I drove up to Santa Barbara with the girls from the police raid incident feeling silly, harebrained and bug-eyed. It was a nice change of pace to be in the company of women after being stuck in the pressure cooker of stink and testosterone that is the Fatality/Zombie Holocaust tour van night after night. Another fine facet about rolling with women is that I got the opportunity to go shopping for a brand new pair of used jeans because my only pair of forlorn trousers were torn into taco meat live on stage in Pomona. I hate shopping for clothing. Women seem to do it for sport but for the most part I can’t stand it. My whole goal is to spend as little fucking time in the store as possible: I find my size, grab a handful and glide purposefully to the change room for further analysis. I grabbed a comical stack of potential pants candidates and selected the one pair that fit my peculiar stubby legs. When we got back into the car and were pulling away I looked at my new denim dwellings and exclaimed, “Shit, I think I just bought girl jeans!” “How do you know?” the girls inquired. “Because the brand on the back tag says ‘The Flirt’ in fruity writing.”
The venue was among the most interesting places we have played on this tour. It was a hookah bar that was BYOB, littered with comfortable couches, black lights and had vintage posters plastered from wall to wall, which gave it that warm welcoming feeling that you would get from hangin’ in your stoner friend’s attic in high school. I was expecting a relaxed and chilled out crowd to match the serene setting but as soon as the show started, a ton of people came out and the crowd just exploded and went apeshit. Couches wrapped around the floor of furious mosh pitters and acted as the ropes of a wrestling ring as these crazy beach town party animals tore the place to shreds, pillow fighting, bouncing off the walls and carrying on in elation and positivity like brothers and sisters with huge smiles on their faces. Zombie Holocaust were electric as always and I could tell that everyone was blown away by the precision and proficiency of Exmortus, including yours truly.
The following night we played in the next big beach town north called Santa Cruz and I was accosted by assholes from start to finish. I am not dismissing the town of Santa Cruz; it is actually an awesome place to party. I am purely reacting to the individual weirdos I encountered that night who seemed to be sent from another dimension to pester me. We were performing at a huge concert hall on the downtown strip called The Catalyst, and I remember getting heckled by a big burly drunk fella right as I was in the middle of pandering from the stage about enjoying my time in Sunny California. He drunkenly misheard me, thinking I said “Southern California” and like a buffoon interrupts me to belch: “Whaaat?! Where exactly do you think you are right now?” Trying to call me out on my geography. It drives me up a wall when people shout at performers during a show. I find it inconsiderate and impolite, on par with someone drinking your last beer and then breaking the bottle against your temple. Nine times out of ten it is because the person is hammered drunk, trying to incoherently participate, but every once in a while you just get a real bona fide, genuine, know-nothing, mouth-breathing, certified, top shelf, dimwit, low watt, dumbfuck, blithering zero. This piece of merde qualified for both categories. I pleaded with him saying: “This might shock you sir, but I am not a geography major, I am just a drunk Canadian with a guitar and microphone.” He shouts, “Where are you from?” I snap back with “Toronto, you asshole. Any more geography questions? It’s not like I’m doing anything right now.” The crowd had a good laugh at his expense. For the duration of the set, just to fuck with him, after every song I would shout out something like “Thank you Chicago!” everyone in the audience got the joke but him. You would just hear a faint voice from the other end of the room: “Whaaat!?” like the oblivious ghost of distracting moron's past.
The downtown strip was just pandemonium that night. I went for a walk to clear my head and stretch out a little. I came to a nice street corner with some grass, a lamp and some bushes where I momentarily took sanctuary. Out of nowhere I saw a pretty blonde girl riding a bike veer off the sidewalk into traffic and get struck by an SUV. She got up and limped off the street while a man hopped out of the car to see if the girl was alright. “I’M FINE! I’M FINE. DRIVE ON,” I heard the girl say in some sort of drug-addled belligerence and biked off into the distance. I remained under my tree as I saw a peculiar looking man dressed in a white t-shirt, white shoes and white sweat pants pattering towards me. You know that feeling when you see a suspicious character walking towards you in public when you are trying to find your own space and you just think, “Oh no… This asshole is about to start talking to me.” He looked me with an arresting dullness and murmured “That’s Catherine for ye, I sometimes jus’ d’know what gets into her…” I just walked away mid-sentence like a jerk.
When I got back to the venue, Adam Zlotnik was engaged in an interminable conversation with a cracked-out gentleman asking him “When was the last time you got robbed?” We just stared him in the eyes and said, “Now what kind of fucking question is that?” Thank goodness Dr. Douche the geography expert came along and hit it off with the crackhead like peaches and stupid cream. They’re getting married next month and are registered at Hooked on Phonics.
Check please! Everyone get in the van now. With both of these deplorable dillweeds lost in conversation I felt like I was floating in a punchbowl with 2 turds. 3 if you count Adam.
Be well,
Spencer “the Flirt” LeVon
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