Martyred to mediocrity.


ANOTHER Waffles invite (sorry).

Kris Jensen Memorial Fund

May 1, 2005
2:05 PM

How I Could Just Kiss a Man: Tedious Tour Diary, Part 1


When you spend roughly 336 consecutive hours with someone who's company you greatly enjoy�much of that time alone together, mind you�conversations can begin to defy reason. Likewise, humor often tends to drudge the depths of bad taste and non sequitur babble (I don't think I've every said the word "pussy" with such regularity nor lack of shame in my life. and may I never use the phrase "hits from the dong" again. nor fantasize about a homocore cypress hill cover band). I apologize to anyone who had to contend with us and/or Kevin the Prude.

the west coast has yet again treated us well, which is far more than I think it would be willing to say in return. Here's a recap:

Our journey began in the loving arms of Portland, where friends and pleasant acquaintances gathered to see us off, or more likely, to see Deerhoof. The show went well, the 'hoofs were painfully nice, Steve and Kristy were crazed, McCloud and co. came correct. And our keyboard began its slow decent.

Night two was a radio show in Davis with the very pleasant KDVS staff, which included two impromptu pizza parties (the beginnings of my dysmorphic woes), one-too-few frat parties, and an unfortunate incident involving Sam, Grand Theft Auto, and a wayward pillow. We left town in a haze of embarrassment and disbelief. The recording of our radio performance greatly deflated my puff-chested faith the fine Deerhoof folks had so graciously instilled.

En route to Los Angeles, I suddenly realized that I had somehow forgotten to pack what is perhaps the most important element in the (((GRRRLS))) arsenal: my dress. That afternoon, Sam and I met up with CasiOwen and his travel companion Alex outside the stripmall dentist office facade of the Ghetto Gloss Gallery. Owen suggested that we might track down the very lovely Betsy, now employed by American Apparel, to assist me with my crossed-dress. No immediate luck, but as A.A. did seem like a relatively brilliant call, we took to hunting down the most immediate location.

Met at the door with cans of Tecate, American Apparel was surprisingly sympathetic to my plight�sympathetic enough to gauge me with a $33 price tag. at 15% off. But whatever (side note: why do the American Apparel fitting rooms such poor coverage? Are they scouting for models?) I don't know if I'll ever feel entirely comfortable buying women's clothing and accouterments, but having the rather astute mister Mickens in my company certainly didn't hurt.

Within minutes, we're eating Vietnamese food with a very pleasant Bobbis Burtram and the Casiocrew�the first meal of many to test Sam's rather rocky olfactory absence (Sam recently lost his sense of smell in punch-up with a brick windowsill). Later in the evening I am starstruck by a conservatively dressed Chloe Sevigny waiting outside the very same restaurant.

Our show is marred by a good deal of keyboard malfunction, but all-in-all the good co. protected us from really caring�Brendan, Begeirdos, and especially Freddy, thank you so much for your hospitality.

Next was a surprisingly comfortable L.A. party, in which we ran into virtually everyone we collectively knew in the city, star-gazed, and (in my case) totally blacked out (much respect to Britt for driving me home). Sam develops his all-consuming fascination with Karen O, who, I'm sure he would be happy to tell you, looks a lot better in person. I woke up with the worst hangover of my adult life in the Begeirdo's light-tight home recording studio in total confusion�the evidence suggests that I, in my whiskey blind state, still managed to go through my meticulous nightly beauty routine. Big ups.

Next was San Diego, a city I really need to visit again minus hangover, and with a more positive mental attitude. Thanks for the hospitality Donks, Che folks, Mustachios, etc.�you were way too nice to me.

We woke, and after picking up a $10 bag of grapes, began yet another long (and very worth-while) trip to Tempe, AZ. In a strip mall just beside a very happening bar-tending college lies Stinkweeds, the cultural hub of the greater Phoenix metro area. A selected survey of a few key characters:

Steven: Musician, soundman, Stinkweeds employee, modern dancer, and our gracious host.

Eddy: Steven's brother in arms (reindeer/tiger team), doorman, assistant host, dynamo.

Wackness: Wackness.

The show, like the two previous, was totally sabotaged at the hands of our deathwish keyboard�which oscillated, pitch-shifted, and detuned seemingly at random, occasionally just holding notes for long stretches with no regard for our ivory tickling. With four consecutive nights of mediocrity, the tour as an artistic venture begins to feel faintly rain clouded. In terms of extended vacation, however, shit couldn't have been peachier.

The night concludes with a very welcome pizza party, full-up on teen girl cattiness and celebrity crushes. Tonight is the beginning of the giddy high that will follow us for the rest of the week.

As we say our goodbyes to Eddy in the morning, Steven returns home from classes with a pair of flowers for the both of us. They will be dead by the time we reach Pomona.

The previous entry: Songs About Moms.
The next entry: No Problemo.

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