September 27 - West Germany, Berlin

Driving on the Autobahn is surprisingly relaxing. Simply put the pedal down as far as it goes and stay out of the way. Meanwhile you have forests of tall trees smacking of skewered broccoli to enjoy. I got the van up to 155 kilometers per hour. That’s as fast it can go. It drives behind the beat.

While Greg took the final leg of the tour, I drank all the leftover beer that had been in the van for weeks. It made for an especially grueling load-in at West Berlin, located on the fourth floor of a pisserific squat. The soundman was checking the reverberated mics with “Pryzbylweskiii,” “Jimmy McNultyyy,” and “Ooommaaaarrr,” proving that, like love and horrible cover bands, The Wire is a universal language.

It was the last show of the tour. Our friend Al Burien was there, and a few other people. It was a Sunday. Germany had elected a conservative knob into office on this day and Berlin was bummed. Most of them stayed home and obeyed their sadness. One of them went out and ate the leftover Lebanese food that Mark the promoter was gracious enough to provide.

When I was 16 I played in an ungoogleable band called The Somaheads. For a brief period a fellow named John Donald was in the band. We played a show in a basement and then he moved on. Before his departure he gave me a cassette full of rare Misfits (including the then-unheard 7” version of “Cough/Cool”) that I still own.

John now lives in Berlin and fronts Human Elephant, the other band on the bill. It was great to see John again after close to twenty years. He looks good and now dons a German accent, which limbos down to a baritone when he sings. Human Elephant played loose, confident art rock. Dark orange music projected against a cute, thick Mustang bass and a tambourine chorus of “Terrorist! Heroin!” Thank you, Human Elephant.

The Bitter Tears played the last show of the tour. It was the anticlimax that it is supposed to be. Kinda like this post. The Berliners were very kind though and more than one described the set as a “fairytale.” Thank you, Berlin.

The tour is over! Despite the fact that we are returning home as paupers, it was a success in many ways. A big thanks to Magnolia Electric Co., Simmo, and all the bookers that made sure we were treated well. Thank you to everyone who fed us and put us up on couches, mattresses, and floors. The kindness of strangers in letting a motley mess of make-up caked Americans into their homes is extraordinary. Also, thanks to everyone who has read this.

I like touring and I like writing this blog. I will continue doing both.

September 26 - Freihaus, Hielbronn Germany

Heilbronn is a town in Southern Germany known for its vineyards, 

and for its punks who think the wine farmers are fat dumkoffs.  We arrived uncharacteristically early and characteristically hungry.  Schnitzel was what we craved so we went to a graveyard.  Next to the graveyard was a sports bar that served traditional German food.  However, since it was Saturday and football trumped lunch in importance, they were only offering chicken foot.  We declined.  From the graveyard you could hear the ghost of Sammy Hagar laughing at us.

After a decent spread of Turkish food, Mike, Justyna and I retired to the graveyard for a nap.  Alan’s limp followed him like a shadow.  In his new Parisian sunglasses he resembled a crippled Elvis.  Greg and Esther perused the city center where a shopping festival would occur until midnight.

I woke up surrounded by a rag tag bunch of camouflaged vagabonds, looking to see if I was dead.  Before they could begin digging, I walked to the Freihaus, which ended up being a photography studio.  A nice man in a Black Sabbath T-shirt, Serge, decorated the room and our senses with spray paint.  Lots of people popped in and out, mostly on skateboards and dressed in black.  The owner of the studio took some individual glamour shots of Mike, Alan and myself.

Serge’s girlfriend, Anka, made us dinner in their home.  She is an artist and a funny one at that.  We asked her if she enjoyed skateboarding.

“I tried it but I failed.  I am a skateboard loser.”

Back at the Freihaus, Liquid Kitty got things off to a nutty fun start.  Part Jan and Dean Ramone, part German drinking music.  These two clean guys danced with each other all night, like a blond version of the sinister Mongoose twins from Rad.  They would win Hellband but not before Mike and I hopped around competitively throughout the entire set.  High knees and kicks with a big beer spilling dosie-d'oh.  It was decided that the night would be wacky.

The set was lots of fun.  The Germans want to dance, and they want to rock.  They have no time for banter.  They will tell you to shut up.  They will tell you to stop.  They will call what you do shit.  They will laugh.  They will want more of your shit.

Anka put applied tooth rot to her smile, which was met with inquisitive horror.  A guy smeared in Bitter Tears make-up came dressed as a Sandwich(!).  It was packed like a Vice Magazine trust fund crud party.  The Do’s and Don’ts danced against the zine covered walls.   During “Murdered At The Bar, “ a flashlight poked through the door.  It was a cop.  He was dressed all in brown, the lederhosen tickling his ribs.  He shone the light on Mike and they made eye contact.  Esther delicately played Chopin.  Curiosity and fear shone on the whiskers of his moustache.

We played some of our silent hits while the cop stood outside googling Reno 911.  The Germans didn’t want any of that silent crap.  They wanted it loud and they wanted it now.  A man backstage (the office of the photography studio) yelled “Red” at me too many times, indicating that he wanted me to put my beer bottle in the red recycling bin.  Then he pointed at the stage and shouted “Play!” just as many times.  I hid.

 

Brushes were used for the first time on a drum kit during “Lightning.”  While “Oiling” played very cautiously, Mike interviewed the chatty audience with a mute microphone.  A guy yelled “Fuck the ‘60’s!”  We said good night to a trashed studio full of sloppy loudmouths.

The Germans wanted to hang out.  They wanted to talk about music.  We mentioned David Hasselhoff.  Mike got on the ground to perform his YouTube impersonation of the drunk hamburger-eating star of Baywatch.  A pirate in Cure eyeliner began beatboxing and disco-calling the German singing sensation’s surname.  Mike started breakdancing.  Brokedance.

We were offered to play a party for no pay at 2 or 3 or whatever time it was.  Mike offered them his pants.

September 25 - L'Emile Vache, Metz France

We are showing signs of wear.  I have the sniffles.  Greg’s sleep-deprivation driving is depriving the rest of us of sleep.  Mike has the sniffles. The wives remain silent, trapped in the middle seats.  Alan broke his toe on a Dutch bathroom.  He is walking with a limp now. We all look like post-housecleaning Wilma Flintstones.

For some reason, The Netherlands has crazy traffic on its rural bi-ways.  At least there are pretty cows and hot air balloons and car accidents to look at while you wait.  We drove through Luxembourg and it is that.

Metz is a great town.  Its people are warm and kind, and come with a sense of humor.  Across the street from L’Emile Vache is a castle with a river that flows underneath it.  You can walk through the castle.  You can run drunk through the castle in a dress if you’d like.  If you’re really stupid you can invincibly climb over the railings in your dress and realize it’s a 40-foot drop to delicious looking river below.  And you should get back to the club.

Ahhh, a proper club.  With a bar and food and ordinary townsfolk.  It was a free show and the turnout was a Metz mish mash of hipsters, straights, and gays.  We played with an Olympia band from Germany called Blockshot.  The singer was a female Mark Mothersbaugh, her dancing robotic and angular.  Very honest and funny and very German.

“This song is about Metz and how it kills itself.”

“When your heart breaks it creates more surface area.”

The keyboard player pounded his synthesizer in a way that made Mike miss John’s boxing glove flourishes with The Bitter Tears.  John!

We changed in the kitchen.  Tonight was my drunk show.  Both “Inbred Kings” and “The Companion” open without drums.  I used that time to get more beer.  The bartender put some liquor in my beer and I don’t know why I drank it. 

The rest of the night is a blur.  A cute French brunette talked to me while I was still wearing my nightie and we exchanged names on slips of paper.  I forgot that I had blue and yellow make up all over my face when I stumbled into a mellow tapas bar.  The slow dancing couples weren’t into my jaundiced tranny trip and I was told there were no more tapas.  Then some aggressive, happy men helped us load the van and initiated the topic of blow jobs.  They goofed up the windshield wipers and I stage dived into the hood of the van.  Greg thought this was really cool.

Mike and I walked the deserted streets of Metz until we found a late night doner kabob place.  The doner kabob continues its reign as my favorite late night drunk food.  The US needs doner, the enlightened man’s gyro.  Hop to it, Obama.

Hey!  L’Emile Vache put us up in a hotel!  With a bed!  And a shower!  And a bed!  And a shower!  And a bed!!  My broken camera and drunken idiocy cannot erase from my mind the kindness and loveliness of Metz.  Suck it, Toulouse!

September 24 - Havenkwartier, Deventer Holland

Havenkwartier is a community space next to a river.  A weathered work boat rests on its dock.  Truck drivers figure out their routes in the parking lot.  Homesick American men walk around in dresses getting looks from the truck drivers.  The truck drivers leave.

Laorens put this show together at the last minute.  The government would pay for it.  During load-in we found a footprint of dried Toulouse dog shit on a drum case.  We were tired of paying for it.

Boutros Bubba was up first.  They played math rock in English with a Dutch sense of humor.  A song about a friend who got stabbed in the stomach and chest revealed that honestly he was more of an acquaintance than a friend.  Most of the audience preferred taking pictures to dancing.  I wish they would send me some of their pictures.  My camera has taken a beating on this tour.  After I dropped it for the 400^th time, it punished me and I lost two days worth of photos.

Anyway.  We played a set and it worked.  Alan had the chandeliers illuminated.  Esther tried tooth rot for the first and probably last time.

“Oh no!  My smile!”

I bounced a stick off the floor tom during the two-beat rest in “Stumper” and this time I caught it.

We played another silent encore with “Cairo.”  It’s the Pixies-Nirvana quiet verse-loud chorus bit.  But to the extreme.  Like surfing a beef jerky snowboard down a canyon of harsh Mountain Dew.

Afterward, Laorens put us up at his flat.  He had fed us home cooked pasta, provided lots and lots of wine, left eggs and bacon for us to cook in the morning, and gave me The Rolling Stones and the Making of Let It Bleed to read during the boring green drive ahead.  Greg and Esther enjoyed good conversation with Generous Laorens and Boutros Bubba until 4:30 while I slept under a table and Mike slept in the van.  Again.

September 23 - DAY OFF, Paris

It was our first day off from the van life.  We all split up to get some time to ourselves in Paris.

I visited the Pere-Lachaise cemetery.  It’s set up like a putt-putt village of death, with little street signs that organize the grandfather clock tombs into wards. Locals come to the cemetery to hang out and read.  It’s really quite something.  Follow the dirt bags and you will find the grave of Jim Morrison.  I heard my first southern accent in months.  “71, huh?”  It was like Heavy Metal Parking Lot.  A few blocks down from Morrison is the grave of Chopin, clustered with blue hairs figuring out their digital cameras.  It was like Neil Diamond Parking Lot.

The grave of the journalist Noir depicts the man lying down with a bulge of arousal trying to escape his unzipped pants.  It is said to be good luck to rub the bulge, and it remains discolored there from decades of lucky people.  A trio of German college girls giggled as one of them rubbed Noir’s eternal hard-on.  I miss my girlfriend.

Paris is saturated in romance.  On a Wednesday afternoon couples were everywhere: holding hands, kissing, making out.  Along the river, women rested their heads and legs on their man’s lap.  People made out while they walked.  The women wore clothes that flattered and revealed their natural curves.  I really miss my girlfriend.

I walked a lot.  From the cemetery to Bastille, to Notre Dame, to the Louvre, to the Eiffel Tower, to the Arc de Triumph.  I heard lots of American accents.  “Where’s the tunnel where Princess Leia was killed?  Where’s the Palace of Justice?  I wanna get Batman’s autograph.  There’s four of us, let’s get our picture taken crossing Jim Morrison’s grave.  Who’s gonna take off their shoes?”

You win, Paris.  You’re beautiful.  You really are.  I was here last year for all of four hours on Bastille Day.  Everything was closed and it was a cramped, choking experience.  I skulked around with a baguette and a bad attitude.  To me it seemed like Paris was the hot girl in school who dated all the jocks and wouldn’t give me the time of day.  But today I got to sit next to her at a mandatory pep rally.  I saw her cheer and laugh.  And move.  She seemed like fun.  I still may not understand her or get invited to her crappy parties, but she is beautiful to look at.

The hotel was just a few blocks down from the Moulin Rouge.  Next to Sexorama, The Sexy Shop, and across the street from Pussy’s.  I wanted to get a beer somewhere and rest my aching feet.  All the bars that looked interesting ended up being brothels.  I walked into a bar playing dance music.  So I walked out.  I thought I would get a helmet and try some virtual reality cybersex.  But all the shops were out of this.  A woman grabbed my arm and wanted me to come with her.  Her tug turned into a pull and I had to use a yank to remove myself from her clutches. 

I miss my girlfriend.

September 22 - Travel day, Toulouse to Paris

Just lots of driving.  We’ve mostly been eating rest stop food.  Please don’t put a sandwich in one of those burnt presses that turns it into an antique football.  It makes me grumpy.  We did magically run into Cowtown at said rest stop.  They had come from an evening of camping and seemed chipper.

We were not chipper.  By the time we reached suburban Paris it was 9 o’clock.  The van handled the Parisian traffic like a tilt-a-whirl.  Mike was burnt out on Glen Campbell, Esther read The Golden Compass in the dark, Alan and Justyna were burnt out on Tetris, Greg sang endless pop choruses, I had to pee-iss, and we had nowhere to stay.

Electrical Audio’s reputation came to the rescue once again in La Frette.  Lionel, a former engineering intern happened to work at La Frette, a recording studio housed in a 3-story, 20-room mansion, once owned by Professor Plum.  What started as a visit while Lionel mixed Plants and Animals’ new album soon turned into an invitation to a sleepover.  We gladly accepted.

Mike cooked dinner for us, and did his best with gas station vegetables and gas station cus cus.  Luckily the studio was equipped with lots of old powdering spices and curries.  It would be the healthiest thing we would eat all tour.  While dinner simmered, Alan and Esther played original compositions on a Bosendorfer piano.  It felt like playing a piano made of dominoes.

After dinner we retired like zombies to our rooms in the mansion.  The ghosts of bands past sung us to sleep.  To think that just last night we were in dirty Toulouse, doubling up in bunk beds shared with spiders.  Spiders, ghosts, and zombies.

September 21 - Pavillons Sauvages, Toulouse France

I asked my friend from 1985, Henry Rollins, to translate today’s experience through his eyes.  Here is what Henry had to say:

A rooster woke me up.  Just like in the fucking cartoons.  Cock-a-doodle-doo!  It only made me stronger.  The others woke up because of the rotten smells of skinhead feet and skinhead sneezes on the pillows.  We loaded the gear and got the hell out of there.  See ya, Spain.

I didn’t get any sleep.  I never do.  I guess that’s just how I am.  So I drove the whole way to France.  Alone.  In the dark.   In the afternoon.  I saw Alan sleeping during my drive.  He looked so sleepy and peaceful.  I wanted to punch his throat off.

Toulouse is a dog shit town.  It’s covered in dog shit.  We showed up at the dog shit venue and some butt-faced hippie gets in our face about load in and shit.  If I have to talk to one more fucked up hippie that claims that an abandoned warehouse with a couple of car seats and some vegan idiot drooling on the floor is a venue I’m going to rip out his dreadlocks and use them to jump rope.  I could build a club with what’s left of his face.

It was laundry day.  In France all the laundromats are in French or some shit.  We had to ask this girl doing her laundry how to operate the machines.  She never even looked at me.  In my mind I saw myself folding laundry with her.  I pictured her pushing me away.  I saw her walk further and further away.  I saw myself alone.  In darkness.  Forever.  I wonder what a woman would ever see in me anyway.  Never trust anyone.

We wanted to get some steak tartar but in France if it’s 5 o’clock, you’re fucked.  We ended up eating sandwiches and pizza.  This country should be napalmed.

We had to do an interview for French radio.  Interviews are such bullshit.  It’s nothing but pointless masturbation of the ego.  I don’t need anyone to know anything about me or The Bitter Tears.  If you want to hear our music you should be in the fucking band.  The DJ was this blind skinhead who got in our face about America.  We told him America was about abortion.  It was great.  It figures that skinhead DJ was blind.  You have to be blind to be a skinhead.  Blind to the truth.

Les Koboi du Bitum laid waste to the stage.  They were amazing.  Two French guys with shower-head microphones drilled to their guitars singing, “Shit!  Thank you!  Good night!”  Their drummer was a shitty Casio keyboard.  It was the most amazing set that I have ever seen.  After the set I told them how great they were.  They offered me a beer.  I told them that beer was a crutch and crutches are for the weak.  I threw a cup of black coffee in their face and walked away.  Nobody seemed to understand.  That’s okay.  I’m used to it.

We were next.  We launched into “Rough n’ Ready” like a bomb and the place exploded.  The Tears were on fire.  We played our asses off.  No show in the history of this dog shit country will ever compare to this show.  Greg’s cheeks were so intense from playing trombone he had to ice them on some homo’s keg of beer.  Esther’s keyboard was covered in hot blood from her own broken fingers.  She played the ass off that keyboard.  Justyna was bouncing off the walls freaking out the skinheads.  Mike and I jammed out on these amazing rests in “Vanilla Bean” while Alan lashed around in the crowd.  In the lights he looked like an ancient Aztec warrior performing a spiritual erotic forest fire dance.  When it was all over the crowd just stood there.  So we just stood there, too.  Then we played a silent version of “Cairo” that kicked in at full volume in the chorus.  Toulouse was ours and they knew it.  Fuck ‘em.  At the end of the day it’s just the same set of assholes.

After the show we waited three hours for the guy who was putting us up to finish cleaning the venue.  It was fucked.  But it was discipline.  You have to respect that.

While loading out all the gear myself I stepped in some dog shit.  The dog shit was on the concrete.  I felt like I was the dog shit.  And the concrete.  A stinking pile of waste strangulated by cold, hard truth.  You can try to walk around it but that’s just a lie.  Some way or another that dog shit is going to find its way into your soul.  I sat in the darkness and inhaled the dog shit.  In darkness I can do no wrong.

Get In The Van by Henry Rollins is available from 2.13.61.

September 20 - Bonberenea, Tolosa Spain

A Spanish breakfast of eggs & zucchini, mushrooms, toast with tomato spread & olive oil, coffee, and orange juice was served family style with Cowtown.  We took our time.  I usually equate breakfast with huge American or English cavalcades of fat eaten fast, but I could certainly get used to a lighter longer ritual.  Muchas gracias to Danny and the Arrebato in Zaragoza.

In the green foggy hills of the Basque country lies Tolosa, a small town at the bottom of a long and winding road.  After some directions from a quiet mountain boy, it leads to the door of the garish wonderland known as Bonberenea.  A former factory, it has been converted into a rock venue-skate park-recording studio.  It is decorated as meticulously as it is organized.  

There was a bizarro element to the afternoon.  When the sun came out it started to rain.  So the clouds came back and chased it away.  I took a walk and stumbled upon live chickens and a rooster milling about a swing set.  Cowtown arrived and immediately took advantage of the soccer field.  On the other side of the fence was a pyramid of dead cars.  Mike played basketball while Esther and Justyna found ponies to feed and berries to eat.  We were starving.

Our soundman was maybe 14.  The videographer girl was 12.  The boy who took our picture for historical purposes was pushing 11.  It felt like we were playing Pee Wee's Playhouse.  I think the doorman was a talking chair.

In the lounging rooms it felt great to relax and catch up with life back home.  We were right next to the kitchen and its strong garlic aromas.  Alan distracted our hunger with some piano.  It was too cold for a dip in the pool and no one was in the mood for foosball.  While Mike and Alan did a radio interview in the press room I listened to men with power saws constructing gigantes.

I guess we were playing then eating.  Good thing the show started an hour late.  It was a Sunday and the turnout would be small.  Cowtown slammed through their set.  I could swear I saw a thought balloon filled with fresh greens float above Hillary's head.

Between sets they played mostly AC/DC and an extended remix of Filter's "Hey Man Nice Shot."  The Bitter Tears played a sloppy set to the stoic Basques, but mostly talked to them.  I had a bum drum fill during "Stumper," and thought I could recover by doing it again in the next measure.  I ended up flubbing the flub and sounded downright incompetent.  The silent boy playing banjo with us in the corner stopped left through the set.  No one seemed to mind though.  It was that kind of a show.  Perhaps if we had eaten...

Around 11 we ate.  It was delicious.  Now time for bed.

The bedroom was filled with mattresses and bunks.  In theory both bands would sleep on the beds Fleetwood Mac-style.  But I snore.  Especially with a belly full of chorizo, pasta and potatoes.  So I slept Chickenfoot-style with a rooster.

September 19 - Arrebato XV Aniversario Fest, Zaragoza Spain

Signs along the jagged, peach terrain between Madrid and Zaragoza showed mountains crying.  The jet engine roar of outdoor hardcore led us to the Arrebato 15^th year anniversary festival.  Fifteen years is a long time for anything, but it’s especially impressive for a collective of musicians that receive constant scorn and legal stress from the normales.  In the midst of the 120 bpm maelstrom an elderly woman slowly approached, struggling to walk but having no trouble voicing her anger about the racket.  I apologized in English.

Mike, Greg, Esther and I walked to the Basilica de Pilar, a Catholic equivalent to the Mall of America.  An awe-inspiring palace showcased several functioning altars, priests reading the Bible in penance booths, their lights gleaming like blue light specials, and as many crucified Jesus feet as there are pursed lips.  I got a postcard for my Mom.  On the way back to the festival I purchased a set of Mary Merche paper dolls from a street vendor.  I thought this could be a gift for my girlfriend, but then I realized it was for me.  I think I’m getting weird.

Javier and Maria drove in from Madrid to catch the show.  They are the most lovely people, somehow familiar with my old band Let’s Get Out of This Terrible Sandwich Shop.  In Spain it seems that the Roydale record label "es el rey."  It was nice to see that wonderful couple in the audience singing and dancing.

It was also nice to see Alan in the audience for “Vanilla Bean,” with a cordless microphone for the first time.  As he muttered his way past the crowd and into an isolated part of the park, a few dogs ran in front of the stage.  Justyna took pictures and helped with merch, though we had to compete with anarchist literature.  Perhaps we should transcribe Alan’s rants and sell them in baggies.

Danny from the festival took care of us, and after a quick spin in Cowtown’s kooky LDV, we met on the 11^th floor roof of a loft filled with a cello, a Rhodes, an electric sitar, and much more.  Lately I’ve been drinking too much and doing or saying stupid things.  Last night I claimed that Dick Cheney’s favorite band was King Crimson.  This was met with silence and in it I went to bed.

September 18 - La Faena, Madrid Spain

Waiting for us in the morning was a sack of bocadillos courtesy of Yiye.  With a full evening of sleep and the simple combination of jamon iberico and queso I gave Greg and Mike the day off from driving.  The continuous downpour gave central Spain the look of a wet mutt.  I adopted the mutt and named it Empenada Empapada.

La Faena is a dodgy-looking collective space divided into sculpture and music. Maria, a Spanish pixie, welcomed us with homemade pizza-like empanadas while Carmello, a bearded cyclist, delivered his homemade Spanish omelette.  Intoxicated by Spain's warm food and hospitality, Mike and I found our broken Spanish slowly mending itself, albeit with Mexican glue.

Alan's wife Justyna arrived, much to Alan's delight.  Before she left for Spain, she and Mike's girlfriend Holli had drinks with John.  John used words like "miserable" and "minefield" to describe what Justyna was in for.  Turns out John is more Rollins than me.

The evening opened with Ameba, my favorite Madrid band.  Three energetic ladies, including Maria, singing heartache harmonies in simple English with vintage gear.  The male rhythm section was led by Carmello's inventive drumming.  A bespectacled Mo Tucker danced when she wasn't playing violin.  Ameba!  Seek them out.

It was the first of three shows with Leeds' Cowtown, who play fun progressive Nintendo rock in colorful resale sweaters.

Madrid was singing our songs while we were singing them.  It was amazing.  Javier from Brazil Recording Studios made it sound great, actually making a live mix as the show happened.

A wonderful man named Manolo showed us around Madrid.  I had been here before when I was ten.  All I wanted to do then was buy a sword and listen to Run-DMC.  Not much has changed.  Too bad we weren't dressed properly or patiently enough to get into the Fabulous Fucker Club.  We ended up at a bar down the street that played classic rock.  I think too much beer happened.  At the end of The Doors' "Alabama Song" I tossed my bottle in the air, and ended up showering the woman next to me in beer.  Outside I saw that the bar was called the American Asshole Club.

With Justyna in the minefield with us, Mike and I are now the only remaining Bitter Tears without companionship.  We were supposed to share a pull-out couch that night, but chose not to explore the off-the-blog possibilities.

September 17 - Due, Don Benito Spain

6am happened.  Crabby lobsters were lowered into the boiling water of dawn.  It would be a twelve hour drive to Don Benito.

The pate I had devoured had transformed back into a pig, and the pig was pissed off.  My stomach was squealing.  My heart choked with vengeful oinks.  It did not feel awesome.

I opted for the back of the van with the gear and luggage.  It was like laying on top of a giant, broken Rubik's Magic Snake.  But I could remain somewhat horizontal and the darkness of dawn could continue.

Somewhere in France it happened.  I rooted blindly through my luggage for some sandwich bags.  I dumped my toiletries from the sandwich bags into the uncomfortable below.  I then placed the vomit I'd been storing in my mouth into the sandwich bags.  I put more newer vomit in the bags until they were full.  Because the sandwich bags had several tiny holes, the fresh, new contents were now dripping onto my sleeping bag.

"Can we pull over?"

We crossed into Spain.  In the front seat now, the nausea daymare continued.  The van passed signs for the town of Mendoza, my surname.  I lifted my glassesless head in time to see a blurry version of the sign whiff by like a strike.

At the next rest stop I could feel lots of eyes on me.  With last night's make-up etched in my neck and a pained, hobbling gait, I looked and felt homeless.  I found a secluded spot behind the rest stop where I could get on all fours and really focus on proper vomiting.  A bicyclist rode past and I gave him or her a wave.  Wouldn't want to make a bad impression.

I revisited dark horizontal anti-pleasures in the back of the van with a plastic bag and a bottle of knock off Gatorade that Mike had graciously bought for me.  Meanwhile Greg and Mike successfully navigated the long haul through the mountains and rain and clouds that refuse to evaporate.

I heard the voice of Yiye greet us in Don Benito.  From the back of the van it sounded like a quaint, generous village in the south of Spain.  After the grueling quest for Don Benito, we sat at a cafe that only served chocolate-glazed pancakes with whipped cream tufts.  I had green tea.

Yiye really took care of us.  He went to the farmacia and got me a bottle of Primperan.  He moved the show from his smaller club to a fancier disco with a larger capacity.  At 9pm he took us out for the first real food we would have that day, a tapas spot owned by his friend.  We were served a special parade of shrimp, croquetas, chorizo iberico, and shaved jamon from the cured pig's leg at the bar.  There was even a chicken and zucchini dish with fresh soft queso made especially for my empty, sobbing stomach.  Everywhere we went people said hello to Yiye, who in turn promoted the Bitter Tears.  He was like an Anarchist Jesus.

The show went incredibly well.  Due's shallow stage obliged us to play side-by-side, like a Bitter Tears shooting gallery.  Mike spoke mostly in Spanish, even translating Alan's "Moline" monologue, to the mysteriously large crowd.  Greg's kooky guitar solo on "Stumper" looked more like a bidet solo on the monitors.  I had to cover my ears with the pigtails of my wig during the audience's piercing whistles, which eventually brought us back for an encore.

After the show a beautiful girl named Maria asked me to sign one of my broken drumsticks.  I had spent the day barfing from both ends.  Greg wanted to feel worse about the van so he drove it into an unseen two-foot pole that damaged the turning signal light.

With two coats of make-up, my Harry Caray glasses, and a pair of cut-offs unwilling to button, I followed the gang to Yiye's bar, Rincon Pio Sound.  With his friend Alejandro a spirited discussion of music and politics and freedom occurred over beers (and water).  Esther read our Berlin friend Al Burian's comic while Greg enjoyed talking about all the damage he has done to the van.

Around 3am more beautiful girls arrived and began molesting Greg's head and Mike's kidneys.  I read an old Mojo article regarding Yoko Ono.  It was time to go.

Yiye guided us to a gated university, where we slept in classrooms outfitted with bunk beds.  It was a soft end to a wonderfully hard day.  Viva Yiye!