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11/27/2004: "All Over But the Shouting"
"Altitude sickness?"
It's Tuesday afternoon and Vienna is on the phone with a friend of ours
who has "a basic medical training." I'd be on the other line, but all of
my attempts at vocalization have resulted in nothing more than an odd,
squawking noise.
"Obviously it's not actually Altitude sickness, he just has all of the
symptoms of Altitude sickness," our friend helpfully explains. "That and
'the Bends'. Did the two of you go diving on Mt. Everest over the
weekend?"
Altitude sickness and the Bends. Sweet Hubbard in Heaven, how did I end up
in such a sorry state?
Saturday
I spend the afternoon talking non-stop for over two hours at a PhACT
sponsored meeting. I touch on topics from ghosts to Rumpology, and
generally have the time of my life. Afterwards, I rush home, change my
clothes and then run off to Market East station to meet up with my nephew,
Jeff.
Jeff and I ran back to my house, dropped off his stuff, and then jogged
over to 17th and Sansom for Indian food. From there it was a soggy walk
(it started raining while we were in the restaurant) all the way to 40th
and Walnut to catch Joe's band, the Low Budgets, at the Rotunda.
During Great Caesar's Ghost's set, a rowdy pit forms and a few
participants in the fun smack into Joe and I, who are left to contemplate
the irony of us both suffering "death-by-mosh-pit" the night before the
memorial concert.
The Low Budgets' set is total Godhead, and Jeff and I experience
the whole thing from the pit. Is the wisest thing to do on the night before
a big concert? Maybe not, but it's the right thing to do. After the
set, Jeff and I say our goodbyes and then, somehow, manage to drag our
exhausted selves the 30 blocks it takes to reach home - where we treat
ourselves to an episode of Home Movies before turning in.
By 2am, Jeff (down on the first floor) and Vienna (up on the third floor,
next to me) are both out like lights, but I just can't get to sleep. In
fact, over the next 72 hours, I'll get less than 9 hours worth of shut-eye.
The main reason why I'm unable to sleep is because, on Sunday night, I'll
be eulogizing on of the best people I ever had the honor of knowing during
the opening of a novelty song. Up until tonight, my plan had been not to
formulate a speech, in advance, but for the words to magically emanate from
my mouth during the intro to Bitchin' Camaro. Now, lying in bed,
I'm not so sure that this is such a good idea. What if the words don't
come? Abound 5am I sneak down to my office on the second floor and crack
open some books. What I'm looking for is a little help in the saying
goodbye department. The guys I'm asking for help are Plutarch, Cicero,
and Demosthenes - worthy men of Antiquity, all. Unfortunately, none of
them seemed to have ever encountered anyone even remotely like Dave Blood.
Around 8am, I head off to bed, dejected.
Sunday
I sleep for a little over 2 hours, waking just in time for the
McLaughlin Group, which Vienna and I watch religiously each Sunday
morning. This Sunday's episode is interrupted by a phone call. Who would
dare call me during McLaughlin Group ? Haven't I made it
perfectly clear to the entire world that the penalty for such a
transgression is death? Oh…wait…it's Matt.
Matt is one of my best friends in the world and worked as the Milkmen's
roadie for most of his adult life. He and his wife, Robin, had flown in
from LA and arrived around 6:30 am. I finish watching "the Group" and
head over to Matt and Robin's hotel. The three of us then head back to my
house where we gather up Vienna and Jeff then head over to More Than
Just Ice Cream for lunch…and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. We take
the seats formerly occupied by five Milkmen fans who head off in the
direction of Old Pine Street Church, which they kindly leave standing.
After lunch, it's time to transport my equipment (my keyboards and amp),
which weighs a few hundred pounds, to the Troc. Since my amp case has
wheels, my plan was to load my keyboards on top and push the amp, up 10th
Street, to the show. I've had some shitty ideas in my time, but I must
proudly place this one among the shittiest. After a few blocks of what
must've looked to passersby like three brain-damaged men attempting to
build Stonehenge while on roller skates, we gave up and hailed a cab.
I was surprised o learn, upon arriving at the Troc, that everyone had,
uncharacteristically, arrived on time. The best thing about Sunday
afternoon's sound check was the audience - comprised in large part by the
children of band members and friends who enthusiastically leapt around to
each song. With sound check out of the way, it was back home to change and
print set lists while Vienna and Robin sacked the city. I was back at the
Troc in time to catch Nixon's Head's outstanding set.
Even though I don't drink, I really don't remember too much about Sunday
night - caffeine and adrenalin doing the work of alcohol on my brain
cells. What I do remember is FOD breaking the sound barrier, Jenny
and Kurt Blood both moving everybody backstage to tears with wonderful
words about Dave, the Electric Love Muffin ruling the know
universe and playing a scorching version of Highway Star. Numerous
old friends had made the trek across the continent to be there, too. I'd
love to list them all, but if I leave anybody out, they're gonna be pissed.
So let's just leave it as "numerous old friends" - they know who hey are.
As for our set, all I remember is going on 10 minutes late and some guy
who bore a striking resemblance to Charles Manson stage diving. I also
remember Dean, Joe, and I sitting on the edge of the stage, signing
autographs after the show.
Later, back home, I can't fall asleep. I'm also, slowly, becoming aware
of a rawness in my throat. Finally, around 7:00 am, I drift off.
Monday
I wake up around 10:00am and immediately try to call Matt. He doesn't
recognize my voice. This is because, overnight, my voice has been replaced
with a series of cracking squawks that cause me no small amount of pain
each time I attempt to speak. I wiser man would've gone back to bed until
Showtime. I, however, wish to spend some quality time with my friends. So
it's off to Stellar for some wake-up juice and an encounter with a fan who
drove all the way from Phoenix for the show. The guy doesn't seem the
slightest bit dismayed by the fact that I can hardly speak. Maybe he likes
Joe's songs better?
The plan is to visit City Hall and the Masonic Temple. But, by the time we
get done searching for Matt's old house and showing Robin Isaiah Zagar's
artwork, it's pretty late in the day. Around 3:30 pm, the mighty Dan Mapp
meets up with us at City Hall. We've arrived just a few minutes too late
to be allowed access to the tower, which is OK by me, since I loathe
heights.
The Masonic Temple is closed on Mondays and the Mason at the desk refuses
to show us the secret handshake, so we head home where I try on 9 different
shirts and 5 different pants before settling on what I'd been wearing all
day (A RATYHTL reader had been kind enough to provide me with a "Kill the
Richest 1%" T-shirt, but that was in the wash).
My parents, my nephew, my cousin, Vienna, Matt, Robin, Dan, our friend,
Cindy, and I all descend on a Chinese restaurant where no amount of Hot
and Sour soup seems to be able to restore my voice. I spend the remainder
of the time before our set attempting not to talk. A nearly impossible
task for me that's made even tougher by the party atmosphere backstage.
Last night's show had been imbued with a certain sadness that seems to
have been exorcised. Tonight will be a celebration of Dave's life…provided,
of course, that I can get my voice back.
We are, once again, late getting on stage. Just before we step out, I'm
struck with a thought - Sometime there will come a night when my voice and
strength fail me. When I'm unable to make a sound or bounce across the
stage. That night is coming - but not tonight. It takes every bit of energy
I have, but I hold up and we play a show that I'm truly proud of.
Later, after most of the crowd has left, the KDU DJ plays Jet Boy Jet
Girl. I try to get the few remaining stragglers to dace, but nobody
does, so we toss my keyboards and amp into the back of Cindy's truck and
head for home where Matt and Robin hang out until about 2 am discussing
conspiracy theory loving Texas radio show hosts.
After they leave I head off to bed where I once again fail miserably at
fall asleep. It's odd, I think - lying there in the night's stillness -
but I've been a Dead Milkmen since the age of 17, and as of 11:30pm we've
ceased to exist. I make a note to search for a new identity the very first
thing in the morning. But morning never comes.
Tuesday
I wake up late on Tuesday afternoon in a world of hurt. It was like the
play-at-home version of "Journal of a Plague Year."I have completely
lost my voice and any attempt to move - even the slightest bit - results
in agony. Oh, and I seem to have fractured my elbow. When did that happen?
I could understand feeling like this if I drank, but I didn't touch a drop
all week. I have witnesses. Damn, if I'd had known that I'd be this beat
up, I would've downed a case or two of beer. Later, when I am diagnosed
with a combination of Altitude Sickness and the Bends, it seems to make
sense. Comforted, I drift back into a dreamless sleep.
Wednesday
Once again, it's late afternoon before I'm able to crawl (literally) out
of bed. Eventually, I make my way downstairs to my office and have a quick
glance at the emails that have come in over the pervious two days. One
which immediately catches my eye is the total of the money we raised for
the four charities that the shows benefited. I don't know if I'm at
liberty to provide you with the precise amount, so think of a large number.
OK, now double that. Triple that amount and add a little more and you
should be on target. In other words, we did good.
Thanksgiving
By Thursday I was well enough to join my family at my sister's house for
Thanksgiving. It ended up being a wonderful day, which was in huge contrast
to how it started - a complete Shitfest.
All I wanted was a new book to read on the train. Is that too much to ask?
Well it is if you're Borders or Barnes and Nobel, both of which are closed
on Thanksgiving. OK, denied fresh reading material, I now begin my steady
descent into pissed offism. This is compounded by the fact that all I now
have to read on the train is the latest issue of the Philadelphia
Independent - and I'm really pissed off at the Independent.
Last month I penned two pieces for the Independent. The first was an
interview with Trudy Rubin that I went through Hell and high water to get
and to have ready by press time. The other was a small thought piece on
the election. The Independent had solicited these from many of its readers.
Neither piece appears in this month's issue. What does appear is some of
the worst writing this side of 16 Magazine's poetry section. We're
talking just a few rungs above some Grad student's "My Stepdad is a
Capitalist dick" rant, folks.
Hey, I don't mind having my work killed if it's going to be replaced by
something better. I do, however, get mighty angry when something that I've
toiled over is replaced by the journalistic equivalent of a shit stain. Now
you might think that with a few thousand folks in town to catch the
memorial concerts, the folks at the Independent would've included my work
for no other reason, at least, than to sell a few papers. Fuck 'em. I hope
the parents of the kid who penned the "Boo hoo hoo, oh, why can't we all
be Democrats?" piece bought a dozen copies.
Since it's impossible to read the Independent on the train (it even says
so on the paper's masthead) I was forced to make the journey sans reading
material. Vienna and I had chosen the earliest possible train to avoid the
legions of suburban dipshits and their howling offspring returning from
Philly's Thanksgiving Day parade. Unfortunately, there were plenty of loud
families on the train headed to relatives' homes for turkey dinners, so the
trip still ended up being, in the words of the late Wesley Willis, a Hell
Ride.
Needless to say, I was in a very dark mood by the time I reached my
parents' house. What I needed was a nap. I awoke to find that in the brief
hour that I had been in the arms of Morpheus, Vienna had made great
strides towards saving my sanity. Somewhere in the cultural wilderness of
Coatesville, PA, she had managed to procure a chai latte and a copy of
the latest issue of National Geographic.
People, the editors of National Geographic have pulled off a
brilliant stunt with the latest issue. The cover bears the words "Was
Darwin Wrong?". When you look inside you find the answer, in very large
print - "No. The evidence for Evolution is overwhelming." Fuckin'
brilliant! Tons of Fundies will pick up the issue hoping to have their
ubertardish Creationist ideas confirmed, only to be taught a lesson in
real science. Pure genius! Pure evil fuckin' genius.
Later, after dinner, my nieces and I play "Geographic charades." My
touching portrayal of the island of Madagascar moves the entire room to
tears. Home and in bed by 8:00pm. I sleep until noon.
Friday
I awake with the keen awareness that today is "Black Friday" - the busiest
shopping day of the year. There's a book that I've been dying to buy, but
- for a moment - I lay in bed, reluctant to deal with the holiday crowds.
Then it dawns on me that I live in a post-literate society. The book
store will be emptier than Rick Santorum's head. And it is! Book secured,
it's back to bed.
Saturday
"Aurora interea miseris mortalibus almam extulerat lucem referens opera
atque labores."
- Virgil, The Aeneid
I wake up and realize, to my horror, that I haven't written anything in
over a week. This, I resolve, must never happen again.
_._
Here's someone else's take on the weekend.
_._
John E.'s concert photos may be found here.
_._
By the way, I'll be MCing another benefit, this Monday night, at Bar Noir.
_._
sumpareimi - to be present together.
If the above word looks like ippojshit to you,
then you need to go here
and download the SPIONIC font for either MAC or PC. Dude.
