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!