Castor Oil...sickeningly good

Friday, February 18, 2005

Piiter patter flopping fish what the hell is that you wish?


My head and body are very, every, very tired but I’m feeling good about the show last night. Getting 150 people to pay ten bucks a shot for all original music on a Thursday when it’s about one degree outside is a pretty tall order and it all came together. Power to the short people.

We all drove separately to Iota and arrived somewhat close to on time with the customary understanding that our drummer lives in a parallel but slightly skewed plane on the time-space continuum. That’s a fancy way of saying he’s always late for everything at all times. We live, we learn as Alanis once mercilessly bleated in our ears.

Philito and I had made a blood pact that we would not engage in any tomfoolery or shenanigans of the alcoholic variety until it was Showtime. After that all bets would be off, rockets full to the tip and blast off we would go (and did). What this amounted to was manic drinking of cup after cup after cup of water until my legs were shaking from the intensive hydration. I think I only had to piss about 471 times so my bladder is working pretty good. Very very weird being in one of my favorite bars with my favorite drinking partners and drinking nothing but water. Not a fan but we all have our crosses and burdens to bear alas….

Set-up was cake and we had plenty of time to fart and futz about and drink more and more and more water. Right on time Brother Seamus went on and grooved away groovily for 40 minutes. I have not one but two of my old drummers in Brother Seamus and kookily enough neither of them play drums for that band. Crazy, eh? They’re all just the most hellaciously cool guys and I enjoyed their set and grabbing their asses throughout the night.

Goddamit I’m sorry but I have to go sleep for a while. I’ll finish later I promise. There’s a great tale to tell about some spasmodic maniac flailing to and fro like he had an electric eel stuffed in his drawers that was speaking in tongues and juicing his beanbag at maximum voltage. Some might call it “dancing” but not me. I think he was posessed by the devil.

More to come….


  • Sleep is for metros. That spazztastic dude dancing if that's what you call it during Exit Clov's set was hilarious. Hilarious and disturbing in a Sideshow Bob kind of way.

    By Anonymous Anonymous, at 10:28 AM  

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