Today is the last day of my four-day run at John Ascuaga's Nugget here in Sparks. And I've come to a bit of a revelation while I've been here. In simple terms, everything I do, everything I say - in the end, it's all bullshit.
I just haven't been in that good a mood since I got here. I can mask my feelings somewhat when I'm around the guys, when I'm around my friends, but I can't hide from myself. So I dive into myself, search for the source of my moodiness, and do what I can to excise the proverbial tumor before it metastasizes and becomes something much worse. And that exercise is usually good enough to bring me back around. And I know what it was that set me off. That said, I shouldn't really use a cancer analogy to describe my feelings when the source of my angst is the death of a friend of mine from cancer. Well, he wasn't a really close friend, he was more of a professional acquaintance. But he was a damn good drummer here in Reno, and among the first people I met when I first started. He was a real character, but then again he was a professional musician - that pretty much made him a character by extension. I knew that he'd been sick for some time, but I'd noticed that a lot of friends of mine were posting pictures of him on their Facebook pages when I checked my phone. I called Joy, and asked her to check Facebook when she was able to to figure out what was going on. She called me and confirmed that my friend had passed away while I was at a rest area just outside Susanville. Even though we weren't particularly close, I had to just sit in my car at the rest area and cry a little. While I know that there were a lot of people who'd lost much, much more than I did, the circuit dogs here in Reno are a closely-knit group, and drummers even more so. The loss to our community is hitting us hard. But we'll celebrate our lost brother and move on with him in our hearts for all time.
Rest in peace, Gary. I wish I'd gotten to know you better.
And now on to the more mundane elements of my life's work.
I think my right foot is cursed. In the last year or so, I've probably blown up five kick-drum triggers. Some through my own clumsiness - like when I ripped the trigger's cord out of the sensor itself while tearing down - while the last trigger literally exploded at my feet during our last Friday night at the Fandango. Joy and I decided that I need to move up to a sturdier trigger after that night, so I purchased a ddrum Red Shot trigger the next day. However, in my haste to purchase, I didn't really read the instructions all that well, and found that I needed a slightly longer lug screw to properly attach the trigger to the rim of my bass drum. I wound up having to secure to trigger to the rim with duct tape, but it worked. For all of ten hours. This most recent Friday night, here at the Nugget, I noticed that the trigger wasn't working just as we were taking the stage. With no time to effect repairs, I played the first set without a kick drum. Then I spent the following break switching out cords, hoping that it was a bad connection. No luck. I removed the trigger from the rim and examined it closely, and found that the trigger's ground wire had come undone - broken off cleanly from the point where it had been originally soldered into place. I was able to field-repair it somewhat, stripping away the wire's cover and shoving the bare wire back into place, and securing it with more duct tape before taping the trigger back into place. But the trigger was mortally wounded, and was only registering about half the hits it received.
Saturday saw me going back and forth between Guitar Center (where the trigger was returned and replaced at no expense and with no questions asked - thank you Joy, for badgering me into spending the extra five bucks for an extended-protection plan), and Bizarre Guitar, where their drum tech was able to find me the lug screw I needed to mount the trigger properly. And last night was the first night that my kick drum sounded right in weeks.
But I was still grumpy, and still grieving a bit. And in a plot twist right out of the Twilight Zone, the guy who had been posting status updates for Gary during the last few months for him was playing on the other side of the casino in the Trader Dick's lounge with his acoustic combo. We talked for a while, traded remembrances and war stories, and shared our grief at the loss of a friend and colleague.
Now if only I hadn't taken out my grumpiness on Joy later that night when she called. She didn't deserve for me to lash out at her. I think I owe her a bouquet of flowers or something because I was being a shithead unnecessarily. I should be happy that I have a wife who puts up with me being gone for so long, when I really should be at home to take care of her. I should be happy that I have a band that puts up with my weirdness. I should be happy that I have friends that like me for who I am, for family that accepts me for who I am. It could all be taken away from my at any minute, and one day it will be. I should be happy for what I have.
Thank you Gary, for helping me to appreciate what I have. Rest in peace, brother. We'll all miss you.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Local Anesthetic
I only have a few days in town between the last set of gigs and the next - ten days, to be exact - so when I'm at home for a short period of time like that, I really don't want to do much of anything, or go anywhere unless it's an absolute necessity. But a few hours ago, Joy and I went to go see an old friend of mine playing in his band here in town. I kinda wish I hadn't gone.
Y'see, the band just wasn't all that good, and I could lay damn near all of the fault at the feet of the drummer. He just wasn't that good, and on top of playing and singing, he was also constantly fiddling with the PA's mixer with his left hand while trying to keep the beat going with his right. The end result was a total lack of cohesion. My old friend is a damn good guitarist, but his guitar was nowhere near loud enough. And it took Joy and I telling him on a break to get their lead singer sounding halfway decent.
All this got me to thinking about Dirty Joe. Ron and John knew exactly when I was going to be back in town, but they've yet to make any sort of contact with me. I know, I'm the bandleader, I should be calling them. But I don't really want to call them. I've known full well that this band has been in a death spiral for months. Roger is gone - just gone. Nobody knows where he is. I guess I'll be reading his obituary soon enough. Ron is dealing with his chemotherapy, and I already know I'll be reading his obituary soon enough. John is just trying to stay above water while being a single father. And while the new (to me, old to them) singer they've presented sounded like he had an idea what to do, Joy wasn't impressed with him. But everything's moot when nobody is communicating. And that is partly my fault, I will admit that to you, dear reader. But I've gotten to the point where I just don't give a damn about playing in a local band.
I mean, I've had plenty of work so far this year. The first significant time off I'll have all year from Steppen Stonz isn't until April, when Cliff has to go in for surgery to install a cardiac defibrillator. And the gaps in our schedule that are further out are being closed down in a hurry. I don't really know if I have time to work a side project any more. And even if I did, after the experience I've had with Dirty Joe, I don't really know if I want to lead a band any more, regardless of its importance to me. After this, I think I would just be too demanding of the musicians I would hire. Too controlling. And since I, like most people, just hate having someone tell me what to do, so why would I inflict myself on someone else?
Oh well. At least I get to get back on the road again here in a few days, and can unburden myself of those kind of issues for a while.
Y'see, the band just wasn't all that good, and I could lay damn near all of the fault at the feet of the drummer. He just wasn't that good, and on top of playing and singing, he was also constantly fiddling with the PA's mixer with his left hand while trying to keep the beat going with his right. The end result was a total lack of cohesion. My old friend is a damn good guitarist, but his guitar was nowhere near loud enough. And it took Joy and I telling him on a break to get their lead singer sounding halfway decent.
All this got me to thinking about Dirty Joe. Ron and John knew exactly when I was going to be back in town, but they've yet to make any sort of contact with me. I know, I'm the bandleader, I should be calling them. But I don't really want to call them. I've known full well that this band has been in a death spiral for months. Roger is gone - just gone. Nobody knows where he is. I guess I'll be reading his obituary soon enough. Ron is dealing with his chemotherapy, and I already know I'll be reading his obituary soon enough. John is just trying to stay above water while being a single father. And while the new (to me, old to them) singer they've presented sounded like he had an idea what to do, Joy wasn't impressed with him. But everything's moot when nobody is communicating. And that is partly my fault, I will admit that to you, dear reader. But I've gotten to the point where I just don't give a damn about playing in a local band.
I mean, I've had plenty of work so far this year. The first significant time off I'll have all year from Steppen Stonz isn't until April, when Cliff has to go in for surgery to install a cardiac defibrillator. And the gaps in our schedule that are further out are being closed down in a hurry. I don't really know if I have time to work a side project any more. And even if I did, after the experience I've had with Dirty Joe, I don't really know if I want to lead a band any more, regardless of its importance to me. After this, I think I would just be too demanding of the musicians I would hire. Too controlling. And since I, like most people, just hate having someone tell me what to do, so why would I inflict myself on someone else?
Oh well. At least I get to get back on the road again here in a few days, and can unburden myself of those kind of issues for a while.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Q: How Do You Turn A Bro-Feast Into A Dinner Date?
A: Bronchitis.
When last I left off, I was all aflutter about going to see two of my favorite metal bands playing a show at the Knitting Factory in Reno with my buddy Jeremy. We have a system, you see. If I happen to be in town when a good show is going on, and I happen to have that night free, He buys the tickets for the show, then I drive up to his place in Carson City and pick him up, and buy dinner before the show. The last time this happened was about twenty months ago, when we went to the Knit to see Fear Factory. This show was also notable because I found out that one of the girls who works out at the Bunny Ranch was a major fan of Jeremy's band, because she accompanied the band's singer to the show.
That anecdote aside, Joy and I were playing with the grandbabies last Friday when Jeremy called up with bad news. He was sick as a dog, and wasn't going to make the show. I braced myself for the bad vibe of not being able to go to the show, but heard something I just didn't expect to hear:
"Come up to Carson and get the tickets, and take Joy to the show."
Totally gobsmacked, I was. I offered to buy the tickets, and all I got in return was a request to buy a shirt for him. He didn't want to disappoint me because he had the crud.
He is just the best friend a metal dude can have.
So Joy and I went up to Carson and got the tickets, then headed back to Reno for dinner and a show. The dinner was at the Damonte Ranch location of Genghis Grill, a Mongolian stir-fry place that we'd discovered earlier in the week. While the meal itself was excellent, the best part came after the meal was done, when I'd found out that the restaurant's rewards card that I'd applied for during the previous visit rewarded me with a free meal for my birthday - even though I'd applied for the card after my birthday!
We got to the Knit with about 45 minutes to spare before the doors opened. Joy was nervous that we wouldn't be able to get a place for her to sit in the hall's balcony bar, but said accommodations were never in doubt, as we were able to get into the building before anyone else due to Joy being on her crutches. And while there were no tables or chairs close to the balcony's railing, a few polite inquiries with the Knit's security allowed us to pull a chair up to the rail for her. And after a quick trip downstairs for the shirt, I was able to talk to a few friends of ours from the concert scene (Hi, Wheezer!) before the show got underway.
Local bands first, as usual. Envirusment was pretty cool, although I'm pretty sure that I could've done a better job with their material than their drummer did. Next up was Sinister Scene, and I could've done without them. Wearing argyle socks onstage is only cool if you're the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And I noticed that the crowd wasn't all that thrilled with them, either - a lot of people spent their set with their backs turned to the stage. I found it hilarious that the only moshing going on during the local band's sets were from a couple of teenage girls, quite possibly girlfriends of the bands.
Thankfully, the mood changed when Prong hit the stage. This was the third time in less than two years that I've seen them, and they've yet to let me down. Tommy Victor (guitar, lead vocals), Tony Campos (bass, backing vocals), and Alexei Rodriguez (drums) were clearly having fun onstage, and even a minor flub from Rodriguez on "Beg To Differ" was quickly passed over. Prong has a new album coming out in April, and while they played a song from that album, it was damn near the same set I'd heard from them twice before. Not that I had any complaints - they played all the songs everyone wanted to hear, and the crowd was happy to hear them.
Then Testament hit the stage, and the place went genuinely nuts. This was a band that had spent a fair chunk of the last decade and change on the ropes, as tastes changed, and key members of the band had gone their separate ways, most notably guitarist Alex Skolnick's desire to give up metal for smooth jazz (AUTHOR'S NOTE: the Alex Skolnick Trio is actually pretty damn good - check it out). And things didn't improve when singer Chuck Billy was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. But his diagnosis and subsequent recovery from that cancer was the tipping point in getting the band's classic lineup (Billy, Skolnick, guitarist and founding member Eric Peterson, bassist Greg Christian, and drummer Louie Clemente) back together. And four of those five took the stage last night, with Clemente preferring his post-Testament career of selling modern and antique furniture. Until recently, the drum chair had been taken by longtime Bay Area thrash-drumming icon Paul Bostaph, though an injury left him unable for the recording sessions for Testament's upcoming album. Which leads me to another question-and-answer for you:
Q: How does a metal band show its displeasure with their drummer?
A: Three words: GENE FUCKING HOGLAN.
Testament brought in the legendary "Atomic Clock" for the studio work, quietly announced Bostaph's departure from the group, and got Hoglan to agree to tour with them for the time being. And a weird tour it's been for them. They recently finished a run of co-headlining dates with Anthrax that was marked with three members of Anthrax having to take several shows off due to either illness (rhythm guitarist Scott Ian missed a show due to an emergency hospitalization), or family emergency (drummer Charlie Benante's mother - who is also bassist Frank Bello's grandmother - passed away during the tour). During these absences, members of Testament and opening band Death Angel filled in for the missing members, creating a de facto thrash supergroup that thankfully lots of YouTube videos chronicled.
Now headlining on their own, Testament came out like a house on fire. Of all the bands of their genre, Testament changed the least - no new haircuts, no weird collaborations, nada - and thusly, of all the bands of their genre, they still look pretty much like they did back when I was still in high school. And having Gene Hoglan along for the ride brought out some amazing stuff. While this isn't Gene's first go-round with Testament (he'd played the drums for them on one previous album, and briefly toured for that album), the comparatively slower tempos of Testament allowed Gene to really breathe some new life into their classic songs. And the crowd completed the picture of old-school vitality with massive circle-pits, lots of crowd surfing, and even a few stage divers - though one poor attempt to clear the two-foot gap from the subwoofers that formed the front of the stage to the security fence brought a good-natured teasing from Billy on the diver's lack of skill and athleticism.
The overall vibe of the show was just awesome, so much positivity and love for a band, and the band sending that vibe right back, that the buzz from the show was more than in just my ears. I could genuinely say that I had a great time, and so did Joy.
But now it's back to work soon. I'll have to call Mikey here in the next day or so to find out when we'll get together to set up at the Fandango in Carson City this coming weekend. Two nights later, this particular swing will be over, and while its' been fun, I'll be glad to get home for a breather - even if it's only for ten days.
When last I left off, I was all aflutter about going to see two of my favorite metal bands playing a show at the Knitting Factory in Reno with my buddy Jeremy. We have a system, you see. If I happen to be in town when a good show is going on, and I happen to have that night free, He buys the tickets for the show, then I drive up to his place in Carson City and pick him up, and buy dinner before the show. The last time this happened was about twenty months ago, when we went to the Knit to see Fear Factory. This show was also notable because I found out that one of the girls who works out at the Bunny Ranch was a major fan of Jeremy's band, because she accompanied the band's singer to the show.
That anecdote aside, Joy and I were playing with the grandbabies last Friday when Jeremy called up with bad news. He was sick as a dog, and wasn't going to make the show. I braced myself for the bad vibe of not being able to go to the show, but heard something I just didn't expect to hear:
"Come up to Carson and get the tickets, and take Joy to the show."
Totally gobsmacked, I was. I offered to buy the tickets, and all I got in return was a request to buy a shirt for him. He didn't want to disappoint me because he had the crud.
He is just the best friend a metal dude can have.
So Joy and I went up to Carson and got the tickets, then headed back to Reno for dinner and a show. The dinner was at the Damonte Ranch location of Genghis Grill, a Mongolian stir-fry place that we'd discovered earlier in the week. While the meal itself was excellent, the best part came after the meal was done, when I'd found out that the restaurant's rewards card that I'd applied for during the previous visit rewarded me with a free meal for my birthday - even though I'd applied for the card after my birthday!
We got to the Knit with about 45 minutes to spare before the doors opened. Joy was nervous that we wouldn't be able to get a place for her to sit in the hall's balcony bar, but said accommodations were never in doubt, as we were able to get into the building before anyone else due to Joy being on her crutches. And while there were no tables or chairs close to the balcony's railing, a few polite inquiries with the Knit's security allowed us to pull a chair up to the rail for her. And after a quick trip downstairs for the shirt, I was able to talk to a few friends of ours from the concert scene (Hi, Wheezer!) before the show got underway.
Local bands first, as usual. Envirusment was pretty cool, although I'm pretty sure that I could've done a better job with their material than their drummer did. Next up was Sinister Scene, and I could've done without them. Wearing argyle socks onstage is only cool if you're the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And I noticed that the crowd wasn't all that thrilled with them, either - a lot of people spent their set with their backs turned to the stage. I found it hilarious that the only moshing going on during the local band's sets were from a couple of teenage girls, quite possibly girlfriends of the bands.
Thankfully, the mood changed when Prong hit the stage. This was the third time in less than two years that I've seen them, and they've yet to let me down. Tommy Victor (guitar, lead vocals), Tony Campos (bass, backing vocals), and Alexei Rodriguez (drums) were clearly having fun onstage, and even a minor flub from Rodriguez on "Beg To Differ" was quickly passed over. Prong has a new album coming out in April, and while they played a song from that album, it was damn near the same set I'd heard from them twice before. Not that I had any complaints - they played all the songs everyone wanted to hear, and the crowd was happy to hear them.
Then Testament hit the stage, and the place went genuinely nuts. This was a band that had spent a fair chunk of the last decade and change on the ropes, as tastes changed, and key members of the band had gone their separate ways, most notably guitarist Alex Skolnick's desire to give up metal for smooth jazz (AUTHOR'S NOTE: the Alex Skolnick Trio is actually pretty damn good - check it out). And things didn't improve when singer Chuck Billy was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. But his diagnosis and subsequent recovery from that cancer was the tipping point in getting the band's classic lineup (Billy, Skolnick, guitarist and founding member Eric Peterson, bassist Greg Christian, and drummer Louie Clemente) back together. And four of those five took the stage last night, with Clemente preferring his post-Testament career of selling modern and antique furniture. Until recently, the drum chair had been taken by longtime Bay Area thrash-drumming icon Paul Bostaph, though an injury left him unable for the recording sessions for Testament's upcoming album. Which leads me to another question-and-answer for you:
Q: How does a metal band show its displeasure with their drummer?
A: Three words: GENE FUCKING HOGLAN.
Testament brought in the legendary "Atomic Clock" for the studio work, quietly announced Bostaph's departure from the group, and got Hoglan to agree to tour with them for the time being. And a weird tour it's been for them. They recently finished a run of co-headlining dates with Anthrax that was marked with three members of Anthrax having to take several shows off due to either illness (rhythm guitarist Scott Ian missed a show due to an emergency hospitalization), or family emergency (drummer Charlie Benante's mother - who is also bassist Frank Bello's grandmother - passed away during the tour). During these absences, members of Testament and opening band Death Angel filled in for the missing members, creating a de facto thrash supergroup that thankfully lots of YouTube videos chronicled.
Now headlining on their own, Testament came out like a house on fire. Of all the bands of their genre, Testament changed the least - no new haircuts, no weird collaborations, nada - and thusly, of all the bands of their genre, they still look pretty much like they did back when I was still in high school. And having Gene Hoglan along for the ride brought out some amazing stuff. While this isn't Gene's first go-round with Testament (he'd played the drums for them on one previous album, and briefly toured for that album), the comparatively slower tempos of Testament allowed Gene to really breathe some new life into their classic songs. And the crowd completed the picture of old-school vitality with massive circle-pits, lots of crowd surfing, and even a few stage divers - though one poor attempt to clear the two-foot gap from the subwoofers that formed the front of the stage to the security fence brought a good-natured teasing from Billy on the diver's lack of skill and athleticism.
The overall vibe of the show was just awesome, so much positivity and love for a band, and the band sending that vibe right back, that the buzz from the show was more than in just my ears. I could genuinely say that I had a great time, and so did Joy.
But now it's back to work soon. I'll have to call Mikey here in the next day or so to find out when we'll get together to set up at the Fandango in Carson City this coming weekend. Two nights later, this particular swing will be over, and while its' been fun, I'll be glad to get home for a breather - even if it's only for ten days.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Scents And Sensibility
A few hours ago, as Joy and I were deciding where to eat at the Carson Station, and old friend of the band's crossed our path. She embraced us both, and we chatted for a few minutes. But after she left, we were left with the remains of her perfume. Not like it was bad or anything, but it was heavy and cloying, and even now as I'm typing this - almost seven hours later - her perfume is everywhere, to the point where I really want to take a shower. And something hit me, something I'd never really paid attention to before.
If you know Joy and I, you know that she has her allergies. Lots of them, and some of them quite severe. One of which is to alcohol, specifically the type that's used in perfume - I think it's isopropyl. I've never complained about it. Personally, I've never had much interest in colognes or aftershaves myself. And it hit me right then and there, that none of our really close friends here in Nevada wear colognes or perfumes, either. As close as it gets for us is Mikey, and I kid him mercilessly about what I call 'man-whore juice'. Then he corrects me, and calls it 'man-slut juice'.
So I got to wondering as our friend left but her scent did not - have I chosen my friends by scent, or more exactly, lack thereof? I don't really know for sure. Part of the reason I never had an interest in 'stinky stuff' was the fact that I had no social life whatsoever growing up. Nothing, nada, bupkis. That lack of social interaction at that time in my life is something that still haunts to me to this day, though at the same time I likely wouldn't be here if not for it, because had I been part of that cool crowd, I might have spent more time drinking, smoking, etc., instead of focusing on music. So maybe being a loner in school wasn't such a bad thing after all.
But now it's time for bed. One more night here at the Station, then it's a two-week stint in the old pop-up trailer in Sun Valley, waiting for a gig at the Fandango in Carson. I look forward to resting when I can, playing with the grandbabies when I can, and playing a lot of Fable 3. Oh, and then there's the concert my homey Jeremy and I are going to next Saturday - the mighty Testament, playing at the Knitting Factory in Reno. And before that.....
BRO-FEAST!!!!
If you know Joy and I, you know that she has her allergies. Lots of them, and some of them quite severe. One of which is to alcohol, specifically the type that's used in perfume - I think it's isopropyl. I've never complained about it. Personally, I've never had much interest in colognes or aftershaves myself. And it hit me right then and there, that none of our really close friends here in Nevada wear colognes or perfumes, either. As close as it gets for us is Mikey, and I kid him mercilessly about what I call 'man-whore juice'. Then he corrects me, and calls it 'man-slut juice'.
So I got to wondering as our friend left but her scent did not - have I chosen my friends by scent, or more exactly, lack thereof? I don't really know for sure. Part of the reason I never had an interest in 'stinky stuff' was the fact that I had no social life whatsoever growing up. Nothing, nada, bupkis. That lack of social interaction at that time in my life is something that still haunts to me to this day, though at the same time I likely wouldn't be here if not for it, because had I been part of that cool crowd, I might have spent more time drinking, smoking, etc., instead of focusing on music. So maybe being a loner in school wasn't such a bad thing after all.
But now it's time for bed. One more night here at the Station, then it's a two-week stint in the old pop-up trailer in Sun Valley, waiting for a gig at the Fandango in Carson. I look forward to resting when I can, playing with the grandbabies when I can, and playing a lot of Fable 3. Oh, and then there's the concert my homey Jeremy and I are going to next Saturday - the mighty Testament, playing at the Knitting Factory in Reno. And before that.....
BRO-FEAST!!!!
Monday, January 30, 2012
Duran Ad Infinitum
Well, another week on the road has come and gone, and each week, each gig, is its own little universe of idiosyncrasies and oddities. Otherwise, why else would I tell you about them?
I'm pretty sure that this current trip is the longest one I've been on since the six-week run that included those two miserable weeks in Shreveport. A week here at John Ascuaga's Nugget, Two weeks at Carson Station, followed by a week off, then a weekender at Casino Fandango. And this trip's doldrums are beaten back by Joy's warm embrace, though seeing to her needs adds a whole new level of difficulty to the trip, albeit one I'm used to now. My birthday falls during this run, as does that of our eldest grandchild Cody, and Joy would not be denied the opportunity to be there for both birthdays.
So we left a day early on this trip, Tuesday afternoon. Our first stop along the way was in Browns Point, where my old bandleader Calvin waited anxiously. When I told him that I was heading south, he tasked me with an errand. Y'see, liquor is a lot cheaper in Nevada than it is in Washington, so he staked me with some money to buy him some booze. A lot of booze. About $250 worth of Bacardi rum and the cheapest vodka I can find, to be precise. To be totally honest, I needed the money. I only had about $90 to my name, and that wasn't enough for my gas expenses, so Calvin's grubstake came at just about the most opportune of moments. From there we headed south to Olympia for some excellent teriyaki.
Night was falling as we entered Vancouver, looking for a place to crash for the night. My Uncle Skip and Aunt Suzi live there, and although we had an open invitation to stay there whenever we needed, I wasn't able to get a hold of them, so I fell on plan B. I knew of a motel alongside I-5 that advertised rooms for as little as $21 a night, but their night-clerk told me those rooms were unavailable. I wound up paying just over $50 for a tiny room with the luxury(!) of a private bathroom. If that was a 'luxury', we really had no desire to find out just what those $21 rooms were like. And did I mention that it was raining buckets, cats, dogs, and other small mammals that night? I got passed on I-5 by an ark near Castle Rock. In so many words, we were soaked, our things were soaked, and we just shut our mouths and took the room. Here's the review from the Musicians Boycott! Travel Service – if you're in Vancouver, WA and have the options of sleeping in your car and the Value Motel, recline the driver's seat, homey – you'll sleep better. That said, the night-clerk was a nice lady, and we'll probably be seeing her next week at the Carson Station, as she's taking a week's vacation to visit her mother in the Reno area, and would love to see me play.
Ironic, no?
Wednesday morning rose clear and calm, and we broke fast on a combination of Sausage McMuffins and Bacon Maple Bars from Portland's rightly famous Voodoo Doughnut (another reason why I love Portland – despite the Timbers!), and we were on our way south and east. The heavy snows that had hit the Oregon Cascades had been tamed by the Oregon Department of Transportation, and climbing Willamette Pass was a piece of cake, and we scarcely saw snow after that. I slaked Joy's craving for Taco Time's Crispy Beef Burritos in Klamath Falls, then made the remainder of the trip as uneventful as possible as we pulled into Sparks.
And did I mention that Steppen Stonz were going to have company onstage this weekend? Well, it just so happens that a major convention was going on in the Nugget's convention-center space, and the convention had booked a band for that Thursday night, a Duran Duran tribute band called (wait for it) Duran Duran Duran. My sources have told me that they were invited to play a few sets in the cabaret on Saturday night in addition to the corporate gig. Fortunately for all parties involved, I knew of this a week in advance, as the Nugget's best soundman had called me while I was still in Port Angeles to ask me if D3's drummer could borrow my drums for that night. I told him that I had no problem with it, that I was glad that he'd called me in advance to let me know this, and just how the fuck did he have my phone number, anyway? (Mikey gave it to him). J.R. (that badass soundman who looks a little like Stephen King, just better looking) gave me their drummer's phone number, but he never did answer the message I left him. This didn't bother me much, because it said two things to me – that he'd probably use his own gear in the end, and that I still had time to get a hold of him up until the night of their show in the cabaret if he didn't.
Joy and I wound up meeting D3's singers (Brey and Noelle) on Friday afternoon at the Nugget's pool. Brey's totally 80's frosted hairstyle was a dead giveaway – to be honest, he reminded me of my old marching band chum Zach Barnhart to an almost alarming degree – but he and Noelle were as nice as could be. They'd actually come down to the cabaret the night before to see the tail end of our set after they'd finished their gig upstairs, and were quite impressed with our show. We talked shop for a while, then I let them go enjoy the pool by themselves – I know full well how much a musician appreciates his space, and while talking shop is always fun, sometimes you just want to be left alone.
Our shows on Thursday and Friday were uneventful enough, and we came to the decision that I'd just push the riser my drums were on back out of the way to give D3 enough space to set up their gear. Their show turned out to be really fucking good, despite the vocal mix being kind of muddy. Good thing I knew the words to damn near every song they played. I've always kept a place in my heart for Duran Duran – they were pretty much the last band I was into before I discovered metal – and D3 didn't mess around much with the songs that everyone knew. They also threw in some other 80's chestnuts, like David Bowie's “Let's Dance” and “One Thing Leads To Another” by The Fixx, and I just loved the fuck out of that. And I found the rest of the band to be really nice guys, though I did have to give their drummer just a tiny amount of shit for never calling me back. I'm sure that by the time you read this, you can go to D3's website (which is actually just a link to their Facebook page) and find pictures of the two bands together. The remainder of the night went without incident, and Sunday was actually pretty good, despite playing to a nearly empty cabaret.
I've actually walked away from this gig feeling pretty damn good. I figured out something I should've done a long time ago. Y'see, while I'm playing, I can barely hear my drums – the sounds my Simmons Hybrid drum module creates, that is – over the rest of the band. And to think, the answer had been staring me in the face ever since I'd started to trigger my drums. What I did was to use the Hybrid's unused right-channel output (the left-channel output is the mono output, and that goes to Cliff's mixing board) as a monitor channel, and plugged that into the small mixer I use as a monitor mixer for the headphones I wear onstage. It actually took me a minute to get used to be able to hear my drums clearly for the first time in a couple of years. And it was good.
And with our contract with the Nugget allowing us an extra day's stay in the hotel, I can pack up my gear at a leisurely rate today, then do laundry and pack up our household things before making our way up to Carson City on Tuesday. All my friends at the Station are looking forward to seeing Joy, and I'm looking forward to actually being able to unpack, and stay unpacked for a couple of weeks.
I'm pretty sure that this current trip is the longest one I've been on since the six-week run that included those two miserable weeks in Shreveport. A week here at John Ascuaga's Nugget, Two weeks at Carson Station, followed by a week off, then a weekender at Casino Fandango. And this trip's doldrums are beaten back by Joy's warm embrace, though seeing to her needs adds a whole new level of difficulty to the trip, albeit one I'm used to now. My birthday falls during this run, as does that of our eldest grandchild Cody, and Joy would not be denied the opportunity to be there for both birthdays.
So we left a day early on this trip, Tuesday afternoon. Our first stop along the way was in Browns Point, where my old bandleader Calvin waited anxiously. When I told him that I was heading south, he tasked me with an errand. Y'see, liquor is a lot cheaper in Nevada than it is in Washington, so he staked me with some money to buy him some booze. A lot of booze. About $250 worth of Bacardi rum and the cheapest vodka I can find, to be precise. To be totally honest, I needed the money. I only had about $90 to my name, and that wasn't enough for my gas expenses, so Calvin's grubstake came at just about the most opportune of moments. From there we headed south to Olympia for some excellent teriyaki.
Night was falling as we entered Vancouver, looking for a place to crash for the night. My Uncle Skip and Aunt Suzi live there, and although we had an open invitation to stay there whenever we needed, I wasn't able to get a hold of them, so I fell on plan B. I knew of a motel alongside I-5 that advertised rooms for as little as $21 a night, but their night-clerk told me those rooms were unavailable. I wound up paying just over $50 for a tiny room with the luxury(!) of a private bathroom. If that was a 'luxury', we really had no desire to find out just what those $21 rooms were like. And did I mention that it was raining buckets, cats, dogs, and other small mammals that night? I got passed on I-5 by an ark near Castle Rock. In so many words, we were soaked, our things were soaked, and we just shut our mouths and took the room. Here's the review from the Musicians Boycott! Travel Service – if you're in Vancouver, WA and have the options of sleeping in your car and the Value Motel, recline the driver's seat, homey – you'll sleep better. That said, the night-clerk was a nice lady, and we'll probably be seeing her next week at the Carson Station, as she's taking a week's vacation to visit her mother in the Reno area, and would love to see me play.
Ironic, no?
Wednesday morning rose clear and calm, and we broke fast on a combination of Sausage McMuffins and Bacon Maple Bars from Portland's rightly famous Voodoo Doughnut (another reason why I love Portland – despite the Timbers!), and we were on our way south and east. The heavy snows that had hit the Oregon Cascades had been tamed by the Oregon Department of Transportation, and climbing Willamette Pass was a piece of cake, and we scarcely saw snow after that. I slaked Joy's craving for Taco Time's Crispy Beef Burritos in Klamath Falls, then made the remainder of the trip as uneventful as possible as we pulled into Sparks.
And did I mention that Steppen Stonz were going to have company onstage this weekend? Well, it just so happens that a major convention was going on in the Nugget's convention-center space, and the convention had booked a band for that Thursday night, a Duran Duran tribute band called (wait for it) Duran Duran Duran. My sources have told me that they were invited to play a few sets in the cabaret on Saturday night in addition to the corporate gig. Fortunately for all parties involved, I knew of this a week in advance, as the Nugget's best soundman had called me while I was still in Port Angeles to ask me if D3's drummer could borrow my drums for that night. I told him that I had no problem with it, that I was glad that he'd called me in advance to let me know this, and just how the fuck did he have my phone number, anyway? (Mikey gave it to him). J.R. (that badass soundman who looks a little like Stephen King, just better looking) gave me their drummer's phone number, but he never did answer the message I left him. This didn't bother me much, because it said two things to me – that he'd probably use his own gear in the end, and that I still had time to get a hold of him up until the night of their show in the cabaret if he didn't.
Joy and I wound up meeting D3's singers (Brey and Noelle) on Friday afternoon at the Nugget's pool. Brey's totally 80's frosted hairstyle was a dead giveaway – to be honest, he reminded me of my old marching band chum Zach Barnhart to an almost alarming degree – but he and Noelle were as nice as could be. They'd actually come down to the cabaret the night before to see the tail end of our set after they'd finished their gig upstairs, and were quite impressed with our show. We talked shop for a while, then I let them go enjoy the pool by themselves – I know full well how much a musician appreciates his space, and while talking shop is always fun, sometimes you just want to be left alone.
Our shows on Thursday and Friday were uneventful enough, and we came to the decision that I'd just push the riser my drums were on back out of the way to give D3 enough space to set up their gear. Their show turned out to be really fucking good, despite the vocal mix being kind of muddy. Good thing I knew the words to damn near every song they played. I've always kept a place in my heart for Duran Duran – they were pretty much the last band I was into before I discovered metal – and D3 didn't mess around much with the songs that everyone knew. They also threw in some other 80's chestnuts, like David Bowie's “Let's Dance” and “One Thing Leads To Another” by The Fixx, and I just loved the fuck out of that. And I found the rest of the band to be really nice guys, though I did have to give their drummer just a tiny amount of shit for never calling me back. I'm sure that by the time you read this, you can go to D3's website (which is actually just a link to their Facebook page) and find pictures of the two bands together. The remainder of the night went without incident, and Sunday was actually pretty good, despite playing to a nearly empty cabaret.
I've actually walked away from this gig feeling pretty damn good. I figured out something I should've done a long time ago. Y'see, while I'm playing, I can barely hear my drums – the sounds my Simmons Hybrid drum module creates, that is – over the rest of the band. And to think, the answer had been staring me in the face ever since I'd started to trigger my drums. What I did was to use the Hybrid's unused right-channel output (the left-channel output is the mono output, and that goes to Cliff's mixing board) as a monitor channel, and plugged that into the small mixer I use as a monitor mixer for the headphones I wear onstage. It actually took me a minute to get used to be able to hear my drums clearly for the first time in a couple of years. And it was good.
And with our contract with the Nugget allowing us an extra day's stay in the hotel, I can pack up my gear at a leisurely rate today, then do laundry and pack up our household things before making our way up to Carson City on Tuesday. All my friends at the Station are looking forward to seeing Joy, and I'm looking forward to actually being able to unpack, and stay unpacked for a couple of weeks.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Up And Down, Part Two: Why Don't You Talk About Them Any More?
After an emotionally draining morning that had been capped off by the winter's first snow, I needed a little time to collect myself. During those hours, I got phone calls from my band. Not Mike and Arthur, but Ron and John.
Things haven't been well with Dirty Joe lately. Our last gig back in November had been a disaster in my opinion. Roger looked disinterested, Ron seemed in pain, and Joy was convinced that John was stoned on something, though I wasn't seeing what she was. A few days later, as I was leaving the stage at John Ascuaga's Nugget, I found a voicemail from Roger on my phone telling me that Ron had been taken in for emergency surgery after tests had found a mass on his colon. Absolutely freaked out, I called Roger back, only to get his voicemail. I haven't spoken to him since.
Roger is no longer a part of things, I've since discovered. While I was on my most recent run in Nevada, he'd gotten into an argument with the couple whose property he was staying on in his trailer, as well as with the president of his motorcycle club. The end result of which was his expulsion from the club and from the property, though some have tried to tell me that he 'retired' from the club. He has failed to respond to my calls asking for his side of the story, so I've come to the conclusion that he is no longer able to continue with the band. And that's fine with me. He's been on a massive downward spiral for quite some time now, and I've only been a part of roughly the last half of the ride to date. I hope Roger is able to right his ship, and soon.
And Ron is the next domino to fall. The mass removed from his colon was cancerous, and he was given roughly a year to live, and that depended on how well chemotherapy went. The signs so far have been encouraging, but I have a hard time believing anyone who would tell me they felt great getting chemo - maybe all the weed Ron's smoked has messed up his system to the point where chemotherapy actually feels good.
But he's called me a few times in the last few days, telling me that we could get together to rehearse during the day at RBar downtown, and that my old friend Dave Garner (sound-tech extraordinaire) would be willing to run sound and otherwise set up rehearsals for us, as well as offer his connections to us for jams and/or gigs in the Seattle - Tacoma area. I'd like to believe that to be true, despite my distrustful nature. I don't think anyone would offer up promises like that to a dying man, and I just can't picture Dave doing anything that low - it's just not in his nature, and I've known the guy for twenty-plus years, so I have to think this is at least partly true. And John has been calling me about bringing a new singer (well, new to me at least) in to take some of the workload off of me, as well as the guitar player he'd mentioned to me before in conjunction with a side project of his to possibly replace Roger.
Truth is, while I'd love to get Dirty Joe (or whatever I'd prefer to call it) moving forward again, if for no other reason than to provide some comfort to Ron in what will be his most trying times, I almost don't want to. The downward spiral the band and the guys have been on has been hard for me to handle. I don't like dealing with rumors of hard drug use. I don't like people trying to get me to hook up with the band's hangers-on - even if I like them as people, I'm still not interested, though hell, I'll flirt with anything if I think I can get a laugh out of it. Anyone who's ever seen me flirt knows it's only for laughs - I grew up watching way too much Pepe LePew as a child for me to be all that good (or serious) at it. I just don't want to deal with the interpersonal drama between the band and their respective circles, something blessedly absent from Steppen Stonz.
But as it stands now, the weather will likely have final say over the proceedings. That first snow of the season has friends coming, likely in the next day or so. And by the time it clears up, it'll be time for me to get back on the road again, spending the next several weeks in Nevada, this time with Joy in tow. It'll be nice, but we'll be back in the trailer again for at least a week, her first time back since we left Reno for Port Angeles two years ago.
As usual, we'll just have to see things go - knowing that they never go as planned.
But the snow let up after noon, and I worked up the stones to bundle Joy into the truck to drive down to Seven Cedars to see my old homey Curtis Seals and his current band, Gruvbox. Curtis and I go back to my earlier days in Powerlight, and it's always nice to see him in whatever band he's playing in (of which there are currently at least three). It's good to reminisce with him about this and that, long drives back and forth from gigs, bandhouses, his prodigious snoring. It was enough to drive away the funk in my my mind and allow me to relax psychologically as well as physically.
And talking about it with you is always good for flushing the negativity from my psyche. That, and making a nice big pot of boeuf bourguingon (albeit with pork, but still plenty tasty) for the family to feast upon helps mightily. Now pardon me while I digest......
Things haven't been well with Dirty Joe lately. Our last gig back in November had been a disaster in my opinion. Roger looked disinterested, Ron seemed in pain, and Joy was convinced that John was stoned on something, though I wasn't seeing what she was. A few days later, as I was leaving the stage at John Ascuaga's Nugget, I found a voicemail from Roger on my phone telling me that Ron had been taken in for emergency surgery after tests had found a mass on his colon. Absolutely freaked out, I called Roger back, only to get his voicemail. I haven't spoken to him since.
Roger is no longer a part of things, I've since discovered. While I was on my most recent run in Nevada, he'd gotten into an argument with the couple whose property he was staying on in his trailer, as well as with the president of his motorcycle club. The end result of which was his expulsion from the club and from the property, though some have tried to tell me that he 'retired' from the club. He has failed to respond to my calls asking for his side of the story, so I've come to the conclusion that he is no longer able to continue with the band. And that's fine with me. He's been on a massive downward spiral for quite some time now, and I've only been a part of roughly the last half of the ride to date. I hope Roger is able to right his ship, and soon.
And Ron is the next domino to fall. The mass removed from his colon was cancerous, and he was given roughly a year to live, and that depended on how well chemotherapy went. The signs so far have been encouraging, but I have a hard time believing anyone who would tell me they felt great getting chemo - maybe all the weed Ron's smoked has messed up his system to the point where chemotherapy actually feels good.
But he's called me a few times in the last few days, telling me that we could get together to rehearse during the day at RBar downtown, and that my old friend Dave Garner (sound-tech extraordinaire) would be willing to run sound and otherwise set up rehearsals for us, as well as offer his connections to us for jams and/or gigs in the Seattle - Tacoma area. I'd like to believe that to be true, despite my distrustful nature. I don't think anyone would offer up promises like that to a dying man, and I just can't picture Dave doing anything that low - it's just not in his nature, and I've known the guy for twenty-plus years, so I have to think this is at least partly true. And John has been calling me about bringing a new singer (well, new to me at least) in to take some of the workload off of me, as well as the guitar player he'd mentioned to me before in conjunction with a side project of his to possibly replace Roger.
Truth is, while I'd love to get Dirty Joe (or whatever I'd prefer to call it) moving forward again, if for no other reason than to provide some comfort to Ron in what will be his most trying times, I almost don't want to. The downward spiral the band and the guys have been on has been hard for me to handle. I don't like dealing with rumors of hard drug use. I don't like people trying to get me to hook up with the band's hangers-on - even if I like them as people, I'm still not interested, though hell, I'll flirt with anything if I think I can get a laugh out of it. Anyone who's ever seen me flirt knows it's only for laughs - I grew up watching way too much Pepe LePew as a child for me to be all that good (or serious) at it. I just don't want to deal with the interpersonal drama between the band and their respective circles, something blessedly absent from Steppen Stonz.
But as it stands now, the weather will likely have final say over the proceedings. That first snow of the season has friends coming, likely in the next day or so. And by the time it clears up, it'll be time for me to get back on the road again, spending the next several weeks in Nevada, this time with Joy in tow. It'll be nice, but we'll be back in the trailer again for at least a week, her first time back since we left Reno for Port Angeles two years ago.
As usual, we'll just have to see things go - knowing that they never go as planned.
But the snow let up after noon, and I worked up the stones to bundle Joy into the truck to drive down to Seven Cedars to see my old homey Curtis Seals and his current band, Gruvbox. Curtis and I go back to my earlier days in Powerlight, and it's always nice to see him in whatever band he's playing in (of which there are currently at least three). It's good to reminisce with him about this and that, long drives back and forth from gigs, bandhouses, his prodigious snoring. It was enough to drive away the funk in my my mind and allow me to relax psychologically as well as physically.
And talking about it with you is always good for flushing the negativity from my psyche. That, and making a nice big pot of boeuf bourguingon (albeit with pork, but still plenty tasty) for the family to feast upon helps mightily. Now pardon me while I digest......
Up And Down, Part One: Saying Goodbye
I look in the rear view mirror, and I see the day just past. And I'm glad it's gone.
It didn't start in a way I wanted it to at all - with a funeral. Joy's best friend's daughter died while I was playing at Boomtown. She could be a sweet girl when she wanted to be, but her demons led her to a lot of dark places, and eventually to oblivion. I could say a lot more, but I choose not to. To be totally honest, the service wasn't what was bothering me - where it was being held was. Allow me to explain.
It's 1994. Joy and I are madly in love, happily engaged and planning a wedding for April Fools' Day. And believe it or not, Joy was actually a Christian at the time. When we got together, she was attending this small Baptist church here in town. Joy's first marriage had been a civil service in the County - City Building in Tacoma, and she wanted a church wedding this time around. I was fine with that, so long as she registered to vote. So we went to to the church's pastor and asked if he would marry us. He asked us a few questions, then went back to his office to meditate and pray on it. Five minutes later, we had our answer:
No.
Joy was crushed, and almost immediately in tears. I was gobsmacked - why would he possibly say no? Well, he explained. In his little weltanschauung (that's 'world view' in German, FYI), because Joy had left her first husband - never mind that at the time, he'd done some pretty bad things which I shall not mention, enough that Joy left him for all the right reasons - she was no longer fit for marriage in the eyes of God.
I vaguely remember him offering to be our witness at a civil ceremony, but I was too busy pushing Joy to her car while keeping us both from tearing that smug redneck bastard into bite-size chunks. The next day, I called my best man Adrian, and he suggested his church, a Foursquare church in the Sequim valley. After meeting with his pastor, and kid and gentle behemoth of a man who moonlighted as the offensive-line coach for the high-school football team (and someone my mother knew and respected, even though she's the next best thing to an atheist), he not only offered himself and his church to us, but offered us a bargain-basement rate for renting the church on one condition: that we submitted to be the guinea pigs for a marriage-counseling program that the Foursquares were developing.
Allow me a brief departure. If you know me, you know I despise organized religion. It was instilled in me at a very early age, watching my dad turn off my cartoons to laugh mercilessly at Jerry Falwell and Ernest Angley. This distrust served me well in the era of the cartoonish televangelists of the 80's. Yet the Foursquares' gentle, kind, and understanding guidance in those months not only helped us learn more about each other, it helped me to learn a little something about myself, something I know is there, but I still can't quite put my finger on. I do know that the program certainly saved our marriage a few times. Despite my distrust, the Foursquares helped us immensely, and to this day still hold a certain fond place in my memory. And had it not been for the combination of distance and shitty cars, we could very well have remained in the Foursquares - I was that okay with them.
So here we were, the counseling program going great guns, and the wedding plans moving on pace for that First of April date. When we sent out the invitations, there was some debate on whether or not to invite Pastor A and his family. I wasn't thrilled about it, but we sent it - forgive and forget, and all that bullshit. Bad move. The Sunday after they got their invite, friends of ours that still attended the church told us that Pastor A spent his entire sermon bitch-slapping us for our crime of wanting a church wedding, calling us - and I'm quoting here - 'godless heathen sinners', and calling Pastor B a 'fake Christian who only wanted to get butts in the seats' (meaning: make money off of suckers). Remember how I described Pastor B? While Pastor A was a small, wiry guy at the time, B was an ex-jock - and I don't think he would've taken being called a 'fake' very well. I'm glad I never told that to B.
And the final insult came months after the wedding, when against my advice, Joy fairly dragged her kids and I back to Church A. A made nice, but after the service, couldn't be bothered to drop the hammer on us himself, and delegated his wife to inform us that we were no longer welcome there, accusing us of talking badly about Church A. So long as I live, I'll never forget that stiff-legged walk of Joy's as she grabbed me by the first available appendage and yelled at the kids to get in the car, telling me we'd never see the inside of that church again as she explained what had happened out of my sight and earshot.
Back to 2012. Back to the funeral. Joy was dead-set on going and supporting her best friend. I suggested that a red-hot poker in the ass would be preferable to entering that vipers' nest. But I went, if only to make sure that if Pastor A or his wife gave either of us the stinkeye, that their asses were grass, and I ran the lawnmower. It turns out I needn't have bothered. The best friend's son, himself a pagan like Joy, and with his own issues with A, laid down the law before we'd even left the house. That said, I still sat quietly through the entire service, eyes closed, with my mp3 player blasting nothing but the angriest, most hateful, blatantly Satanic music in my collection (tips of the proverbial hat go to Dimmu Borgir, Behemoth, and Old Man's Child). But nobody noticed us, no stinkeyes were detected, though my heart nearly jumped out of its box when A's wife came right up to Joy and chatted amiably with her for several moments, before Joy's bad hip began to flare up and we quietly took our leave. We'd scarcely been there an hour - though to me it felt like the longest hour of my life.
And there were many hours left in my day, more than I care to talk about right this minute. Let me get some sleep, I'll explain the rest of my Saturday to you then.
It didn't start in a way I wanted it to at all - with a funeral. Joy's best friend's daughter died while I was playing at Boomtown. She could be a sweet girl when she wanted to be, but her demons led her to a lot of dark places, and eventually to oblivion. I could say a lot more, but I choose not to. To be totally honest, the service wasn't what was bothering me - where it was being held was. Allow me to explain.
It's 1994. Joy and I are madly in love, happily engaged and planning a wedding for April Fools' Day. And believe it or not, Joy was actually a Christian at the time. When we got together, she was attending this small Baptist church here in town. Joy's first marriage had been a civil service in the County - City Building in Tacoma, and she wanted a church wedding this time around. I was fine with that, so long as she registered to vote. So we went to to the church's pastor and asked if he would marry us. He asked us a few questions, then went back to his office to meditate and pray on it. Five minutes later, we had our answer:
No.
Joy was crushed, and almost immediately in tears. I was gobsmacked - why would he possibly say no? Well, he explained. In his little weltanschauung (that's 'world view' in German, FYI), because Joy had left her first husband - never mind that at the time, he'd done some pretty bad things which I shall not mention, enough that Joy left him for all the right reasons - she was no longer fit for marriage in the eyes of God.
I vaguely remember him offering to be our witness at a civil ceremony, but I was too busy pushing Joy to her car while keeping us both from tearing that smug redneck bastard into bite-size chunks. The next day, I called my best man Adrian, and he suggested his church, a Foursquare church in the Sequim valley. After meeting with his pastor, and kid and gentle behemoth of a man who moonlighted as the offensive-line coach for the high-school football team (and someone my mother knew and respected, even though she's the next best thing to an atheist), he not only offered himself and his church to us, but offered us a bargain-basement rate for renting the church on one condition: that we submitted to be the guinea pigs for a marriage-counseling program that the Foursquares were developing.
Allow me a brief departure. If you know me, you know I despise organized religion. It was instilled in me at a very early age, watching my dad turn off my cartoons to laugh mercilessly at Jerry Falwell and Ernest Angley. This distrust served me well in the era of the cartoonish televangelists of the 80's. Yet the Foursquares' gentle, kind, and understanding guidance in those months not only helped us learn more about each other, it helped me to learn a little something about myself, something I know is there, but I still can't quite put my finger on. I do know that the program certainly saved our marriage a few times. Despite my distrust, the Foursquares helped us immensely, and to this day still hold a certain fond place in my memory. And had it not been for the combination of distance and shitty cars, we could very well have remained in the Foursquares - I was that okay with them.
So here we were, the counseling program going great guns, and the wedding plans moving on pace for that First of April date. When we sent out the invitations, there was some debate on whether or not to invite Pastor A and his family. I wasn't thrilled about it, but we sent it - forgive and forget, and all that bullshit. Bad move. The Sunday after they got their invite, friends of ours that still attended the church told us that Pastor A spent his entire sermon bitch-slapping us for our crime of wanting a church wedding, calling us - and I'm quoting here - 'godless heathen sinners', and calling Pastor B a 'fake Christian who only wanted to get butts in the seats' (meaning: make money off of suckers). Remember how I described Pastor B? While Pastor A was a small, wiry guy at the time, B was an ex-jock - and I don't think he would've taken being called a 'fake' very well. I'm glad I never told that to B.
And the final insult came months after the wedding, when against my advice, Joy fairly dragged her kids and I back to Church A. A made nice, but after the service, couldn't be bothered to drop the hammer on us himself, and delegated his wife to inform us that we were no longer welcome there, accusing us of talking badly about Church A. So long as I live, I'll never forget that stiff-legged walk of Joy's as she grabbed me by the first available appendage and yelled at the kids to get in the car, telling me we'd never see the inside of that church again as she explained what had happened out of my sight and earshot.
Back to 2012. Back to the funeral. Joy was dead-set on going and supporting her best friend. I suggested that a red-hot poker in the ass would be preferable to entering that vipers' nest. But I went, if only to make sure that if Pastor A or his wife gave either of us the stinkeye, that their asses were grass, and I ran the lawnmower. It turns out I needn't have bothered. The best friend's son, himself a pagan like Joy, and with his own issues with A, laid down the law before we'd even left the house. That said, I still sat quietly through the entire service, eyes closed, with my mp3 player blasting nothing but the angriest, most hateful, blatantly Satanic music in my collection (tips of the proverbial hat go to Dimmu Borgir, Behemoth, and Old Man's Child). But nobody noticed us, no stinkeyes were detected, though my heart nearly jumped out of its box when A's wife came right up to Joy and chatted amiably with her for several moments, before Joy's bad hip began to flare up and we quietly took our leave. We'd scarcely been there an hour - though to me it felt like the longest hour of my life.
And there were many hours left in my day, more than I care to talk about right this minute. Let me get some sleep, I'll explain the rest of my Saturday to you then.
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