct men's room for a brief period, during which time he
is beaten senseless and sodomized with the wooden handle of a toilet plunger
(aka The Plumber's Helper). This is the number one story in every local paper
(even the Times), but in reading the accounts of the incident, I notice that
not a single reporter has seized upon the supreme irony of this apparent abuse
of police authority. Think about it - the very tool designed to dislodge a turd
from the pipes of our external sewer system is used to invade the pipe's of
some poor chap's personal sewer system, and it all occurs in a restroom built
to flush away the donut turds of the people who's job it is to flush away our
societal criminal turds. And how about the published photos of the officers
suspected of committing this procedural faux pas ? One look and you'll know
that these peanut-brains have never been anything but turds. What does it all
mean? How should I know? I'm a monkey. We don't have these kinds of ridiculous
problems where I come from.
August 14, Day 22, Boston
The Middle East restaurant/bar/entertainment multi-plex in Boston is always an
enjoyable and interesting tour stop. As any U.S. geo-social-political buff can
tell you, Massachussettes is technically not a state, but a commonwealth, which
means that it's local laws are not written by earth humans, but rather passed
down every Tuesday by aliens from a technologically superior, but cognitively
underdeveloped galaxy. The details are unimportant, as long as you remember to
take nothing for granted. You think I'm kidding? Just try to park your car
withing the city limits without violating something. Really. Or get in line
behind a touring music group trying to buy beer after midnight at a supermarket
with their out-of-state drivers' licenses. Tonight we are lucky, as Jesse, our
hero and savior, snatches the band from the steel jaws of impending multiple
criminal infractions and offers us asylum at her home in Allston. This is the
same Jesse who brings the band toys every time they play in Boston, the same
Jesse who makes all the wierdness that is Massachussettes bearable. It's also
the same Jesse who seems offended when I ask if I can photograph her in the
shower, even after I explain that the photos will be strictly for my own
personal enjoyment. Oh well - turns out it's my turn to sleep in the van
August 15, Day 23, New York City
We make it back to New York City in time to load in at the Mercury Lounge, and
then head off for a photo shoot for Magnet. Wierdness and chaos raise their
familiar heads; consequently, the photo session takes too long and the band
miss their sound check. In the end it doesn't matter, as tonight's sold out
show is easily the best of the tour. Viva Manhattan!
August 16, Day 24, Philadelphia
Whenever I'm in Philadelphia, I begin to think like an anthropologist. This
trip is no different, as I notice a couple of interesting local societal kinds
of things that pique my intellectual curiosity. First, for reasons unkown to
me, although Philadelphia is a major urban center not unlike New York City,
everone here is on average about 20% heavier than the citizens of Manhattan.
Possible causes - food, drink, fashion, economics or what? Very strange.
Second, as we travel from town to town, I have noticed fluctuations in the way
local citizens express their civic pride. Within the framework of my
hypothesis, people can be separated into two broad categories - those who like
where they live and those who don't like where they live. We encounter members
of the latter group most often in smaller towns; the people who make up this
segment of the population generally have a certain pathetic look in their eye,
something like "help me, save me, take me with you - I don't even care where
you're going." Members of the "satisfied" subset can be further subdivided into
several smaller categories, as follows:
1) Those who directly extoll the advantages of their community, no matter how
unplausible, with phrases like "You know, it's really not a bad place to live"
(most evident in Philadelphia, Detroit, Los Angeles and Boston).
2) Those who selfishly and shallowly deride their town to dissuade any
potential future citizens from moving there ("Oh, you wouldn't like it here, it
rains too much") on the grounds that it is already too crowded (Seattle,
Portland and San Francisco).
3) Those who choose a more indirect method of expressing local support by
adopting the attitude "Everywhere else sucks" (i.e. New York City).
In the interest of completeness, we should consider the plight of those who are
too drunk to care where they live (Missoula, Denver, Boise and Moorehead).
There is actually yet another group to be considered - those that are happy no
matter where they live - but I am not including them in my study because they
are too well-adjusted to be interesting.
As we load in for tonight's soiree at the Trocodero (up two flights of stairs
in the Balcony), I am inspired to make another mental note for future shows:
whenever the venue name includes words like Balcony, Loft or Attic, I will hide
in the bathroom until all of the equipment has been moved into the club. I have
been especially tense all day, as Timmy fuck's significant other, Lori, is
traveling with us to Philadelphia. Normally this would not be a problem, but
for the entire trip she has made no secret of the fact that she plans to steal
my last peanut butter sandwich. When she finally makes her move for the food, I
climb on her back, get her in a full Nelson, and repeatedly slam her head into
the van window until she loses conciousness. By the time she comes to, the
sandwich is safely en route to my lower intestine. To the victor, the spoils.
Tonight's stars are The Clears, who introduce this wacked out pseudo laser
pistol act which makes all other attempts at entertainment unnecessary. After
spending the night with our new pal Courtney and her friends in Philadelphia,
we're once again on our way.
August 17, Day 25, Washington D.C.
Tonight's show at the Black Cat is uneventful. This is the first time fuck has
played in Washington D.C. and it comes off well enough. We meet up with Chicago
pal Jeff Gramm, who is visiting his parents in Washington. Jeff says his folks
have plenty of room at their house and offers us a place to stay for the
evening. This is a special invitation, as Jeff's dad is Senator Phil Gramm
(Republican, Texas), and I'm pretty sure this is the first time we've spent the
night at a U.S. senator's house, though I'll have to check my notes. We don't
get to meet Senator Gramm, as he is away on business, but we do get to have
breakfast with the Jeff and his mom, Wendy, who is utterly charming.
No doubt you are waiting for a witty diatribe from yours truly to mark this
tremendous occasion. Unfortunately (or not, depending on your point of view),
I'm actually at a loss for appropriate verbage to describe this deeply profound
event. The idea of fuck spending the night at Senator Gramm's house is
simultaneously funny and absurd on so many levels, that it defies
August 18, Day 26, Chapel Hill
Don't even ask about this one. The only redeeming element of this stop is
getting to meet Julie, one of the bartenders at the Cat's Cradle (the scene of
tonight's massacre). Julie puts us up in her dandy trailer home paradise, and
eases the pain of the evening by entertaining us with her endless wit and
charm. This is fuck's third appearance in Chapel Hill, and by all accounts, is
three more shows than they should have done here.
August 19, Day 27, Charlottesville
I like Charlottesville a lot, because in my book of unversal truths and
equations, Charlottesville = sushi. Great, cheap sushi, compliments of the
Tokyo Rose, site of tonight's fiesta. I stick to the vegetarian offerings,
because contrary to what Curt (or Kurt or Kurdt or whatever he called himself)
said, fish do have feelings, and most of the time they are pissed off about
This is fuck's second trip to Charlottesville and the basement of the Tokyo
Rose, and it is one of their favorite stops. Darius (the promoter) always puts
on a good show, and the small space seems well-tailored to fuck's itinerant
The only downside of the evening is having to say goodbye to the gracious Two
Dollar Guitar, as this is our last show together. The Two Dollar guys have been
a constant source of fun in an otherwise up and down trip. I could go on and on
about how great it has been traveling with these three fellows, but my
inadequate verse would probably just degrade into sappy, tearful, homo-erotic
mush. It is probably enough to say that I am looking forward to seeing them
again real soon.
August 20, Day 28, New York City
After the Charlottesville show, we drive all night through a miserable rain
storm to get to New York City; we all have errands to tend to before we can
leave for Europe. After a quick stop at the local Radio Shack to get a voltage
converter for my vibrator (that thing eats batteries like the queen eats bon
bons), I spend the rest of the day eating pizza, practicing my french and
catching up on Plunger Gate. Viva Manhattan!
This being the end of the first leg of the fall '97 fuck world tour, it seems
like I should offer some sort of overall state of the tour editorializations,
but I just don't feel like it.