How come there are so many gorgeous people living in big cities? Do all of the attractive people in each part of the country just decide to live within the same 10 blocks of each other at all times? Do they do it just so they can be close enough to one another to share jeggings and hair care tips? I love the looks on everyone’s gorgeous and well-maintained faces when we pull up in our huge tour van and the door swings open to let loose a pile of degenerate Canadian degenerate slobs.
When we are driving through an area highly populated by the genetically advantaged, like all groups of men in each other’s company, we always start yelling the vilest shit. The kind of irredeemable comments that would make you lose your job mopping up a porno theatre. This is particularly so when the windows are rolled up and everyone is in a good mood. It’s kind of just what guys do, because deep down, all men are monsters. My favourite moment is when someone in the van sees a pair of nice legs further down the road and comments on them, only for them to turn out to be that of a man, or worse: it’s a girl that’s way too young.
That’s an awkward moment ain’t it?
“Dudes look at that girl all the way down the street at the cross walk. That chicks a 10!”
“Bro, I’m pretty sure she IS 10.”
Good from far, far from good.
Seattle is one of those places where all the people are beautiful, but the weather sucks, so no one gets to goddamn enjoy it! Maybe that’s why Kurt Cobain was so troubled: instead of the women of his era wearing yoga pants and tube tops, they all wore long johns, flannel shirts and jeans. They all looked like Al Borland from Home Improvement with tits. We played at a small bar called “the Kraken”. The stage was so small that when I leaned back during our performance, Mason's jittering crash cymbal would bite at me. At one point I remember getting too much momentum towards the end of the stage and my legs failed. I have the grace and balance of Bambi on a frozen pond. As I was careening towards the edge of the stage my stupid legs buckled and I clumsily went flying off the stage, hit the floor in a front roll and ended up flying out the front doors of the bar with my guitar around my neck!
I was so exited to hop across the border into Canada for 36 hours and a gig in Vancouver. I may have had to do 2 border crossings in 3 days, but hey, they know how to make coffee the way I like. Everyone split up all over the city except Mason, Adam and I ended up spending the night at my cousin Colin's place. He is endlessly interesting because he was a professional nightclub musician and comedian in the 70’s, travelling all across Canada as a one-man band. It goes without saying that he has a ton of great stories. I remember him asking me what the difference was between our first album Beers from the Grave and our new album Psychonaut. I told him, “the main difference is that as I get older I have a greater wealth of experience, therefore I have more to write about and wield more colours to paint with. My first album is full of songs that were basically written about my dick.” He looked at me, took a pull on his cigar and said, “Short songs, huh?”
Never too old for a dick joke.
The next day we went for a walk along the Seawall. Me and Mason took turns making fun of the corny boat names and punished each other for a few kilometers with potential cheesy boat monikers. “Hey, how about 'Yacht-zy…'” "Ugh. 'What are you talking a-boat?'" Just then, out of nowhere I felt a drip on the top of my head. In my heart of hearts, I knew that it was either bird shit or a drop of water from a leaf in a tree above me. Being a rare clear-skied sunny Vancouver day, the odds were against me. Trust me when I say that I have never prayed for rain so badly in all of my life. I ran my hand through my hair and looked at my hand, and it was definitely the excrement of another species. Birds really are a bunch of son-of-a-guns. Through millions of years of evolution they possess the power shit and piss a substance that looks like cum out of one hole. I pray for mankind to go through that kind of evolutionary progress, because it would save a lot of time in the morning and it would stimulate the economy. And they can fly! I had no idea how to react to getting shit on, as we were walking around in daytime public. I got about 10 strides in until I had to confess and subject myself to the laughter of my brother and bass player. “Hey guys, I just got shit on!” I incoherently yelled as I lumbered into the first business I could find, which turned out to be a very fancy seaside steakhouse. At the front desk there was a greeter, 2 beautiful waitresses and a couple of the bar tenders, all female, just hanging out, shooting the shit after the lunch rush. I needed to come clean, so to speak. I look at one of them very earnestly in the eyes and confessed as though I needed help hiding a body: “I just got shit on by a bird, do you have a washroom I can ruin?” One of the beautiful waitresses pointed me down the pristine hallway where I kicked the door open and took a whores bath in the sink.
What a way to start the day. After that encounter with the bird, the rest of my day seemed way more tolerable. I should start my days by getting pooped on more often. The rest of the day becomes far less shitty *rimshot!*. Be sure to tip your waitresses, folks!
|Rough Approximation of Douchebag in Question|
Our gig in Vancouver was at a place called the Astoria. An old joint on East Hastings Street, where our van was vandalized with yogurt 2 years ago. When we got there, for whatever reason the bands were all setting up on the floor in front of the stage. This made us susceptible to drunken buffoonery by the audience which would inevitably fuck with our set and equipment. One guy in particular was driving me up a wall. As we were performing, he kept bombing the "stage" and taking out my microphone. He cheekily unplugged Mason's fan like that guy in the movie Airplane. He then started walking through the stage to take a short cut to the washroom and "accidentally" kicked out our power (Jury's still out on that one). Finally he came charging towards me again near the end of the set and I grabbed him by the neck and threw him back into the darkened audience. After we played I asked someone who was working at the bar who the hell that dude was and why he was being such an insufferable prick. And he said “Dude, that guy is one of your biggest fans. He has been looking forward to seeing you for 2 years and has been promoting the shit out of this gig!”
After our set, we were just hanging out and relaxing by the bar when all of the sudden a fist fight broke out on the floor. I saw one gentleman out of nowhere start to absolutely sucker-punch a dude with a series of drunken haymakers. Then like all bar fights, friends of the brawlers and brave bystanders hopped in to try to pull them off each other. Before long, the fight resembled an aggressive rugby scrum as a cartoonish tornado of fists began shifting all over the room until it ended up on the floor space where our gear was sitting. The group began inadvertently stomping inadvertently all over Eytan’s music equipment in the process. Just as soon as everyone involved was finally thrown out, a second fight broke out near the bar. I couldn’t believe it. The rest of the Fatality guys and I stood there; feeling annoyed and we began anxiously singing “Oh, Canada.”
We couldn’t wait for the next day to get back to the USA where everyone had been so pleasant for the past 2 months.
Spencer “ A lover not a fighter, also not a lover” LeVon
Tune in to our tour Podcast at: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/podcast/fatalitys-backseat-levoncast/id640852941
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