Ray and i went back to Newport 2 summers ago and ended up wandering around the remains of the Starlite Twin Drive In, which was already out of business when we moved from Rhode Island in 1999, but had been completely abandoned and reclaimed by the land when we made our 2002 visit. It was like the ruins of Cair Paravel: the backtop was overgrown, and trees grew out of what was left of the projection room/ snack bar. We walked along the back fence separating the drive in from Middletown Junior High School, and found scraps of the marquee and the original sign piled behind the skeleton of the smaller screen: amazing what a decade of neglect will do. Birds twittered from the overgrown debris.
I couldn't help but think of the Starlight Twin as I stood on land reclaimed by the water department in Mt. Shasta, california, which may be the one place I'd be willing to give up my car-free lifestyle to live in. The pavement was broken, covered with baby pines and wild roses. The mountains here are amazing: it's making me miss Western Massachusetts of all places. Mt. Shasta towers over it's namesake, and for about 5 miles up the highway, the moutain is the center of everything. It's November 13; last night I told a waitress we'd been on tour for a month and a half. "Brendan," Jack piped up, "It's only been three weeks."
Three weeks?? No, it's been at least a month. Not three weeks, please god, let it almost be over!
11/14
I still don't believe it, but I managed to blow my whole bank during the first 3 weeks of tour. Between withdrawals totalling about... well, yeah about $1000 (what the fuck did I spend that on??) and my bills, I fucking went through almost two grand! We're on our way through Southeastern Washington to idaho; we have to cut through Oregon to get to Boise. The Seattle show was great; people flying off the stage, bodies everywhere. Another day or so and we'll be well into the Rockies.
This mornign I woke up thinking about McGloops. His real name was dave McGloughlin; he'd transferred to Rogers High School from either hawaii or Florida and was supposed to be one hell of a surfer. We were freshmen. I don't know where the name "McGloops" came from, but he was one of the "cool kids". He was blond and shaggy haired, with a flat freckedled pancake of an Irish face.
One Friday night I was walking downtown when Carrie Richardson came staggering down Thames Street propping up McGloops who was babbling drunk. "Want some help?" I asked and slung Gloopsy's free arm over my shoulder. McGloops kept mumbling and sobbing. "Every-- everyone thinks I'm so cool and I'm a great s-s-s-surfer. But you know what?" He leaned into me and his glassy eyes couldn't focus as he slobbered, "I don't even know how to surf. I told 'em all I could surf and I was great and I don't even know what the fuck on a surfboard."
I must've been 13 or 14 then. That was the same summer all the Black Wensday shit went down, with the jocks, the black kids, and the punks, culminating in a riot in dontown Newport. [DAMN! we just passed a forest fire right on the side of the highway in Oregon! We're also running really late for the show in Boise: best case scenario, we get there right at 8:00 PM. we forgot to take into account the time zone change and left later than we'd expected. Speaking of shows, te band sounds really good these days.]
I want to get back to the time I first met Chris Steeves, but first I have to mention that we're crusing through the mountains in SE Oregaon, heading into Boise. It's beautiful out there, very wild. I should have been more insistent with Izzy last night about getting to Ellensburg last night, as there's no way we're making that Boise gig. Actually, who am i kidding? Izzy never listens to anyone anyway. it's also partially my fault for going back to sleep after showrring. Kay's pissed, and I guess i am too. It is Friday night, and we need to perform and sell merchandise. ont heother hand, it's not my band and it's not my problem. I'm just partof Izzy's rock-n-roll fantasy.
I couldn't help but think of the Starlight Twin as I stood on land reclaimed by the water department in Mt. Shasta, california, which may be the one place I'd be willing to give up my car-free lifestyle to live in. The pavement was broken, covered with baby pines and wild roses. The mountains here are amazing: it's making me miss Western Massachusetts of all places. Mt. Shasta towers over it's namesake, and for about 5 miles up the highway, the moutain is the center of everything. It's November 13; last night I told a waitress we'd been on tour for a month and a half. "Brendan," Jack piped up, "It's only been three weeks."
Three weeks?? No, it's been at least a month. Not three weeks, please god, let it almost be over!
11/14
I still don't believe it, but I managed to blow my whole bank during the first 3 weeks of tour. Between withdrawals totalling about... well, yeah about $1000 (what the fuck did I spend that on??) and my bills, I fucking went through almost two grand! We're on our way through Southeastern Washington to idaho; we have to cut through Oregon to get to Boise. The Seattle show was great; people flying off the stage, bodies everywhere. Another day or so and we'll be well into the Rockies.
This mornign I woke up thinking about McGloops. His real name was dave McGloughlin; he'd transferred to Rogers High School from either hawaii or Florida and was supposed to be one hell of a surfer. We were freshmen. I don't know where the name "McGloops" came from, but he was one of the "cool kids". He was blond and shaggy haired, with a flat freckedled pancake of an Irish face.
One Friday night I was walking downtown when Carrie Richardson came staggering down Thames Street propping up McGloops who was babbling drunk. "Want some help?" I asked and slung Gloopsy's free arm over my shoulder. McGloops kept mumbling and sobbing. "Every-- everyone thinks I'm so cool and I'm a great s-s-s-surfer. But you know what?" He leaned into me and his glassy eyes couldn't focus as he slobbered, "I don't even know how to surf. I told 'em all I could surf and I was great and I don't even know what the fuck on a surfboard."
I must've been 13 or 14 then. That was the same summer all the Black Wensday shit went down, with the jocks, the black kids, and the punks, culminating in a riot in dontown Newport. [DAMN! we just passed a forest fire right on the side of the highway in Oregon! We're also running really late for the show in Boise: best case scenario, we get there right at 8:00 PM. we forgot to take into account the time zone change and left later than we'd expected. Speaking of shows, te band sounds really good these days.]
I want to get back to the time I first met Chris Steeves, but first I have to mention that we're crusing through the mountains in SE Oregaon, heading into Boise. It's beautiful out there, very wild. I should have been more insistent with Izzy last night about getting to Ellensburg last night, as there's no way we're making that Boise gig. Actually, who am i kidding? Izzy never listens to anyone anyway. it's also partially my fault for going back to sleep after showrring. Kay's pissed, and I guess i am too. It is Friday night, and we need to perform and sell merchandise. ont heother hand, it's not my band and it's not my problem. I'm just partof Izzy's rock-n-roll fantasy.
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