Tenderhooks Tour Diary #2

Day 8
5/21/07
to Lafayette, LA


"There's not a Starbucks anywhere near here." - Man standing in front of a Starbucks


Jake and I, being early birds, dutifully set about catching the worm in a trap forged of deceit and naivete. We whisperingly conspire to essentially steal the van (I silently and boldly free the keys from a slumbering Ben's jeans pocket as Jake cheers me on), travel to a Starbucks (we google up the address of every one in NOLA and commit each brilliantly to memory), and, dipping into our cache of fake Starbucks money, bring delicious breakfast in bed to our comrades: a perfect start to what is surely to be a perfect day. What we don't bank on: a couple hours spent in traffic, asking directions in gas stations, finally finding a Starbucks and making a massive order only to hear "we don't take the card." We return to a confused Matt in the yard who preps us for the cranky Ben we are to find inside. He angrily chides us. Jake apologizes, and I do not, because I am so annoyed at everything this morning that I decide to go ahead and be annoyed at Ben, too. It's a brilliant beginning to the day.
Did I mention my feet have swollen to the size of basketballs, most likely because I slept completely upright? Jake chalks it up to my constant supplement consumption: "The fish oil is clearly draining to your feet." I have been phoneless for days on account of the breakage of my charger in Jackson and the collective refusal of my bandmates to ever stop at a Cingular store. I am on the verge of panic about this (my birthday is tomorrow, and I want my mom to be able to call me) when Jake geniusly spots such a store on the street we are traversing. I calm down, cheer up, and will pretty much stay that way until we go home. We eat at an open-air place called Market Cafe in the French Quarter while a guy plays a terrifying rendition of "Rhapsody in Blue" on a combination casio keyboard/karaoke machine bedecked in American flags (he occasionally toots a trumpet, as well.) Ben eats a weird roast beef po boy (5 Juicies, R.S.) and Jake bizarrely encounters a couple he knows. We ramble around the French Quarter in the blazing heat until we tire of it and must leave.


The venue in Lafayette is called Artmosphere, and it is palatial enough that we remain there until we are to play. I can't stress the degree to which this never happens. It's a kind of bar/cafe/eatery/venue with framed art all over the walls, a big, shady patio, and comfortable couches and chairs everywhere. We relax for hours.





We have the pasta, then Matt declares that he feels "buttery inside." We set up, because we believe we are playing with a solo, acoustic-type fellow, and do the regular dance of debating who is to go ask the bartender what the drink policy is, and eventually discover that we are entitled to two free drinks of any sort. We order drinks whose massiveness is matched only by their ridiculousness and hang out on the patio. Ben comes out and declares, "The other band appears to not be lovin' it." Matt: "Did you tell them we're playing Bonnaroo?"


After some hee-hawing, two guitarist guys play a bluesy rock and roll set, peppered with many covers, including both "Wish You Were Here" AND "Shine On You Crazy Diamond". We play and rock. Jake introduces us as "Gin and Tonic on lead guitar, Mojito on drums....some kind of ice cream thing on bass," and he is OTM: I am currently drinking a chocolate martini given to me by the bartender as a birthday gift, as it is now past midnight, and I am now 27. As we play, two acid-casualty types perform that dance where you mime a ball and then pass it to the other guy who also mimes it and then passes it back. One of them, a smiley chap with long, golden locks styled in what can only be described as a topknot, plays the egg shaker on "Tears of a Clown" with astounding skill and enthusiasm.


After we play we appear to be in a fantasy world. A beautiful guy with an eyepatch on his straw hat tells me we are brilliant and the bartender starts giving me free whiskey shots. Jake finds a golden capo, which seems like it's happening in The Legend of Zelda: Monsters of Ocarina or something. We become acquainted with the topknot (Craig Futch -- more, much more, later) who tells us he knows a cracking house we can sleep in tonight. His friend Chad gives me a beautiful picture of an owl for my birthday, and claims, among other things, that we believe in aging only because we are taught it in school, and that he will never die, because he is clued in on this tip. A crazy old woman with a thick, maybe Romanian accent accosts me and slurrily asks if I'm a writer, and a guy who has been hitting on me for the last two hours screams "you'll regret this for the rest of your life!" as our van screeches away into the night.


I am not expecting much of Craig Futch as he leads us through the suburbs to this mysterious crib. However, we enter the house and our collective jaw drops. My notes about the house state simply "AMAZING" with several underlinings...It is apparently the home of some type of benefactor of Craig's, apparently a musician as one room is a kind of studio, full of guitars, amps, computers with enormous monitors, equipped with all kinds of recording software, etc. The guy probably owns a million cds, no exaggeration. Craig asks Ben if he has ever tried chocolate (ruminate on the supreme bizarreness of that for a moment) and offers him some of his "homemade chocolate" which appears to be powdered hot cocoa mix in a bowl. We roundly decline, though we all dig into his stash of goji berries apparently from the Himalayas (Craig: "Monks eat them.") Craig plays us some tracks he has worked on, including one about his homemade chocolate entitled "Black Crack" that features the line "GIVE ME THE MONEY, BITCH!" He smiles innocently and even a little confusedly as we giggle at his hilarious creations. Matt warns Craig that his phone is "blowing up" and Craig's face goes pale and terrified. "I'd better...un-blow it up, then," he stammers. He is the second illustrious craze-ball we have met on tour, on we love him almost as much as Neil.




Unfortunately, this is the only known picture of Craig Futch.


I sleep in a beautiful waterbed full of ergonomic body pillows at Craig's insistence. "Because it's already your birthday!" are the last words I hear before I drift off.


Day 9
5/22/07
to Tuscaloosa, AL



"It stinks!" -Jon Lovitz, The Critic


I wake up to Ben wishing me a happy birthday, closely followed by Futch prancing into the room. In the master bedroom's private bath I am greeted by a note affixed to the mirror reading something like "We are closer to death with every passing moment". Delightful. Opening a cabinet, I am showered with bottles of prescription pills, and, investigating another, am the recipient of a similar waterfall of pornography. We bid Craig and the beautiful house goodbye, after an embarrassing scenario in which we ask him where the nearest Starbucks is, and the whole song and dance of "I'll make you guys coffee if you want it" and "No, no, see we have these gift cards..." We depart. It is Jake's pick, and he uses it to make me a brilliant birthday mix on his iPod, signaling its arrival with the Beatles "Birthday", and including a bunch of my favorite things. It's very sweet. Then we listen to Ludacris "Word of Mouf," which I pretend is also in my honor.


We are in Tuscaloosa, which I have thought of with a modicum of dread since learning it would the setting of my fete de naissance. It is small and collegiate, and seems to have the only campus I have yet encountered besides UT's that is possessed of a "strip", i.e. one street where everything is. We find Egan's, the bar at which we will be rocking, which is vaguely Pilot Light-ish and clearly closed. We decide to go walking, and in two seconds we are in suburbs, so we walk down the strip in the other direction, and in another two seconds we are again in suburbs. We call Bon, our contact from the other band we are playing with, who are called Abby Go Go (rest assured that of these names, neither Bon nor Abby Go Go has gone without roffling from our camp). Bonnie asks if they can borrow our drums and Matt acts consternated right by the phone, and Bon Bon hears him and is all "Brah, if it's a problem, don't worry about it!", and then we feel bad. Jake chides him. We find that we are not featured in any local press, which almost as big a shocker as the fact that the venue has not hung up our flyer.


We go back to Egan's, which turns out to be a cool bar with a crazy bartender who would probably achieve Neil/Craig status if we spent any time around him. Abby Go Go show up and we learn that Bon has a twin brother named Jon, which for a brief moment is one of the funniest things in the world, ever. They play and it becomes clear that they have been generated by the cosmos as a birthday present for me: Twin stoners in stripey shirts play jangley guiitar through Vox amps and sing reverby harmonies a la Ride, backed by a nine foot tall bassist and a drummer with Legend of Zelda tattoos. Huh?! "You only like them because they are cute! You are all, 'aw, broheemies!'", Jake drunkenly reckons, adding "Is this produced by Daniel Lanois? Turn the reverb down. I said it!" Me: "Someone does need to tell this guy that you can't shoegaze in moccasins." Jake: "Yeah, cause then you're moccasin-gazing, and you don't register on All Music Guide. You're not in a category!" When they finish playing, Bon says "chiz" into the mic, which is forgiveable, even heartwarming, because he is approximately 12 years old. Jake thoughtfully has the bar play Combat Rock while we set up, in honor of my b-day. We rock heartily, and a Jon Lovitz-looking guy amusingly cramps our style the entire time by requesting awful songs and telling Jake in earnest that he sounds like everyone terrible from James Blunt to Chris Martin. Lovitz asks Jake his name mid-set, and he responds that it is Eddie Vedder. Lovitz then shocks everyone by buying $100 worth of cds and forcing us to autograph each of them, which proves difficult because various Go Gos and the crazy bartender have kept me constantly supplied with pitchers of stout beer (I hold a pitcher of beer like a mug, and continue to drink in this fashion for the duration of the evening).


We follow the Go Gos to their house in what seems like the silliest 'round-the-mulberry-bush goose chase of all time ("Follow us to this house, then a Jeep is gonna come out from behind the house, and you follow that 'til the light, then follow the white car that will appear behind you." Not an exaggeration.) They have a suburban home for which they somehow only pay eighty dollars a month. It is spartan in its decor, though there are paintings all over the place (Jon's) -- one, I remember, says "Sandinista!" on it. Jake sleeps in righteous defiance as the rest of us listen to Dead Meadow and JAMC in a thick haze of reef steam. I attempt to school these kids on shoegaze, which they stonedly tolerate. I tell them I'd thank My Bloody Valentine to suck my dick, apparently a controversial point of view in this house (non-shocker). Bon takes a lot of pictures of everything, and then we all go to sleep, Ben complaining about me getting the bed despite my birthday being "long since over."





Day 10
5/23/07
to Murfreesboro, TN



I wake up and take a shower. Jon/Bon, somewhat unsurprisingly, have a cornucopia of fine haircare products, and I abuse all of them, not least of all the ionic hairdryer. Jon wakes up, gives us directions and the remainder of the bag of doja, and asks for the names of the bands I was talking about last night, writing them down in neon orange crayon on a paper towel (cute). There is a kid who looks exactly like Adult Link from the Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (I know I've mentioned Zelda 700 times in this blog, but he seriously does look just like him) who volunteers to lead us to the interstate. In the sunlight, I see that Jon/Bon's driveway is inscribed with the legend "THE AMERICAN DREAM", and I mean, with a crib in the suburbs for eighty dollars a month, all the reefer you can fill your lungs with, being young, surrounding yourself with people who look like video game characters, and living with your brother in the Taj Mahal of hairstyling, I can't argue with it.


At Starbucks, we spot hovering around the Wilco kiosk what is clearly another band ashamed of being in a Starbucks. I ask one what their name is, and he replies "the Damnwells" before clambering with his Nonfat Orange Mocha of Shame into a U-Haul full of miserable-looking thirty-year-old men in short pants. I stand there with the blazing heat reflecting off the Starbucks pavement and think -- is this it? Has the Ghost of Christmas Future shed his death robes, a military cap instead to don? Is my future, once spread before me like so many poppy fields, to be slammed shut like the sliding metal door of the UHaul, confining me to a 6x6 space crammed with stinking men, beef jerky wrappers, and pounds of drum hardware for all eternity? As the Damnwells pull away, I somehow re-resign myself to the rocking life and climb into the Green Destiny with my team. I use the vanride to meditate on the highpoints of tourmanship: being with B, J and M, seeing the USA, free drinks, Neil, Craig, and po boys.


We get to Anthony's house (a cuz of Jake's), where a lot of college students are grilling meats and listening to jam music, and we each drink a brew and engage in signature relaxation modes (Matt: nap. Ben: crossword. Me: book. Jake: grilled meat). We go to the 'Boro, who do not have a drink policy, and who also do not accept credit cards (i.e. force me to spend entire night completely sober and smokeless), and watch our openers, Reindeer Armies, thrill sorority girls with their cover of "Why Don't We Do It In The Road," which is elaborately nauseating. We play awkwardly, but to a huge crowd (mostly girls, and all piled in a column directly in front of Jake, as if he were a reverse Moses at some kind of Greek Sea. Jake, later: "They're trying to get to Matt, but they have to go through me.") I see my friend Mikey and hug him enthusiastically, and he says my bass confuses him -- "Has Emily gone metal?" In truth, I am using Ben's Silvertone (and I was born metal). While Happy Birthday Amy play (band fronted by opera singer that can't really sing but people are still like "ooh, she sings really loud!"), Ben and I wander around and find a newsstand. While checking to see if there is anything about our show in the local press, we spot a glossy article about not us, but...the Damnwells, who are apparently doing great (I'm unsure whether this is good news in light of my epiphany earlier, or bad. Was that peek inside the UHaul a glimpse of the good life? Horrifying! On the flipside, could this mean that we, too, are doing great, or at least close? I push both possibilities out of my mind.)


We head to Anthony's, where a sole survivor of the party is blasting Phish and drunkenly attempting to dance to it. Ben and I smoke his reefer while he tells us we sound like Blind Melon, putting in a live cd by said band. While attempting to concoct some variety of nacho cheese dip in a juicer, he describes Blind Melon hit "No Rain" as a "rarity", and Ben and I nearly let loose with our suppressed laughter at the whole picture. "I'm sorry, I'm...completely wasted," the drunk guy needlessly explains, and Ben and I tell him it is all right. We all sleep, Ben and Matt on the couch together (not as weird as it sounds), me on a tiny couch that apparently belongs to a dog (payback for bed two nights in a row), and Jake in a mysterious and unknown place upstairs.


Day 11
5/24/07
to Huntsville, AL



We wake up, eat over-mediums, do laundry, drink coffee, and are grateful to do all of these. While shoving vitamin bottles and hair products into an already over-packed suitcase, I do my half of a phone interview while Matt Herron of Louisville types furiously on the other end and interjects questions about Bonnaroo in a gorgeous speaking voice. We head to Huntsville circuitously at first, listening to Car Wheels On A Gravel Road (Ben accuses Jake of only liking it because it contains the lyric "smell of coffee, eggs and bacon").


In Huntsville, we follow directions to the Flying Monkey and, pulling into its giant parking lot, become concerned that it is, in fact, a jail. Upon entering, we find that it is a massive art collective/venue/warehouse and load in, which is a big ordeal involving wheeling things in shopping carts up hand-operated elevators and down long corridors. I carry my amp the whole way, but Ben and Jake wheel theirs on skateboards, which makes me feel briefly like The Toughest. We leave and eat at a place called Bandito Burrito that is cheap and ok, then return to the Monkey and look around its record store, which somehow carries every 7" I had in high school, and also records by bands local to us, like Torture Kitty and the Bitter Pills.


We play with bad sound to teenage kids who are very polite. A woman sells root beer for a dollar, and Ben and I each get one and watch Circuit Pop play. They are two tiny, baby kids who play 80s pop on Casios backed by a drummer that asks what beat to play before each song. They sound like Maniac Mansion for NES fronted by a 17-year-old, American Terry Hall, and sing teenage lyrics like "encores always ruin the show" and "hey, what's in your backpack?" One of them rushes to get a Jolly Rancher during a break in a song. Adorable! Even more so when I realize that not one of them was even alive during the 80s!




My sentiments exactly!!! Get it?!?!!



Loading out, Ben messes around on the skateboard designated for amp use, and asks a young couple, "Hey, do you guys call skateboarders 'thrashers'?" "No," one of them replies. "A thrasher is someone who gets in the pit and, like, hardcore dances." We tell them that in our day thrasher meant skater, and they look at us like we are Grandpa. The smallest Circuit Pop is seen outside smoking a cigarette and I have half a mind to smack it out of his 16-year-old mouth.


We drive to Chattanooga (Jake sleeps, we listen to System of a Down, it's a chicken/egg situation) and land at Matt's childhood home (where his dad has waited up for us -- cute!), passing a sign that oddly reads "JAKE OFF TODAY." There are photographs of Matt at various awkward stages of existence festooning every square inch of the house. We are too zombie-fied to even lol at this, so we go to sleep.


Day 12
5/25/07
to Asheville, NC



Ben: "This is all a charade" (pronounced shuh-raaaahhhhd)
me: "You're French now?"
Ben: "Yes. This is all a Cirque du Soleil charade."



We wake up to the most ridiculously delicious breakfast spread ever, courtesy of Matt's awesome mom, who is the most cheerful and hilarious person ever (second place possibly going to his dad, who enthusiastically shows me a selection of killer soccer goals he has TiVo'ed, yelling "swee!t" with each one). We enjoy being in a normal house and eating normal food for a while, then step back into the Green Destiny, back into crazy, Subway-eating, floor-sleeping, smoke-breathing world, and drive to Asheville by way of Knoxville (it's weird driving through the hometown on tour. You can almost see it as outsiders must see it. Almost). We go to Guitar Center where Ben has his Heritage intonated and Matt purchases a tambourine, thus opening the gate to a fresh, jingling hell every time the van so much as rounds a corner. There is some confusion in the van concerning pick order when Jake wakes up after a long winter's nap (he seems to have been sleeping approximately 24 hours a day since New Orleans, I'm not sure what's going on there) to discover that "Fricke's pick" has been skipped ("I wish Fricke had brought a cd instead of an iPod." - Ben).


We're in TrAsheville. We head to the venue, Broadway's, which is closed (and says "private club" on the door). We walk around and eat an unspectacular dinner at Old Europe, who only serve four sandwiches (we each eat a different one, because we are individuals, with individual taste).





Voltage is closed, so we go to Static Age and look at records. Ben buys Sleater-Kinney's Hot Rock, and I find this:





We go to Malaprops and drink coffee for a while (this is always the awkward part of the day on tour -- venue is closed, so you have to waste a lot of time in a town you don't really know. It can always go either way). We go to Broadway's, who have a stupid ID policy where you can't drink if you don't drive (I don't understand it, either), and load in. We meet Ryan Cox from If You Wannas (playing tonight) who looks exactly like the host of The Soup, and who is extremely nice and super-accommodating about band order and things of that ilk.







The show gets underway, and there is a first band who do not deserve mentioning (they are awful, though). We play and rock, but everyone who came to see the awful first band takes off, leaving a tiny audience. During our set, a girl loudly disses my harmonies to her equally bitchy friend, so I stare them down like a blood-crazed zombie during "Kidstuff" and they awkwardly leave. The If-You-Wannas seem bemusedly resigned to playing to no one, then shock everyone by producing an upright bass from nowhere and playing outside on the patio, where everyone has gone. They are charming and are the only band we have played with on tour who have a song that I can remember ("You're A Ticking Bomb").


Ben clogs for the duration of their set, Matt meets some Butthole Surfer at the bar ("tell Ben, tell Ben!!" Jake and I scream in unison), and an If-You-Wanna tells Jake his voice is "decadent", then "unconventional" (Jake: "Decadent? Decadent is a cookie with icing piled on top of it"). The four of us sit drunkenly together and the men get into some kind of argument about Sandra Bullock vs. Meg Ryan, which is boring, and pictured here:








That's us at Rosetta's Kitchen with Ryan and his girlfriend, whose name sounds to me like "Fedora", though that is surely not right. Fedora has locked her keys in her car, or lost them or something, so we have to go around a bit of a mulberry bush before we get to Ryan's house. We settle down on floors and oddly shaped couches, and Ben has barely had time to quietly mutter "I hope they don't have sex or something all night" when Fedora heads out on a giggling spree that continues 'til dawn.


Day 13
5/26/07
to Durham, NC


We wake up early to Ryan and a gang of his friends heading to the beach and politely hustling us out. We ask Ryan where to eat, and he directs us to the Sunny Point Cafe, which has a waiting list like this:





Ben and I have Huevos Rancheros that are worth the wait, Jake and Matt have some kind of yogurt/granola thing that looks delicious, and Jake indicts the condiment selection for being indie (organic ketchup, raw sugar). We get an oil change, which is boring, but necessary, and we have definitely been on tour too long because a sign that says "The Juice is Loose" seems to be the funniest thing Matt and I have seen in days (this is the kind of thing where you look back through your notes and are just like "Christ"). We drive to the Broad Street Cafe, which I immediately like because it has this kind of drink selection:





...and we get everything for free. We drink coffee and pile on a couch together to read our first bad review, which is humorously perched in the "thumbs down" side of some college journal's music column. Welcome to the minor leagues, I guess. The men go to eat at some burrito place (I don't, but I do eat half of Jake's burrito that he brings back to the cafe. The things were the size of my head, and amazing). There is some kind of comedy routine going on which, while a hundred times better than whatever it was we witnessed at the P&H Lounge, is not so hilarious.


The first band eventually plays, and I don't have much to say about them besides this: when we rate all the bands we played with at the end of the tour, they will tie for last with the Unlikely Heroes (remember them?). What will end up the second act, the Monika Jaymez Band (not making that spelling up), is basically a troupe of assholes who keep upping the ante with excuses about why they can't play last. Before they go on stage we keep harassing them by mirroring their bullshit back to them: "Hey guys, you better leave for home in ten minutes! You know, like you said? Man, gonna be a short set tonight!" They play second (thanks, guys!) and a bunch of middle aged Borders shoppers trip the fuck out and worship Monika in all her Rhiannon-covering, frosted perm-having "glory". We hate her. Still.





So all her fans leave, and we blaze awesomely through our set for a few guys who love us (one of them follows us to Chapel Hill later), sell some cds, give Monika Jaymez the evil eye, and take forever loading out for talking to everybody. We follow a Joe to his homestead and sleep comfortably on assorted beds and couches.


Day 14
5/27/07
to Roanoke, VA




We wake up and hurriedly take showers (though there was some kind of issue with this -- it mysteriously was not allowed, or something) before Joe's sister can come home and find strangers in her house. We pile in the 'Dest and, after driving an hour in the wrong direction, decide to go to Cracker Barrel instead of turning around or making haste or anything. We play that Cracker Barrel game involving golf tees (Matt: Egnoramoose. Ben: takes an hour to play the game, emerges finally as a genius after everyone stops caring, demands credit. Matt: "Well, you're Just Plain Dumb in your attitude.") We drive on, Ben selecting "an hour of silence" as his pick (as unnerving as it is against the rules). Jake makes an equally poor choice: the new Wilco album, again, after we have all already decided it is a snoozebomb (there is a particularly blatant Beatles rip as we pass a sign reading "Thieving Bastards Burn In Hell" -- poignant).


We are in Roanoke, with less time to spare than normal due to our detour earlier. We walk around without each other, because we are fourteen days into tour and have done enough walking around with each other, but eventually all end up in the same coffee shop. Jake changes his strings, then we head to the venue, which is called the Green Dolphin Grille. We meet a nice woman and some dudes who end up being The Wading Girl, a band we are playing with tonight. "Why do you have to carry everything?" she says to me, after seeing me carry a couple of amps in. "Ha ha," I say, "ha ha." Twice, because I am an awesome conversationalist. I wash, blowdry and style my hair in the Dolphin's bathroom, and when I emerge everyone asks me where in the hell I've been, as if it weren't obvious.











We eat some killer fried fish and talk a lot of shit to each other about exactly how ready to rock we are, and when the time comes to actually rock, Matt goes ahead and starts playing "Needle in the Haystack" while the rest of us are playing "Mouthful of Rain" to nauseating effect. Despite this initial setback, we go on to rock gloriously and make a few people shimmy, and a shrimpy guy in a Kill 'Em All shirt tells me I am awesome while drinking two beers (Dude: Get in touch). When the Wading Girl plays (they're good! They work everybody into a frenzy), we have to take turns working the door in the keyboardist's stead, and the task is so maddening that it drives Ben to draw this portrait of us:



(I don't know why Jake is a snail, or why my name is Fugazi, but that's drunks.)


And all of us to believe this is an extremely funny joke:





A very, very drunk Nicolosi-looking guy keeps attempting to get in for free, and Matt overhears him screaming "TELL ME WHY YOU DO OR DO NOT LOVE NASCAR. YOU FUCKING KNOW!" to a group of very scared individuals. We make the touring equivalent of a million dollars and engage in a lot of inter-band bonding outside on the pavement before making our way to the Wading Girl's house (I love bands where all the members live in one house like the Beatles in "Help!" This isn't actually true of the Wading Girl, though). The Wading Girl kids like three things: 1. Cornhole (one of those games where you throw a beanbaggish thing into a hole on a wooden thing), 2. Coors Light (one of my prevailing memories of this admittedly hazy night is of Ben standing in the Wading Garage singing "Tap the Rockiiieeeeeees!!" at the top of his voice), and 3. Denny's (They discuss it constantly, and the computer in their house says I LOVE DENNY'S!!!! in Sharpie on the monitor).




creDENtials, get it!?








We just get wasted and play cornhole (I don't want to because I know I will stink at it, but Jake makes me be his partner, and we are awful, because I am awful. Ben and Matt dominate consistently and eventually match some kind of record). After all the broing out we watch bits of a Johnny Cash documentary before falling into a deep and drunken sleep on various couches and floors.





STAY TUNED FOR UNIT 3, HOPEFULLY FASTER THAN UNIT 2 (SORREEEEEEEEEE)!!!!