Olives and saying goodbye.

Though lady luck says I'm trying a little too hard with this lonely drummer character of mine, there's something endearing and compelling about him that I can't give up on. So as chronologically fucked-up as it may be, here's another installment. This is him leaving for the tour.

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My last lucid memory is of what a mess things were. The things in my apartment of course. I don’t usually like remembering things like that, or using words like “Lucid” either. But I was unprepared for our departure today. I didn’t give a shit anymore. The rancid state of my apartment didn’t help matters either. Rotting food had sat atop a pile of dishes for the past two weeks. I was beginning to get comfortable to the thought of constant “Road food” again. I hadn’t emptied an ashtray in over a month either. Preparation is key.

This tour already felt different. Rushed. I’d been smoking more lately but growing increasingly lazy at the same time. I couldn’t force anything down my stomach but olives. The only effort I’d put into my day to day life during this six week break was introducing myself to a new type of olives. (Kalamata, if any of you give a shit) I felt like asking Bassist Luke if a portable fridge was a possibility on our van this time around. But I quickly ditched that notion. Like I said, I was growing lazy.

I’d wanted to pack last night but a “Charlie’s Angel’s” marathon had me a little pre-occupied. It was all I could do to wake up this morning to begin with. I’d committed so many injustices on Farah Fawcett’s body throughout sleep that reality didn’t seem like much of an option. But a text-message from my cable company reminding me of my long-overdue bill reminded me that there was work to be done. Bills to pay. I might have been able to seduce Farah into marriage had I slept a few minutes longer.

Luckily packing didn’t cut into my standard 8 minute morning routine. Only owning 3 t-shirts will do that to a drummer. Bassist Luke didn’t like the looks of the last photo shoot and pulled the plug early on. While the photographer was way too fucked on coke for his own good and wanted us to be a band we most certainly were not, I could have used a crack at that wardrobe. Fuck knows both my credit cards have been red-flagged everywhere from Macy’s to 7-Eleven.

Red Brookswood High t-shirt? Check. Blue wool sweater, for smoke breaks? Check. Carton of Winstons, a gift from my resilient, chain-smoking landlord? Double check. I told that old bag I’d do her proud when we played her hometown of Duluth. Though I’d had three whiskey cokes by that point, if I remember correctly. I’m quite sure I was askng for an extension on the rent. I know for a fact I got one.

So this is our eighth North American tour, wrapped into a shitty old gym bag. I don’t have a goddamned clue where I got this gym bag. Sometimes I wake up not having a goddamned clue what I have to do that day. That’s only when I’m off the road of course. I drank half a litre of Kalamata olives straight from the jar and lit up a Winston. I wondered for a brief moment why I was leaving this paradise. Then I heard the cab honking one floor beneath me. The road beckons. Slammed the door on the filth I call home.