Sunday, October 03, 2004

Cranked-Up... Uhh, Kinda Sorta Really High!

Almost 100% Neanderthal again after eight glorious days of illness, and I can't remember anything that happened during the tour. We drove, we lacked for sleep, we were often damp. We shouted and gesticulated. We were handed long envelopes stuffed with $20 bills. Drive-By Truckers got most of the local press.

As promised, I will take you through the ordea - uh, I mean triumphant God and Blah-Blah-Blah! Tour adventure, step by perilous step. But not now. It's 4:09 AM, and I can't knock myself out for the night. My head refuses to go New Age... It's Hermann Nitsch blowing up horses and Harry Partsch's workshop at full copper-burnishing bore and Harry Reems' death scene in Deadly Weapons and Elyse Perez calling my cell, drunk on her ass, at four in the other morning, all friggin' day long.

Can't I time-share my muse with some unproductive fifth-tier noise schmoe? You can have her for $3250 a month, six hours guaranteed daily Tuesday through Saturday, but be forewarned that there's no off switch - she definitely ain't binary.


TLASILA fans: thank you, very fucking sincerely, for all the LEOV you tossed back into our faces during the tour. You could've wiped the damned stuff off before lobbing it at us, but soiled cyclical affection seems an apt enough vector.

The big tour reminiscence next entry...

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