Leppotone

I ran out of time adding photos to this gallery. Check back tomorrow. Check back often. I will be adding more.

NOTE: I am uploading photos to share right now. Be patient. Please. Here are some very scattered notes from the plane ride home from Florida. I was a bit of a mess.

Dateline: Tuesday, the 4th of Freaking July.

Flying over the USA on NWA. My wrist is hurting me still, and I don't have a lot of battery power. I can only type for a little while. I'm feeling the strong, deep emotional low of the end of the musical rainbow. Nothing really makes sense. Took a nice long bath yesterday, only hearing Nillson's "Without You" in my head.

The Buzzcocks rocked like crazy last night. So very happy, even though the crowd was filled with little stage-diving-mall-punks. I blame the Warped tour, but I'm still so happy for them, for all of us. Passed out CDs of the music Karl and Scott and I made to all sorts of folks. Maybe someone will give two flying fucks. Who knows?

Just back to the room. Served a couple of Newcastles by some Britney Spears lookalike named Shauna. So much to tell. Really.

Happy and hurting. I drank tequila with Little Steven and the rest of the folks at a huge dinner party after the show. Emboldened by the liquid, I rode a mechanical bull. I did pretty well for a novice, but fell off and fucked up my right wrist pretty bad. All swollen and immobile. Finding drugs sooon. The show must go on!

Please enjoy a few random photos.

[img_assist|nid=311|title=The Waiting is the Hardest Part|desc=|link=none|align=left|width=500|height=375]

NOTE: I just got Internet access. Here are some show notes from yesterday. Playing again tonight. Sound check in an hour.

I think Aleister Crowley really has something to say to us.

Scott's Jimmy Page suite inspired dreams of the darkside brought us all that waking comment from Mr. Sexton.

We arrived at midnight after an airplane laugh-a-thon. The sweet man that was sent to meet us kept us entertained with stories of the runaway growth of this part of Florida. He had a Chicago-style accent, despite his having left there 21 years ago. Scott turned 40 years old, while we waited for our luggage to be spit out of the carousel of progress. The line of cars to get into the casino was pretty amazing. The large groups of people wandering about allowed us our first glimpse of that south Florida that I've only seen on TV.

Two words: plastic surgery.

Everyone I saw looked like they spent LOTS of time at the gym. Fake tits. Tans. Then there's the prostitutes. Do you like young girls? I sure hope so, because the Hard Rock Seminole Casino is positively flush with very young prostitutes, Speaking of flush, I'm in a bit of gastrointestinal trouble this grey Sunday morning. Anyway, back to our story. We managed to find Fred, Amy, Mike and Jennifer Berg. We all drank and listened to some sweet cover band and toasted Scott. Later on Scott and Karl and I wandered about the casino, appraising the rock and/or roll memorabilia.

Need some Internet access. Stat.

Gotta go meet up with Lil' Steven and get some underground breakfast. Pep talk at 10:45 AM.

Get your go-go on!

Nathan

One hour remains. The airport sports lounge provides a special kind of cover. My bladder is full, and Scott has already noticed that we've got a Mojo hat-trick in the magazine department: The Beatles, Elvis and Lou Reed. Three issues, three booming and large foregone conclusions.

Horseracing on the TV.

Looming large in the distance: Li'll Stevens Compton Youth Center Gymboree! Firearms, fireworks and leather pants all weekend long. We will be getting things done, talking about music, bitching and rocking the bathing suits off the Floridian herd.

Hold on. Here's Scott.