Sitting pretty on a big pile of chips. Unfortunately, they were potato chips. Had to mug some drunk bastard outside the casino to get bus fare out of this desert shithole. My guitar has a big dent in it now. Think I stepped on a rat.
Bus ride here was hell. It explains the devil-spawn I saw glaring at me every step of the Miracle Mile.
Nice architecture. Can’t eat bricks, though. Pocketed all the cough medicine I could find from this pharmacy in the south side. Still high as a kite now. Also, immune to the common cold. Played a set with a jazz quartet down at Whiskey Jacks. When I woke up, the club was a laundromat.
Fargo, North Dakota
Holy shit. Farmers. Stopped in a diner, heard some yokels with Scandinavian accents talk for an hour about tractors. Played guitar outside the diner for an hour until the proprietor paid me to stop. I like coconut cream pie.
Buffalo, New York
Ran into my old pal Charlie Tones. Stoned out of his skull on some Guatemalan skunk weed, but he still somehow managed to get me a gig at the Radio Hall. Gig paid enough to get me into a hostel and get me fed. Pork rib sandwich with mashed potatoes and something the waiter said was a salad but there’s just no fucking way. Charlie scored us some coke. I killed it onstage. Free drinks all night long.
Got fellated by some chick with stringy hair and watery eyes. Her name was Mack, I think.
How the fuck did I wind up in Canada? I think I remember riding a moose. People here are pretty cool. They all talk like they’re news anchors for PBS, though. Busked outside a subway exit for an hour and picked up some decent coin. Later, walked all the way up to the top of the CN Tower and threw up on a guy who worked there.
Am I from the future? One bar in this town. They never heard of live music. Fine. They still serve booze. Old millworkers who got tossed off the job back in the ’80s sip Budweiser in the back. Yuppies at the front avoiding their wives drink draft that’s probably Budweiser anyway. I kicked a dog by accident.
Hurricane season. Fuck me. Figured I’d come down here and play gigs on the beach, maybe get some shows in the clubs. Now I’m hunkered down with some Hispanic brood in a basement hoping we don’t die. Played my guitar to lighten the tension and Jesus punched me in the face. We have a box of graham crackers to feed all of us.
Hanging out in Old Town. It’s actually not too bad here. Green and old-timey. Found a cafe-bar that’s letting me play three nights. Not too many people come in, but it’s a place. Lyle Lauder lives here, works in a warehouse. Says he can get me some shift work if I want it.
Left hand’s all mashed up since the forklift accident. Swelling’s down though. I can still play. There’s a circus-midway show in town. Impressed some black teenagers when I belted out some Nine Inch Nails songs outside the Dunkin’ Donuts tent. They gave me five bucks. Saw a help wanted sign at a music store at the BOK Centre, which had some kind of Native American theme going on.
Screw that. I’ve got a bus ticket to Perdilla.