Bourbon Street, the site of hilarity so very recently, unfolds serious and hot before us.
It’s Tuesday afternoon, the shows are done, and I’m walking in front of Kimm, behind Ant and Alf, each of us keeping 5 yards apart: Apparently, there is nothing left to say.
Passing the bars and open courtyards, the city gives up its funky secrets in the naked light of day.
Beer is being delivered, vomit is being removed.
Somewhere, another chocolate-dark roux is patiently being birthed, base for the gumbo to be fed to the tourists and, inevitably, delivered back to the gutter later in the night.
Fuckin’ New Orleans.
30 years ago, we bounced through this same route and were hungry for more.
Actual regret at going home, we’d seen this crazy world and couldn’t wait to be back.
We’re older, me and Kimm anyway, I guess.
A lifetime of sticky bartops and a thousand colorful characters later, we cannot wait to get home.
We are killing time before a 7pm flight, doing the ‘ol walk of shame along Bourbon, trying to collect the things we’ve lost the night before:
Sunglasses, cell phones.
“Here,” says Anthony. He points to an open bar across the way.
“This was the last place we were drinking at last night. Pretty sure.”
We go in and take stools on the zinc bar.
As the bartender goes to check with the manager about lost and found, we sip on cold Dixies and page through the weeklies on the bar:
Ragin’ Roy, twink DJ
Tranny Bingo Wednesdays.
Bear Cave Thursdays—Come to Daddy!
Anthony goes outside and squints up at the rainbow flags fluttering in the breeze.
“Maybe this wasn’t the place.”
We hit the street again, I sit down on a stoop as the fellas go across the street to check out Bloody Mary’s Voodoo Store:
Potions, Dolls, Psychic Readings: Know your Future!
Sound good to me.
I have a feeling my immediate future involves a 3 day headache and plenty of hydration.
“What you doing Sugar?”
I look up at the enormous brown ass of a stripper standing in the doorway of Deja Vu.
She is bisected by the glittery white stripe of a thong, which disappears into the twin hemispheres before emerging beneath an elaborate rose and thorn tattoo.
I stand up and start to walk off, but she keeps after me.
“Hey, where you going? You get in here and let Delicious give you a lapdance, hey?”
“Well, that does sound, ah, great, but we have a flight to catch.”
I point across the street at the guys. “We do.”
“Oh, well that’s too bad baby. What, lookit the hair on that one!”
She points at Kimm.
He sees us looking at him, me and Delicious, and flaps his arms once: What now?
“Y’all in some kind of band or something?”
“Yes. Yes we are. We’re called, uh, The Stitches. From LA?”
Delicious lights a Newport and coughs out a laugh.
“Stitches? Whooo, that’s funny. What you doing all the way out here Sugar?”
I sit back down on the stoop, suddenly dizzy from the humidity and toxic ingredients swimming my bloodstream.
Across the street Kimm takes yet another call on his Blackberry and paces back and forth in front of the store.
Doing business, God Bless him.
“Well, we’re on tour, Delicious. Did a few shows this weekend.”
“Is that right? Where y’all been playing?”
I close my eyes and see flashes of red, then the images of the last four days come gushing forth.
An easy flight to Dallas on Thursday afternoon, Kimm has been here for a night and picks us up in a swanky 2012 Yukon.
In the passenger seat is our old mate BeenBoy, in from Cleveland, and the crew is set for shenanigans!
Into Dallas to check out Elm St., and hook up with old pal Mouse Ramone.
He directs us to Serious Pizza next to the club, home of, well, serious sized slices!
We’re fresh as daisies, and skip along Elm Street as we wait for The Stitches to show up and start the night.
We’re thrilled to find a gallery down the way featuring the work of Big Boy guitarist Tim Kerr, surely a good omen for things to come in Austin.
And then we start to see various Stitches appear in the balmy Texas evening, and the night has begun!
The crowd at LaGrange is admittedly a little light.
We blame the Stitches, they blame us.
But we don’t really care, as the crew at the club are kind, the bar and backyard awesome, and opening band Dog Company are rockin’ gentlemen…and hell, we’re on vacation!!
We adjourn to The Black Swan next door to cap off the night, and then drive past the grassy knoll a few times to satisfy Anthony’s conspiracy-minded theories.
Up at a decent hour, we’re shuffling around in boxers and cranky for coffee when the Stitch crew comes bursting in with their plans for the day:
Hit a bike shop, back to Elm St. for some antiquing, lunch is TexMex.
Heh, not us brother—-we’ve been told of a little gem of a town halfway to Austin, that’s right, we’re heading to the Czech Stop in the swingin burg of West, Texas!
Now, that’s not West Texas, I’m talking West, Texas, ya got me? The town is called West, as in W-E-S-T, as we were schooled by the grumpy locals at Mynar’s.
Full from our Czech delicacies, we wandered down to Mynar’s to wet our whistles and see what the locals were up to.
The screen door slams behind me and I squint a bit against the cool dark of the bar.
There’s beer cooling in a tub behind the bar, stuffed heads on the walls.
The bartender is a gentle faced grandmom sucking on a 120.
There’s a table of locals plopped in front of the projection TV, Natural Lights in hand.
There is that momentary lapse in sound, that cliched’ pause that results whenever you barge into someone else’s turf, a crew of five.
Well, well….Hollywood’s come to town!
But soon we’re yukkking it up with the locals, although they sneer at our Converse sneakers–on men our age!— and our amazement at a working Telephone booth inside the bar.
I’m in the back room with Beenie, taking turns in the phone booth when one of the old locals comes out of the head and up to us.
“You there,” he says, and points at me. “Get over here.”
I drop the receiver and come out of the booth.
He looks like Santa Claus on a five day drunk, all grey whiskers and red skin.
He takes a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and unfolds it, looking at me.
“Read this, go on,” he says, “I’ll bet you can appreciate this.”
I look down at the paper, a printout of an old email that has apparently been forwarded many times.
The paper is soiled and worn at the folds, witness to its many presentations, probably in this very room.
I start reading, and I can feel his eyes on me as I read:
Ole Joke “The Norwegian Wrestler”
A Russian and Ole the Norwegian wrestler were set to square off for the Olympic Gold Medal. Before the final match, the Norwegian wrestling coach came to Ole and said, “Now, don’t forget all the research we’ve done on this Russian… He’s never lost a match because of this ‘pretzel’ hold he has”. Whatever you do, do not let him get you in that hold! If he does, you’re finished’. Ole nodded in acknowledgment.
As the match started, Ole and the Russian circled each other several times, looking for an opening. All of a sudden, the Russian lunged forward, grabbing Ole and wrapping him up in the dreaded pretzel hold. A sigh of disappointment arose from the crowd and the coach buried his face in his hands, for he knew all was lost… He couldn’t watch the inevitable happen.
Suddenly, there was a scream, and then a cheer from the crowd and the coach raised his eyes just in time to watch the Russian go flying up in the air. His back hit the mat with a thud and Ole collapsed on top of him making the pin and winning the match. The crowd went crazy. The coach was astounded.
When he finally got his wrestler alone, he asked, “How did you ever get out of that hold? No one has ever done it before!”
Ole answered, “Vel, I vas ready to give up ven he got me in dat hold, but at da last moment, I opened my eyes and saw dis pair of testicles right in front of my face…I had nuttin’ to lose so wid my last ounce of strength I stretched out my neck and bit dose babies just as hard as I could.”
So the trainer exclaimed, “That’s what finished him off!”
“Vel not really. You’d be amazed how strong you get ven you bite your own nuts!”
I look up from the paper and he’s staring at me.
“You get it? He bit his own balls.”
“Heh. He sure did. That’s great.”
He takes the paper out of my hands and folds it back up carefully before putting it back in his pocket.
He nods his head.
“Yep. I knew you’d get it.”
There was a time, maybe not that long ago, when we would be rolling our eyes at the yokels, luxuriating in our superiority.
We’d cluck our tongues at their little lives as we drove off on another adventure beyond their sad little horizon.
But now, standing here, I feel a twinge of envy as Santa goes back to the table, slapping backs on the way.
And for a moment I wish I was here, and staying here, celebrating a Friday afternoon in my own little town, and letting the world pass by.
But we have to get back into that fucking car and keep driving, another gig tonight, and the night after that.
As we’re leaving the bartender calls me over.
“So you guys are a band huh? What’s the band?”
“Ever hear of the Foo Fighters?”
Her eyes light up. “I have! I just bought my grandson Jake the cd….is that you?”
“Um, no. We’re called…. the Stitches?”
The disappointment flashes across her face for a moment and then she fishes something out from beneath the bar.
“Well, you’re the leader, aren’t you? I can tell.”
I look around, and the rest of the guys have already left the bar.
“I am. I am the leader.”
She places something in my hand, it’s a Mynar’s Bar Beer cozy.
“I’m sorry I can’t give each one of y’all one, but you can share, can’t you?”
We sure can, and we do, all the way to Austin.
3 thoughts on “Southwest Tour:2012”
Hilarious, guys. I am. I am the leader.
Your opening set the tone. For me, an oppressive part of the country with an oppressive atmosphere.
I didn’t get The Stitches joke. Why are you always saying you’re in the Stitches?
What happened to your mean photography skills? Half the photos are out of focus. If you’re suggesting constant nausea, you’ve succeeded!
Man, you are… “The Steinbeck of Punk.” The way you write —– I can feel, and taste, and smell the story. Don’t stop. ~ E