Boxcar Satan - No Account No Wave Blues from San Antonio, Texas.

Cabin Fever Sideshow - The Boxcar Satan 2002 Tour Diary

Nothing can stop Boxcar Satan from bringing its sick and sleazy music to the masses. And - despite the efforts of a raft of assholes and interlopers - that's just what we did for almost a month this fall.

Smash into our van? We'll pound the dents out of the doors and drive it anyway. Shoot at us? We'll duck and cover and sneak out the back door with our money. Throw our backs out? It's nothing muscle relaxants and gin won't fix. Cancel our gig? We'll drive on through and mock your crummy city.

We don't kill easy.

DAY 1/Oct. 31 * Taco Land w/ Chapstik, Bombardiers and others
Even if there hadn't been a shootout at our sendoff show, we'd still be leaving under unbelievably stressful circumstances. A week prior - whilst our van was parked on the street in front of a club on North St. Mary's - an amateur drunk plowed into it, caving in our back doors, and essentially ruining its worth as a touring vehicle.

The body shop told us they were "pretty sure" they could have the doors fixed in time for our departure, but by Halloween, it still hadn't happened. We arrived at the gig wondering whether we'd be touring in Ken's minivan or struggling to convince the insurance company to rent us a Ford Econoline for 3+ weeks.

The show started off on a surreal note with black metal band Miscarriage playing on the patio. They wore scary masks, threw balloons of fake blood and had song titles like "Marinated In Cum."

But things took an even scarier turn when a gang fight broke out right after our set. A gaggle of testosterone-poisoned morons began beating the shit out of each other in front of the bar, and baseball bats and kicks to the head soon escalated into gunfire.

After a few shots were exchanged, the gang bangers dispersed, and the cops showed up to make a few impotent circles around the block during Chapstik's set. Fearing a driveby, we loaded out our gear in record time. Patrick departed minutes before a car returned to the scene and some meathead inside it opened fire on people leaving the bar. Ken and Sanford - who had stuck around to get paid - quickly left the scene, hearing only that someone had been hit by a bullet.

Early next morning, while watching a TV news spot about the shooting, Sanford recognized our friend Nick being carted away on the stretcher. Unfortunately, we had to leave town without knowing how badly he was hurt.
DAY 2/Nov. 1 (Dallas, TX) * Spider Babies w/ Viva Maxitone, The Action Is and The Spiders
Sanford got a call in the afternoon from the body shop. The van would be ready, they said, but not until 4 p.m. We picked it up, packed at blinding speed, skipped dinner and hit the road amid shitty weather and rush-hour traffic.

We got to the club moments before The Action Is took the stage, and we followed with a decent, if harried, show.

Viva Maxitone closed out the night with a solid set that sounded something like X meeting Motorhead in a hot rod shop.

After the show, Patrick headed to Jerri and Debbie Maxitone's pad to enjoy girl talk and the company of their fat cats and three-legged dog, Rusty. Meanwhile, Ken and Sanford enjoyed a little manlove on the hideaway bed of Les Maxitone and his charming wife Molly.
The next morning, we reunited at the Metro Diner for a dependably surly breakfast.
DAY 3/Nov. 2 (Kansas City, KS) * Davey's Uptown Ramblers Club w/ Jumbo's Killcrane, Totimoshi & Erfmen
We drove most of the way to the gig through rain, enduring backaches and the onset of cabin fever.

We'd played with Jumbo's Killcrane a few times previously at Taco Land, and they sounded better than ever with the addition of Be/Non bandleader Brody Rush on lead guitar. Totimoshi, a tight-as-hell San Francisco noise rock trio, rounded out the set in fine form.
We weren't sure what to make of the Kansas City crowd, though. Definitely an oddball mix. Some looked like they'd taken fashion tips from Comic Book Guy on the Simpsons, while others seemed positively inbred. The passive-aggressive weirdo sound guy was in a category all his own, telling us at one point, "I know what I'm doing, and I'm putting on just as much of a show as the bands." Don't you know it, Sport.

After the show, we made the drive to Lawrence (hometown of the late William S. Burroughs) in cascading rain and stayed with Jumbo's Erik Jarvis. Erik upheld his reputation as a standup mofo by providing us with a comfy sleeping floor, showers and other amenities for the next two days.

"I'm the most worthless marijuana addict on the planet," he said as we arrived at his place. He proved it by smoking Ken and Patrick to cinders. Sanford, having a low threshold for hippy shit, abstained.
DAY 4/Nov. 3 (Lawrence, KS) * The Replay Lounge w/ Jumbo's Killcrane, Totimoshi & Weed Eater
We were first of four on the bill, but unlike San Antonio, people actually show up on time to see music here. We played to a receptive crowd at 10:30 p.m.

Afterward, we returned to Erik's house and celebrated into the morning with the members of Weed Eater. Sanford and Ken listened with bemusement as Erik and the singer/bassist of Weed Eater recounted their stupidest high school drug experiences, with the Weed Eater guy delivering a lengthy dissertation on the pros and cons of huffing ScotchGard.
DAY 5/Nov. 4
Since we had a day off in Lawrence, Sanford got up early to purchase new tires for the van. It was something we'd hoped to do before leaving town, but were unable to thanks to the pinhead drunk who smashed into it.

In the afternoon, we got a phone call from friends in S.A., who informed us that Nick was still in the hospital, but appeared to be recovering well. We breathed a bit easier after hearing he would most likely be OK.

We spent the rest of the day eating, drinking, smoking, watching bad TV and encountering a mouse that apparently had taken refuge from the cold under Erik's sofa.

Erik had been a gracious host indeed, so we thanked him profusely the next morning, apologized for breaking one of his martini glasses and hit the road.
DAY 6/Nov. 5 (St. Louis, MO) * Frederick's Music Lounge w/Picklebucket
"Fred Friction is a cheap, power trippin' asshole, who doesn't pay musicians SHIT. Please throw somethin' in the tip bucket so's the band's got some money for beer, gas, and hookers. Signed, Fred Friction," says one of many surly signs hung up at Frederick's by its charming proprietor.

We played Fred's last year on tour and had been looking forward to returning. The place is 180 degrees away from the way the self-deprecating quote above makes it sound. Fred Friction pays more than shit, and his lounge is an oasis on our journeys, providing friendly audiences and profuse amounts of strong coffee and Stag Beer.

Unfortunately, Patrick threw his back out loading in, which would cause him many days of discomfort. And to make matters worse, Sanford's amp melted down at the beginning of our set. Despite the shitty hand fate dealt us, we played our asses off, and the crowd responded with singalongs, hoots and hollers. A phenomenal show indeed.

We stayed up late drinking with Fred, who had recently been released from the hospital after a bout with pneumonia. He showed us a collection of stitches on his back befitting of a shark-bite victim where they cut him open to drain his lungs. Despite his weakened state, he seemed to have no trouble downing Stag, smoking cigs with Sanford and other things with Ken and Patrick. And the Fred witticisms never stopped. "They should never let jocks pick up guitars," he said of the Hootie-ish opening band. Later, he explained why shit-eating is a kink he's never gotten into: "It's the smell."
DAY 7/Nov. 6 (Des Moines, IA) * Hairy Mary's w/ Captured! By Robots
Early rising Sanford hit Winston Electronics in the morning, hoping for a miracle-turnaround repair on his amp. Realizing the place's main gig was repairing church organs, he wisely decided to refer to the band as "The Boxcars" rather than reveal the full name. The friendly folks at the shop fixed the amp quickly, and we bolted town.

It was on the long, desolate drive to Des Moines that our Whoopee Cushion (dubbed the "Brap King") became a prime source of entertainment. It accompanied us into truck stops, greasy spoons, gas stations and men's rooms. At a truck stop outside Des Moines, Patrick let the King ring out a hearty series of honks in a restroom stall, and a trucker sitting on an adjacent commode replied, "Aw, sing me back home!" Being mature adults in our mid-30s, the incident provided days of amusement.

At the outset, the Hairy Mary's gig seemed promising, but we soon learned the crowd was mostly there to see JBot of Captured! By Robots and his collection of foul-mouthed musical androids. We played, made a few friends, sold a few CDs and headed to our first motel room of the trip. The city's many rendering plants emitted a horrible shit/blood/chemical smell that accompanied us on our drive.


DAY 8/Nov. 7
Day off number two. We made a long, stir-crazy drive to Ohio, occasionally encountering light snow. By this time, Patrick's back was really killing him, so we stopped a clinic and waited while he saw the doctor and got set up with an impressive collection of muscle relaxants.
DAY 9/Nov. 8 (Athens, OH) * The Union w/ Drop Dead Sons, We March & Poppycock
Athens is the home of Ohio University and also of our booking agent, Scott Winland. Not surprisingly, it's always been a good place for us, and this time was no exception. Scott and the fine folks at The Union set us up with plenty of free gin, and we were happy to be on a four-band bill where not a single band sucked.

Scott's new band, the Drop Dead Sons (which also contained Chris Burgett of Geraldine) played hard-charging, organ-driven rock with a couple of Tom Waits covers thrown in. We March and Poppycock were both punk bands, but found ways to approach the genre without sounding like oldies revival acts (too bad so few other bands have yet to figure out that trick). Enjoying the music and lubricated by copious free drinks, Sanford created a new dance craze called the Nixon while Patrick pioneered his own called the Nosferatu.

Drunken revelry and arguments over the merits of Yoko Ono's music ensued after the show at Scott's place.

The next morning, Sanford noticed bad diner food was taking its toll and opted to mix up his favorite combination cocktail/constipation remedy, know as the Backslider. The recipe follows:

The Backslider
12 oz. lager beer
1 Tbs. Orange Metamucil
Pour beer into a glass, and mix in the Metamucil. Drink, and have a seat.
DAY 10/Nov. 9 (Columbus, OH) * Ruby Tuesday's w/ The Vincents & Evil Queens
We opened the show with a killer set, and the crowd responded well to our Texas-style snakehandling session. The performance ended with Sanford writhing on the floor dry humping his guitar while Patrick and Ken banged out the last bars of "Traveling Man" in an orgiastic frenzy.

Afterward, Ken and "Painkiller Patsy" went for a back alley smoke with a short, potato-headed guy from the audience who turned out to be a humorously belligerent mental midget as well.

"I was bored with your show," he said as a conversation starter before saying that he hoped we'd do some King Diamond songs because we had "Satan" in our name. "Nice drumming dude," he told Ken between hits. "But don't get me wrong, I didn't your band at all. That frontline has no talent."

It was all quite amusing, until the pipsqueak decided to ratchet up his aggression another notch by shoving Ken. Gentle Ken showed great restraint by not pulverizing the cock knocker.

After wrapping up that strange encounter, everyone came back in to watch The Vincents and Evil Queens, both of whom delivered edgy shows and seemed like nice guys to boot.

We stayed the night with Eric and Jake of The Vincents, who treated us to beers and had the good taste to break out the Johnny Cash and Richard Pryor records.
DAY 11/Nov. 10 (Philadelphia, PA) * The Balcony w/ Stinking Lizaveta & Raccoon
The journey from Columbus to Philadelphia was maddening as we made our way over weird mountain passes littered with deer carcasses and long stretches of highway with 45 mile-per-hour speed limits.

As we pulled up in front of the venue around 8:30 p.m., Yanni and Cheshire of Stinking Lizaveta greeted us at curbside. "Hi guys! Glad you made it!" Cheshire grinned. "You're on next, and the opening band is finishing their last song right NOW!"

As it turned out, The Balcony's Sunday night shows start early, and no one at the club bothered to warn the bands. Just great.

We hastily unloaded our shit and made our way up the worst stairs we encountered during our whole trip. The Stinkers graciously helped us carry gear up forty-nine steps then down another seven to the bar floor. We played immediately after load-in, meaning Ken and Sanford didn't have time to swap out their t-shirts for suits and ties. All the same, we went over well with Lizaveta's crowd.

If you've ever seen Stinking Lizaveta, you know what an intense performance they put on. But seeing them in their hometown is like being front row at Jim Jones' final sermon. Like glassy-eyed cult members held in hypnotic sway, the crowd eagerly lapped up the musical Kool Ade they were dispensing that night.

After the show we went bar hopping with Yanni, Alexi and a friendly New York artist named Chuck. Drunk and tired, we headed back to Yanni's three-story Victorian and lost consciousness as he pan-broiled lamb chops. At some point, we passed out with his pit bulls licking our faces.
DAY 12/Nov. 11 (Virginia Beach, VA) *Chicho's
It had been a while since we cleared out a place, so it was kind of fun to watch the crowd of jockish college kids and boneheaded rock fans file out of the club as we played. It wasn't a total loss though. Chicho's fed us some decent pizza, gave us lots of free beer and paid our guarantee.

We saw the ocean, then got the fuck out of Virginia Beach.
DAY 13/Nov. 12
We were supposed to play in Buffalo, but canceled the gig and pulled into New Yawk City early to get some rest for Patrick's back, which had grown excruciatingly painful. The 11-hour drive to Buffalo wouldn't have done it any good.

Shit City Dreamgirls collaborator and old Boxcar friend Cosmo Inserra put us up at his place near Brooklyn's ultra-trendy Williamsburg area. We spent the night drinking gin and taking it easy.
DAY 14/Nov. 13 (Brooklyn, NY) * The Luxx w/ The Metric & others
Around noon, we took a mile-plus stroll to visit our old friend and occasional bandmate Rev. Vince Anderson and partake in his Fresno-style hospitality. Vince made a huge vegetarian lasagna, tossed salad and garlic bread - hands down the finest meal of the tour. You'll know when you get to the Reverend's place because his patio has the only chained-down barbecue grill we saw on our lengthy walk through the neighborhood.

We did some Chinatown shopping before heading to our early load-in at The Luxx. When we arrived, there was some sort of fashion shoot wrapping up inside the club. The crew of rail-thin models and photographers apparently neglected to clean up after themselves, and an enraged bar employee, wrongly assuming Cosmo was part of their crew, began berating him for leaving the mess. Expertly copping the attitude of his adopted hometown, Cosmo had the last word, though. "Are you still talking to me? I'm with Boxcar Fucking Satan!" he shouted, effectively ending the conversation.

When we played, our small but appreciative crowd included all five Heroine Sheiks, Rev. Vince and transplanted Texan Jonathan Taubin of Hip Song Tong. To top it off, we later learned that the Luxx's soundman was a former member of Lung Overcoat, an '80s San Antonio hair-wave band led by our pal Chris Smart.

After the show, we went back to Cosmo's and enjoyed libations with Norm Westberg, John Fell and Crayton of the Heroine Sheiks, and were amazed by Norm's farting prowess. Patrick smuggled the "Brap King" into the room to try to keep up, and Sanford even lit a couple but we were still no match for ol' Wet Fart Westberg. (Hmmm. Maybe we've discovered the secret behind the ultra-low frequencies on those old Swans albums.)

The drive out of the city next morning was punctuated with sobs from Patrick who left his velvet suit at Cosmo's pad.
DAY 15/Nov. 14 (Toledo, OH) * Frankie's w/ The Lame-O's & Zero Social Skills
We were warned that Toledo was a "town full of Klingers" (aging TV addicts may remember Jamie Farr's cross-dressing MASH character hailed from Toledo), but our experience that night wasn't too bad. Despite being paired up with a couple of "consumer punk" bands, we went over well. The kids enjoyed themselves, and we just couldn't give away enough stickers.

Actually, the Lame-Os, did earn a few points when their singer yelled out to his mother, who was in the audience, "Hey, Mom, show us your tits!"
The promoter, Brock, was a straight shooter who kept the booze flowing all night and gave us a gratis veggie pie. He let us crash at his empty record store in a shopping mall (it's a long story), and we awoke to "Girl From Ipanema" and other Muzak classics being piped in from the shopping area.
DAY 16/Nov. 15 (Ann Arbor/Ypsilanti, MI) * The Elbow Room w/ Tijuana Hercules, Glori5, Scotty Karate & Flapjack
Three cheers for LAUNDRY DAY! We were relieved to have only a one-hour drive to get to Ann Arbor. That allowed us time to hole up in a launderette and de-funkify our wardrobes.

A Thai dinner followed with Sanford's old college roommate, Zach (who's now an emergency room neurologist). The food was blazing hot and quite tasty, as was our statuesque Indian waitress who had Sanford pining for his DVD player and a good Bollywood flick.

The jam-packed bill at the Elbow Room turned out to be varied and interesting. Flapjack, a Motorhead-ish trio of tough-guys, opened the show. They were followed by promoter and longtime Boxcar friend Leighton's band, Glori5 (his wife Jennifer plays a mean bass in addition to owning the chic Henrietta Fahrenheit clothing store). The psychotic cuntry ravings of Scotty Karate and Chicago's hobo-suave Tijuana Hercules were a damn fine match up with the Boxcar too, making it a great evening all around. We sold a good amount of merchandise and traded out for some Tijuana Hercules CDs.
Snow fell the next morning, and we dined at The Bomber, a strange little diner that sent our cholesterol levels shooting to previously uncharted heights. We ran into tough-chick Elvis (Chapstik's current bassist) at The Bomber too, and she was sporting the stylish Boxcar Satan shirt she purchased the night before. Way to go, girl!
DAY 17/Nov. 16 (Chicago, IL) * The Viaduct Theatre w/ Loraxx & Brick Layer Cake
Pulling into Chicago, Patrick found a killer spot to park in front of the venue. Too bad a little red car was already there. Crunch! Luckily the damage to both vehicles was minimal, so Sanford and the woman we hit swapped insurance info and we went on our way.

The Viaduct was a posh old theater with high, vaulted ceilings and expansive stage in the middle of the room surrounded by seats on risers. It was to be the Satans' first "theater in the round" performance.

Our friends from Loraxx soon arrived bearing good news. The "Chicago Reader" alternative weekly had run a complimentary piece on us. Apparently, it's no easy feat to get the "Reader" to notice your show, much less praise you, so we thanked our lucky stars and blotted out bad memories of the wreck a few minutes earlier.

Todd Trainer of Shellac opened the show with his Brick Layer Cake project, a mesmerizing one-man show - just he and his guitar.

It was tough act to follow, but we managed to hold our own. It was one of those nights where everyone was telepathically connected and we chugged through a great set without even having to think. It also helped that there was a guy in the front row who was so into the show that he kept perfect time for the rhythm section with his footstomps and occasional hoots.

Loraxx closed out the show in fine form. We really can't recommend them highly enough. Imagine the Shellac rhythm section with Lydia Lunch (circa Teenage Jesus and the Jerks) providing the guitar and vocals. You really owe them a listen.

While we're dishing out complements, Myke, the promoter, also turned out to be a straight-up guy. He gets a special Boxcar thumbs-up for putting on and running a great show in an unconventional venue.

Oh yeah. We also sold plenty of T-shirts and CD's to friends both old and new.

We ended up staying with expatriate San Antonian Kim Aubichon (coincidentally, also a friend of Fred Friction's) at her bad-ass art gallery/flat, the Unit B Gallery. The next morning we treated her to a lovely brunch at a friendly hole-in-the-wall restaurant that was more like someone's dining room than a full-sized eatery. The show and the good treatment afterwards reminded us why Chicago is one of our favorite places to play. It's a big city, but people aren't too jaded not to show their support for good music. We can't wait to come back.
DAY 18/Nov. 17 (St. Paul, MN) * Christensen's Big V w/ Out Demon Out & Plate-O-Shrimp
Once again, it was great to share a stage with old friends - in this case, Out Demon Out (a new band with former members of Gnomes of Zurich and Janitor Joe). The Demons were damn good too, with their female vocalist, Martin, adding a sultry, Congo Norvell-ish twist.

We played a decent set, and it proved our best show so far for merchandise sales. Sharon, the club's sound tech remembered us from last year and took great care, even fixing Sanford's amp after he jumped into the crowd and ripped the jack out of it.

Headliners Plate-O-Shrimp were cool fellows, even if their name did remind us that John Wayne was a fag. They also made us a bit homesick with their version of the Butthole Surfers' "Mexican Caravan."

We stayed with Joe of Out Demon Out at his huge Victorian full of felines and Masonic secrets. Each of us had our own room, and we drifted to sleep hoping we'd be able to find our way out the next morning.
DAY 19/Nov. 18
We got up extra early with directions from Joe to a novelty store so we could replace the "Brap King," which had burst from excess usage. We bought two new cushions and were amazed to see a large self-inflating model. Who knew artificial fart-apparatus technology had come such a long way? Naturally, we purchased all three, affectionately dubbing the self-inflating one "Ripley."

Our next stop was a truckstop Denny's in Fargo, where we ate an overpriced breakfast to gear up for the 1,200-mile drive to Missoula, Mont.
After eating, Patrick excused himself to the bathroom and accidentally stopped up one of the two sit-down toilets. Ken then occupied the other one. Sanford watched with bemusement from a urinal as a lard-assed Teamster scurried into the bathroom, apparently holding back a torrent of butt piss. He tugging desperately at the locked door of Ken's stall before scrambling into the one Patrick had bombed out of commission. The Teamster belched, groaned and let loose into the toilet bowl already brimming with paper and poop. Poor sap.

We spent the next 12 hours in the van, motoring across desolate North Dakota/Montana countryside. In the late hours, the delirium ran so high that we occupied ourselves with Whoopee Cushion song contests. As our mental states deteriorated, we pulled over for a hotel in Miles City, Mont.

The clerk was a mental giant with the AC/DC logo tattooed on his forearm. Seeing Sanford's AC/DC keychain/bottle opener he asked, "Are they YOUR favorite band too?" To which Sanford responded: "Nope. It's just my sexual preference." Somehow, we don't think he quite got the joke.

Patrick walked to the truck stop/casino/bar next door to use the payphone, stepping over an unconscious woman laying in the outer flower bed outside. Not wanting to be outdone by the locals, we drank ourselves into oblivion in the hotel room.
DAY 20/Nov. 19 (Missoula, MT) * Jay's Upstairs w/ Captured! By Robots
Pulling into Missoula, we got bad news from our booking agent, Scott: our L.A and Phoenix gigs were canceled, meaning we'd basically be spending the two days after our Frisco show driving home. But the rest of the tour had gone strangely well, so our disappointment was short-lived - especially when Scott told us we'd be getting 40 percent of the door in Missoula, where Captured! By Robots were apparently a big favorite.

Jay's has the look of a frontier gold-rush saloon combined with a punk dive. The staff was friendly and the beer flowed freely. Not to mention, the girls were plentiful and quite often pretty. The gig was packed, sold out in fact. Multiple city codes were surely violated since the place was so clogged with humanity that it resembled a Cincinnati Who concert. A trip to the bar required a cattle prod or at least a good elbowing.
Not wanting to be upstaged by robots, we tore through our set like madmen. So frenzied was the performance, that by the middle of it, Sanford had managed to damage two of his guitars and Ken's set was in shambles. Our hefty take for the evening justified a stay at the gloriously decrepit Bel Aire Hotel, where we reveled into the wee hours.

Sanford awoke early the next morning to get emergency guitar repairs done. Upon examining himself in the mirror, his drooping eyes, puffy face and tousled hair made him think, "Holy shit, I look like I've been on a three-week bender." Then reality set in, and he realized he HAD been on a three-week bender.

The nice folks at ESP Music fixed both his guitars free of charge (it helped that the repair guy was a fellow Telecaster fan), and we blew out of town with our stomachs full of good-n-greasy diner fare. We drove the next 300 miles with the windows cracked.
DAY 21/Nov. 20 (Seattle, WA) * Zak's Saloon w/ Jimmy Flame and the Sexxy Boys
We arrived at Zak's expecting very little. Located directly under the Space Needle, the place seemed more of a divey sports bar than a music venue. Plus, the local support was a band called Jimmy Flame and the Sexxy Boys, which inspired little confidence in the quality of the bill. However, Brian the promoter, seemed to be a decent guy, and we felt a bit better after we saw the alt weekly, "The Stranger," had given us a positive write-up.

As the show got underway, we were pleased to see a group of bespectacled young men and rather wild black-haired girls standing in front who not only seemed to be digging our performance immensely but also appeared to know the songs. (We later found out they'd purchased our discs online.) Several other folks sprayed us with beer as we played, which we're told is a sign of appreciation at Zak's. One of the beer-sprayers later apologized for soaking our suits and told us we reminded her of Seattle's late lamented Bloodloss - definitely a compliment in our book.

Despite the goofy name, Jimmy Flame and his band turned out to be quite entertaining. Jimmy's a diminutive, mustachioed fellow who wrangled his guitar with drunken dexterity and spent a good deal of the set on his knees or back on the beer muddled floor while the band ripped through some basic but fun punk-n-roll.

After the show, we followed Sanford's chum Derek back to he and his wife Holly's suburban home. We made our way down I-5 through terrifyingly thick fog as Patrick quaffed from a full pitcher of beer heisted from the bar. We slept a few hours before rising early to make the excruciatingly long trek to our final show in San Francisco.

On the way out of Washington, we ate at a greasy spoon in a town called Bumwater (or something like that) and irritated the locals by setting off a chorus of artificial flatulence in the dining room with our Whoopie Cushions.
DAY 22/Nov. 21 (San Francisco, CA) * The Eagle Tavern w/ Gary Floyd's Bad Ride & Glamicide
As we pulled up to the Eagle for the final show of our journey, S.A.'s wayward son, Naked Rob, met us in his stuntman style by jumping onto our van as we attempted to park. Sanford nearly lost control of the wheel, thinking he'd accidentally run down a homeless man.

After a quick load-in we met promoter Doug, who made the drinks paint-strippingly strong and did his best to make our first show in a gay biker bar a comfortable experience. After talking to Doug, we found out that we were playing Gary Floyd's 50th birthday party - a special occasion to be sure, especially since a teenage Sanford had worshipped at the feet of Gary's old punk band, The Dicks. He was giddy with excitement to be on the bill with one of his heroes. Meanwhile, Patrick and Ken investigated the bathrooms, wondering why there were mirrors located directly over the urinals.

Glamicide, a glam rock tribute band, opened the show with a crunching version of T. Rex's "20th Century Boy" and followed it up with hits by 999, Bowie, and Alice Cooper. They delivered the goods in Frisco avant-queer splendor and had a damn cute bassist too - although we won't ask whether she's had the operation yet.

We hit the stage to a rowdy crowd already familiar with our songs, and a couple even attempted to ballroom dance during "Best be Gone." Sanford paid homage to Gary and The Dicks between songs, and we were forced to play an encore (a RARE occasion there, we were told). It turned out to be our best night for merchandise sales, hands down. Gary's Bad Ride wrapped up the night, playing Dicks and Sister Double Happiness selections and a great, heartfelt cover of the old tune "The Very Thing That Makes You Rich." We were floored when Gary yelled out, "How 'bout Boxcar Satan? San Antonio...That's the real shit!"

After several rounds of mixed drinks that were almost 80 percent liquor and lots of generosity from patrons on the bar's "smoker's patio," we were all toasty by the end of the night.

We headed to our old friend Otto's apartment and were joined by Malcolm, another ex-San Antonian (and the guy who recommended we play the Eagle). Malcolm, as usual, kept us in stitches. "Look at your ARMS! God, what are you? Lou fucking Ferrigno?" he said to Ken. At multiple times during the evening, he charmingly referred to Sanford as a "twat."
DAYS 23 & 24/Nov. 22-23
We got way too little sleep and rose battered, wondering how we'd acquired the many mystery bruises on our bodies. Otto took us on a brief San Fran walking tour, and we ate lunch at a cool and cheap order-at-the-counter Indo/Pakistani restaurant called Pakwan.

We'd planned to get an earlier start and hotel it in Phoenix, but departing Frisco at 4 p.m. didn't make that possible. At some point during the delirious drive that followed, we elected to cruise straight through to San Antonio - a 30-hour trek.

During that fever-dream of a drive, we witnessed a high-speed wreck and at one point had vaginal visions in the mountains of New Mexico. For most of the ride, we babbled incoherently, at some point developing an imaginary friend named Cy Hastings who apparently had trouble controlling his bowels when around members of the opposite sex.

We got back to town tired, aching and with the band fund surprisingly in the black. Even in our spent stupor, we were already plotting when we could do it again.

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