June 26 - Hexagon, Baltimore, MD

An early rise was in order as we had to be in Baltimore for a 4pm set.  Pennsylvania proved to be hilly and green while Michael Jackson proved to be dead and inescapable.  It seems that his epitaph is the new Bitter Tears press release:

Whether [they are] wowing fans as a singing/dancing machine, turning heads with outlandish wardrobes, or alternately amusing or horrifying everyone with [their] kooky behavior, [The Bitter Tears can] never, [will] never be ignored.

Located just blocks from City Hall, the Sidebar is a dank bike messenger bar frequented by district attorneys and other whiter collars.  One of the messengers ragged on the fixed gear hipster art kids, who ride sloppy and don’t invite messengers to their race parties.  Then he got a call and had to run.

The bartender at The Sidebar informed us that we were not playing there.  That some band called The Faggots was playing.  “Are you guys the faggots?”

The good news is that we were playing somewhere else and it would be during the nighttime when people go out to see bands and music.  The Hexagon wasn’t open yet so we ate jerk chicken that was spicy, boney and delicious.

Baltimore architecture has a creepy Scottish quality, with rickety fire escapes that reach down to the ground, inviting you to explore.  I climbed to the top of a vacant castle but found it to be less relaxing than I had hoped.

The Hexagon is a DIY spot with a tall deep stage and good sound system.  We opened the evening with “Slay,” and the good people of Baltimore seemed genuinely amused by our spectacle.  Alan goaded me into telling a stand up comedy joke because I do improv.  It went over very well and I received a standing ovation.  In fact our whole set was a standing ovation. Thank you, Baltimore.

Solar Bears followed with Comas-style havoc that left my ears ringing and my mouth smiling. 

Eagle and Talon are a mostly female LA trio.  Recently they played on 90210.  They have been touring without any amps or drums, borrowing equipment from hopeful men.  The set was a come-hither party of Jabberjaw era tease rock.  It was a very sexy set, if you’re into complaining during sex.

Werewolves closed the night with rad, rad hardcore.  David Johansen as a PCP archer.

A case of Natty Boh’s in my belly, I climbed the roof and watched the action in Charles Village. At Hess the 40 oz. homeless set slurred “We Are The World.”

Werewolves’ great drummer Jake put us up at his 3-story row house, where other bands kept coming in at 3am.  A bonfire occurred in the back porch, and I half-expected The Wire’s Lieutenant Daniels to barge in, furious at his rag tag house-sitters.

June 25 - Matinee, Cleveland, OH

Cleveland became our fountain of youth.

For breakfast we ate at Steve’s Lunch, a 24 hour workman’s hole where the specials are named after neighborhood cops and you can get 2 eggs, 2 bacon, hashbrowns, toast, and coffee for $5.  Steve himself was very nice and treated us boys well.

Then the boys went to My Mind’s Eye record shop.  I got a few choice 45s and the new Who Sell Out deluxe edition reissue.  Mike got a John Lee Hooker record because Steve Miller played on it.  The man at the record shop was very nice to us boys.

After that Mike and I took a Huck Finn nap in the shadow of a tree, until the shade turned to sun.  Then we went to the Lakewood Community Pool and splashed and played in the pool with the other boys and girls.

Alan and Greg met up with us for meatball sandwiches at the pizza parlour.  The sandwiches were all really yummy and the lady there was very pretty and treated us like good boys.

Then the clouds got dark and nasty so we went to the bowling alley and played bowling in the basement.  It rained very hard, so hard that a wet case of beer flopped past me like a tumbleweed.  The man at the bowling alley would have given us free ice cream, but that only happens on Wednesdays.

At the bowling alley we learned that Michael “Jacko” Jackson died.  We felt bad about that because he understood boys like us.  And then the power went out.  We drove around Cleveland, taking detours around flooded streets.  Lots of people were on their porches, some were dancing.  The air was spooky.

By the time we got to the club the van had turned back into a pumpkin.

The first act was a girl who was learning guitar.  Then there was a guy who played steel guitar shuffle blues. He wore a hat.  After that an legitimately young Missouri trio played music you might hear on a radio.

My friend Jessica came to the show.  We performed comedy on a cruise ship last summer.  She was one of four people who came by choice.

The set was fun, but you could feel the contempt from the other performers that were still there.  Early on in the set Mike said that all the youthful skin surgically grafted to Michael Jackson’s face had caused him to die of SIDS.

Nonetheless half the non-performing or working room danced during “Stumper.”  This show had one of those patented open endings where we stood on stage watching the audience until someone else’s music faded up from the PA.  Somebody said the show was like pissing into the wind.

Greg got us a room with post-show furnace face.  In the middle of the night, the air conditioner made an electric burning smell that kept Mike in the hallway for a spell.  Alan shook in his sleep and I snored through it all.  What started as a fountain of youth had ended like a fountain of death.

June 24 - Matinee, Akron, OH

Matinee is a teeny bar in the Rubber City.  We were informed that The Bitter Tears would be the only band playing that night.  Rubber!  Everyone here says that instead of "cool" or "rad" or "there's nothing to do."

It's a bar where people go to hang out with each other Cheers-style.  But when we took the stage in our stunning costumes, nobody knew our name.  Alan referred to Akron as a shithole to attract some attention but it didn't faze them.  It's like the town is a nerd that has heard all the jabs and humiliations already and you can't do anything to hurt it anymore.

Eventually they warmed up to us during "Moline," and one guy even bought us shots.  It was totally rubber!  We bonded about our horrible mayors, and for a moment they were glad we came.  John acquired new bulbs for Alan's horrible light-stick and during the a cappella portion of "Grieving" it blew a fuse at The Matinee.

After the show a hayseed guy told me I had something on my face.  I told him I had been working in a coal mine like Devo.  Y'know, D-E-V-O from O-H-I-O?  No?  The gift shots ended up being wicked joke shots of water and grenadine.  Then the DJ started blaring Zep records with big skips on them.  It was time to go.

Someone recommended an Italian restaurant that was open til 4am, so we found a pizza dive that was open until 3.  We kicked some video game ass while the pies cooked.  Then things got stupid.

A heavy-lidded woman appeared from nowhere and started sticking to Alan, caressing his face.

"Who did this to you?!"

I raised my hand, and then she stuck to me.  She had a commanding grip on my date-arm and for a moment we held hands, causing me to drop my pizza in the parking lot.

We tried to make a cordial escape but she climbed on top of me in the van.  We all declined blow jobs and as I started the van, a wallet fell out of the woman.  It was Alan's.  And it was missing money.  Not very rubber.

We questioned her about the missing money but all she seemed to want to talk about was blow jobs.  Not rubber, Akron.  Not rubber.

We retreated to a motel and fell asleep to the sweet growls of a Bon Scott AC/DC concert that was on TV.  

The Bitter Tears have decided to boycott the use of rubber for the remainder of this tour.  We are walking to Cleveland tomorrow.  In wing tips.

June 20 - Medusa, Minneapolis

We all brought toothbrushes, except Mike, who bought one.  But we all counted on someone else to bring toothpaste.  So Mike bought that, too and we headed toward the Twin Cities.  Just for a fun photo op we stopped by the site of the apartments where Jeffrey Dahmer lived.  Classy!

Wisconsin is dotted with water parks, robot worlds, garish moose statues and cheese churches.  

I swear I saw an Oompah Loompah at the Mouse House.

Located at a dead end on the other side of the light rail tracks sits Medusa, a one-time auto garage-turned-electric office-turned-DIY squat house.  

Another blunderland of antiquated electronics, fixed gear culture, and vegan values.  Medusa is a place you might wake up with that sore throat again.

The detached, clever detail is impressive, particularly a brown antique motor home with an interior decorated to arouse taxidermists.  I tried to share my enthusiasm about the motor home with a guy bringing in more boxes of forgotten fun, but he just stared through me like a Wes Anderson extra.

After some groggy wiffleball we walked to a restaurant called Hard Times.  I ate something called the Haystack, which is gutterpunk for “nachos.”  They insist you tip them, even though it is you who writes down the order, how much it costs, picks it up, and busses the table.  The waitress was of the surly variety, like a Jolly Green Giant that wasn’t jolly or green.  Back at Medusa, a hanger-on was wondering if the touring band was heading west after this because he wanted to catch a ride.  Somewhere in there I acquired a metal shaving in my left palm.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, the coffee comedown, or the lack of toothpaste, but I was starting to feel like Andy Rooney:  I think there's a cover at the door.  Five dollars, but it’s vegan dollars.

A cute trio called Skinner or Skipper or Skimper played garage pop with a Kindercore vibe.  The drummer had two floor toms and looked like Veronica Lodge.

“Nice set,” I said later.  “T’anks,” she replied with unfriendly sarcasm.  

Huh.  Maybe she thought I was talking to her tits or something.  Fuckin I dunno.

While changing into our beautiful costumes The Bitter Tears were accosted by two girls on drug pills.  One of them had a knife that she was using to create comedy.  The hilarious knife poked John in the breast.  This must be some of that new Andy Kaufman-style of humor.

Then what.  We played.  It was fun.  It was hot.  There was no water.  Do-In-Yourself.  Alan and Mike started a chant of "I hate life" that almost caught on.  And the kids got to vent about their dads on Fathers Day.

Skoal Kodiak was next.  The music created its own mosh pit.  John got in there.

Marijuana Death Squad followed.  3 drummers.  Or was it four?

I slept in the van, pretending the frequent sound of dudes pissing was a waterfall cassette.  The others slept somewhere.  Andy Rooney bullshit aside, it was a wonderful night in Minneapolis.  The turnout was kookoo.  They've got a good thing going on there.

At 8am the grime-clown circus headed back home for a few days of rest.  I mean day jobs.

June 19 - Sugar Maple, Milwaukee, WI

What if The Bitter Tears played some shows again, only this time we played them in different towns to different people?  We posed this question to ourselves and created The B.Y.O.B.O.B.G.Y.N. Tour, a brief summer romp for women and men.  First stop:  Milwaukee.

It rained a lot for no reason.  Nobody seemed to know why.  The rain came down like it had a temper, enough to close the highway near the Wisconsin border.  We took a detour by a dog track that dragged us through a lake.  It was dark and forever but we made it to Milwaukee and the fabulous Sugar Maple.  

We loaded our damp gear onto the stage, got pretty and began the show.

Good crowd that Milwaukee.  Nice turnout for such a flake-friendly night.  And polite, too.  They engaged us in a mocking dialogue about America’s dairyland, which we blamed for getting our instruments all wet and dangerous.  Alan supplied us with a new tooth rot color: green.  Verdict: Thicker body, same great taste.

During “Moline,” Greg and Mike started a synchronized dance, and for a second they were the Famous Flames.  With hemeroids.  Alan’s audience-polarizing light stick eventually worked, paving the way for an observation from Greg about anti-semetic propaganda films that was almost polarizing.

Unfortunately, due to the soppiness we missed Pezzettino.  But we did catch Scarring Party, who played tuba-tickled jim jams at 78 rpm.  It was a good fit.  We look forward to more megaphone crooning with them in Chicago soon.

Thanks to Bruno at Sugar Maple, we sampled lots of interesting beers that made us say funny, important things that we can’t remember.  DJ from Ifihadahifi stopped by and we shared blurry anecdotes or opinions about vinegar and cilantro.

It was decided at 2am that for ninety minutes we should all eat omelettes.  Except John, who remains unpredictable with a menu.  I think he got a bagel for some reason.  Isa from Scarring Party joined us and we talked about more memorable things that I don’t recall.  I do remember that she was cool and the fluorescent lights were actually sky lights.

Shane Hochstetler put us up at his studio, Howl Street Recording.  Too bad “Hitler Greg” wouldn’t let us record there.  What a socialist fascist.  On the walls hung tree bark from Europe, creating a rustic, cozy atmostphere for sleeping bag slumber.  

I slept on a drum riser like a rock and roll animal in the wild; living, breathing, and snoring the Rock.   I mean Country.  I keep forgetting that we are a Country & Western band.