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 Day
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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