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Wendy's WWADDay 8
Thursday October 25th

The show at Joey’s Place was kind of
fucked, in that the guy who booked
the show had unexpectedly left town
for Florida, and the manager of Joey’s
had no idea about hospitality, guarantees, nothing. And of course the Tone Deaf guys were totally unavailable. So we played the waiting game…for a fucking while. If we were going to spend more money drinking than the bands would make playing, then we might as well go drink somewhere in Manhattan, rather than Jersey Fucking City. Things finally worked out …well at least to the point where we got a bar tab and it seemed worthwhile to play (although it didn’t seem that way at the end of the night when the actual pay was counted). Before Honky took the stage we got-high-with-adude- we’ll-call-Mister-X who works for High Times (which means we got extra fucking high, as we were smoking their weed). He informed us that whoever-bought-High-Times-out is going to cease and desist showing pictures of the actual pot, effective Jan. 2004. What the fuck is the world coming to?

The club was kind of weird (maybe it was because it was in Jersey), but at least the deejay was cranking The Refused. Well the opening band sucked a lot of ass, but the second band, The Nolan Gate, was total school of Steve Albini. You could hear Big Black, Shellac, Scratch Acid, and sometimes Minutemen overtones.

Greg and Jen (friends from Philly) drove in from Philadelphia to see Honky, since they won’t be playing there with the Witch. Actually, this is the last night with Honky. Boo hoo. I’m going to miss Pinky and the boys, and will be sad to see them go. At least, Honky was able to score a gig at the Nyabinghi (Emissions fest locale) in Youngstown the next day, salvaging one of their lost three
Canadian dates.

At the show I met a kooky friend of Trinidad’s named John Freeman, who worked with him in the record store Trini managed back in Denton. Freeman was a real freak, and the singer in the .Black Sabbath tribute band N.I.B. He was also responsible for coming up with the name for Dixie Witch, explaining to me, “It was part of a fertile kind of sleeping kind of growing” (whatever-the-fuck-thatmeans), adding, “I got as famous as I could in Texas so I had to move on…like an aquarium breaking its glass” (I repeat, what-the-fuck? I think Freeman did too many hallucinogens back in the day). Even though the club was fucking weird, the sound in the tiny room where the band played was fucking awesome. I rocked my ass off to Honky and barely manned the merch table, to the point where Pinkus said, “Yeah if you want a CD just go and take it. There’s no one over there”. It’s about time Jersey had a good Texas ass kicking. Honky blew the crowd away. People were boogying / getting their grooves on. In between sets, about nine people crammed in the Honky van and smoked another High Times joint. Bobby Rock kept giving me hits off the Beam flask as well, adding to my happiness / fucked-up-ness in general. Then the Witch took over and tripped me the fuck out. They sounded lethal. I was either really high or just totally getting off on the sonics in that that little bitty room with the cow skull over the stage. Trinidad shouted out, “This song is dedicated to Jeffery Pinkus. It’s about drinking whiskey and barking at the moon…and it’s called
Thunderfoot”.

After the show, both bands got to stay at Mr. X’s house, where we smoked High Times fucking hash. I was walking around with my Ace boots off when Pinkus gave me props (or not), saying, “You’re alright”. When I queried, “Like I wasn’t before? How long have we known each other?” Pinkus replied, “Maybe it’s because your shoes are off”. Whatever Napoleon! When I passed on another drink (being pretty bombed already) Pinkus gave me more advice, “I think once you walk away from a drink you should stay away. It’s like digging up graves…just let it be”. I guess I passed
out shortly thereafter.

Day 9
Friday October 26th

Woke up at Mr. X’s place in Jersey City and had to bolt immediately, as he had to be at work…no time for showers. Luckily my-friend-I-will-call- Miss-Z, just happened to be in NYC and staying at the Sheraton Manhattan. I gave her a buzz and she left keys at the front desk so we could get in and take showers. Well it took us about an hour to get through the tunnel, then through the traffic going uptown, then to park. But we had made it to the Big Apple. After cleaning up I split off from the gang and went with Miss Z on the subway to the lower east side. We stopped at the Sidewalk Café where they have 2 for 1 Bloody Mary’s from 2 to 8 PM (that was the beginning of my NYC party, then subsequent decline and demise). After hitting Trash on Vaudeville and ogling KISS pajamas I couldn’t afford, and all kinds of other shit I couldn’t afford…I found myself back at the Sidewalk spending money in the finest fashion I know…drinking. Then I cruised over to my friend’s apt. over on 13th and ended up drinking and smoking more. Put it this way, I was well on my way to hammered when I got to work at CBGB’s at 9PM. Bad bad bad. And that was before George and Dez from High on Fire, Chris Spencer from Unsane,, and all the members of the J.J. Paradise Players Club showed up. Also present were Elijah Wood, Screech (from Saved by the Bell) and Janeane Garofalo…don’t ask me why. Dominick went up to Elijah Wood and said, “Hey Bilbo”, with Dave from Unsane and Cutthroats 9 smacking him on the back laughing, “Dude that’s hilarious! He’s not even Bilbo!” A Smallstone Records showcase, the show at CB’s that night consisted of numerous “stoner rock” bands: Glasspak,, Puny Human,, Halfway to Gone,, Throttlerod,, and Five Horse Johnson. I wish I could tell you how the bands were, but I was way too busy running around socializing to pay too much attention to any music. It was just the soundtrack to the drunkass documentary I was starring in. I do know that Halfway to Gone rocked, as they were the first band to take the stage upon my arrival. Beyond that…What happened is a fun but vague memory, of me throwing up in front of the bar at CB’s and them continuing to serve me and me continuing to drink, then me blacking out at some point, climbing up on the bar, laying down and passing out. Claytallica and Dominick ended up carrying me up the stairs (Claytallica waving my goodbyes to the crowd of onlookers saying, “Wendy says Bye”) and dumping me in the van while everyone else went to party all night at the Manitoba, owned by a member of the Dictators.

Day 9
Friday October 26th

Well I definitely have to say that I did New York, or rather, it did me. I woke up in the van with no idea where anyone was at about 11:00AM. No one was answering their cellphones either. As I didn’t even have the keys to the van, I couldn’t even get out and go eat (the dangerous Sidewalk Café was around the corner), because I wouldn’t be able to get back in the van. With no other options, I took a cab uptown to Miss Z’s hotel room where I showered, then tried to reconstruct the night before that I had very few memories of. Part of the reconstruction involved pulling out Larry’s digital camera and looking at the pics from the previous night for clues. This didn’t help at all, however, as I had a few pics of a couple of the bands, and about fifteen pics of George from High on Fire. At least I was focused in my drunkenness.

Dominick from Speedloader was the first person I got in touch with, who told me that he and Curt were at Cooper’s (from J.J. Paradise Players Club) squat (where he’s been living rent free for ten years), and that the other guys had split off to go to different late night parties. I made my way to the lower east side, met Curt and Clayton at the Sidewalk for brunch and more Bloody Marys, and made my apologies for absolutely-notworking- and-getting-so-fucked-up the night before. We fucked around there, and then went by Chris Spencer’s house in Chinatown to pick Trinidad up. He was totally furious with me for my drunken antics (the Norfolk fight being fresh in his mind) and started the ride to Philly off with, “Don’t even talk to me, ‘cause I don’t even want to look at you.” He was hellbent on shipping my ass back to Texas (like I haven’t seen him fuck up way worse a million times). I mean if I’m going to fuck up, it may as well be in New York City. Well, with me biting my tongue, we took off for Philadelphia. To be continued…

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