Boston redux
Back in Beantown. I took the bus up here from Hartford this morning and then trained it out to Rockport, a town next to Gloucester about an hour away from Boston. Due to relatives in the area, I've spent a good bit of time there over the years and really enjoy it. It's not a particularly remarkable town; touristy in the summer, but never offensively so. Small beaches, small shops, historical markers (I noticed one today that identifies the first honkey settler in what was then called Sandy Beach in 1690). The best part of going there as a kid was staying at my grandmother's house, which is located on a narrow, dead-end lane within view of the ocean. What the house lacked in cleanliness it made up for in size and character. My grandmother died on February 15, 2004, while I was in New York City marching against the impending slaughter in Iraq. Not knowing what else to do with it, my family sold the house, so it's no longer part of the Seager Empire. I walked by it today just to take a peek, and it seems to be under good management. I spent some time with an aunt I rarely see and got treated to Thai food and was whisked back to the train station just in time to catch my ride inland.
Our New London show was a bust. Big stage, good sound, and we played well, but only about 10 people besides ourselves will ever know that. Apparently Municipal Waste, a popular thrash band from RVA was playing across town, and three of the five bands on our bill cancelled. A redeeming aspect was that the friend who set up the show bothered to show up at all - his co-homeowner and partner of eight years had left him the day before. But he was there, and took us back to his place in Hartford for food, drink, and music. AND drove me to the bus station this morning (after a nauseating 15 minutes during which I couldn't find my wallet and thought I had left it at the venue an hour away). I slept in an air-conditioned room on a comfortable makeshift bed that I believe is generally referred to in tender fraternity parlance as a flip-n-fuck, but I shared my sleeping quarters with an overpowering brand of cat litter that continued to cling to my clothes for part of the morning. Sorry Boston!
NYC was a lot of fun. Good show and good times hanging out with friends afterward. Ran into a college acquaintance the next day on the Lower East Side but had little to talk about. Speaking of college acquaintances, I'll be spending my day tomorrow at a wedding up here for a good friend from Bates. I'll pocket the part of me that would prefer to call weddings 50/50 parties and just enjoy myself with friends I don't see often. Special thanks to pal Rene for flying my suit up from Virginia so it didn't have to spend six weeks in a tour van. Pics of me in said suit on Mundane Arcana? I could be bribed with bottles of Honest Tea. Until then...
POSTSCRIPT: I realized I haven't written about a significant tour experience involving a small Canadian town, our van, a ditch, and a tow truck. So here goes. While slowly making our way down to the Vermont border from Quebec, our roadie Matt started to puke (in a bag this time). Matt had spent the better part of our three days up north getting wrecked, aided and abetted by a special Canadian beverage called the Big 10: a 20 proof 40. So I'm driving the van, taking us through a small town called Granby, and am urged by my fellow travellers to pull over hastily so that Matt could empty his stomach in a more natural setting. I pulled off a narrow two-lane road onto a narrow shoulder with high grass that hid a deceptively steep ditch. We didn't tip over, but we got stuck at a disturbingly acute angle. Exhibit A:
Now, at this point, there are seven of us in the van--the band, Matt the puking roadie, other Matt from upstate NY, and a guy named Tom from Baltimore my bandmates knew who we picked up in Montreal. Part of the fun for you at home is picturing us all milling around the van in the Canadian countryside with cars driving by. Included in the group were a six-inch mohawk, multiple dread mullets, and a dude who looks like the Crow. A cop showed up presently, called us a tow truck, and 15 minutes and $57 Canadian later, we were back on our way. (The cop took a picture of us all with the Leaning Van of Granby, but it's on someone else's camera.) Apparently Granby is known for it's zoo; I'll always remember it for it's shitty shoulders.
POST-POSTSCRIPT: While I'm remembering anecdotes I left out, I know a few of you will get a kick out of the fact that I *unconsciously* began humming the opening rhythm of "Firestorm" while driving through Weed, California. I swear.
POST-POST-POSTSCRIPT: The venue for our DC show fell through, and one of my bandmates has to attend a funeral that night anyway, so your only chance to see us will be at the Sidebar in Baltimore on Monday. It would be cool to see folks there, but I'll see you all in the D of C soon enough.
Our New London show was a bust. Big stage, good sound, and we played well, but only about 10 people besides ourselves will ever know that. Apparently Municipal Waste, a popular thrash band from RVA was playing across town, and three of the five bands on our bill cancelled. A redeeming aspect was that the friend who set up the show bothered to show up at all - his co-homeowner and partner of eight years had left him the day before. But he was there, and took us back to his place in Hartford for food, drink, and music. AND drove me to the bus station this morning (after a nauseating 15 minutes during which I couldn't find my wallet and thought I had left it at the venue an hour away). I slept in an air-conditioned room on a comfortable makeshift bed that I believe is generally referred to in tender fraternity parlance as a flip-n-fuck, but I shared my sleeping quarters with an overpowering brand of cat litter that continued to cling to my clothes for part of the morning. Sorry Boston!
NYC was a lot of fun. Good show and good times hanging out with friends afterward. Ran into a college acquaintance the next day on the Lower East Side but had little to talk about. Speaking of college acquaintances, I'll be spending my day tomorrow at a wedding up here for a good friend from Bates. I'll pocket the part of me that would prefer to call weddings 50/50 parties and just enjoy myself with friends I don't see often. Special thanks to pal Rene for flying my suit up from Virginia so it didn't have to spend six weeks in a tour van. Pics of me in said suit on Mundane Arcana? I could be bribed with bottles of Honest Tea. Until then...
POSTSCRIPT: I realized I haven't written about a significant tour experience involving a small Canadian town, our van, a ditch, and a tow truck. So here goes. While slowly making our way down to the Vermont border from Quebec, our roadie Matt started to puke (in a bag this time). Matt had spent the better part of our three days up north getting wrecked, aided and abetted by a special Canadian beverage called the Big 10: a 20 proof 40. So I'm driving the van, taking us through a small town called Granby, and am urged by my fellow travellers to pull over hastily so that Matt could empty his stomach in a more natural setting. I pulled off a narrow two-lane road onto a narrow shoulder with high grass that hid a deceptively steep ditch. We didn't tip over, but we got stuck at a disturbingly acute angle. Exhibit A:
Now, at this point, there are seven of us in the van--the band, Matt the puking roadie, other Matt from upstate NY, and a guy named Tom from Baltimore my bandmates knew who we picked up in Montreal. Part of the fun for you at home is picturing us all milling around the van in the Canadian countryside with cars driving by. Included in the group were a six-inch mohawk, multiple dread mullets, and a dude who looks like the Crow. A cop showed up presently, called us a tow truck, and 15 minutes and $57 Canadian later, we were back on our way. (The cop took a picture of us all with the Leaning Van of Granby, but it's on someone else's camera.) Apparently Granby is known for it's zoo; I'll always remember it for it's shitty shoulders.
POST-POSTSCRIPT: While I'm remembering anecdotes I left out, I know a few of you will get a kick out of the fact that I *unconsciously* began humming the opening rhythm of "Firestorm" while driving through Weed, California. I swear.
POST-POST-POSTSCRIPT: The venue for our DC show fell through, and one of my bandmates has to attend a funeral that night anyway, so your only chance to see us will be at the Sidebar in Baltimore on Monday. It would be cool to see folks there, but I'll see you all in the D of C soon enough.
1 Comments:
Ah yes, the Granby Zoo... where many a childhood memory is made...
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