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.