Awake. Uncurl from the fetal position, the most common way you'll end up on the bench in the van. Stretch out, rub the eyes till they focus.
The sun, having risen a couple hours ago, looks you right in the eye through the window.
You think, "What the fuck do tinted windows do anyway?"
Still spinning from the night before. Too much whiskey, vodka, beer, or whatever booze was free is letting you know right now, it still has business going on inside of you. It's almost expected. As you sit up you let those around you who were smart enough not to set an alarm it's time to get up. The bearer of bad news. They silently loathe you in their own moments of waking. Just a second ago they were somewhere naked with a celebrity.
Their limbs pop like old furniture would creak as they stretch the night from before out and wiggle in their sleeping bags.
Ever take the time to adore how infant like we are in the morning?
Within the hour you are mobile with the others. The van is alive and in full throttle, snarling at the uneven pavement in front of it.
Still haven't got the California plates.
Someone starts telling jokes and reminding you how drunk you were the night before.
Shit, you're lucky if you remember.
A few laughs, maybe a "Hey, fuck you man, she said she lost weight!" or "It's not gay if you don't look down!" Someone else lists off all the alcohol they had to drink last night and how they STILL didn't get drunk. What a great actor.
Before the onramp the circus pulls into a nearby gas station and everyone piles out. Some smoke cigarettes off to the side, some left-hand little snacks, some get coffee. You wonder what kind of life the lady behind the counter is imagining herself living that day as she effortlessly and indifferently gives you your change and shoots you a tired smile. Maybe she was also knee deep in excess last night.
En route to the next state and/or town you fill the time by reading books, listening to music. Some go back to sleep, still sitting up, eyes slightly ajar and mouth wide open. You'd be amazed at how many people snore. It doesn't matter who you are, chances are once you're asleep, you snore too.
Sometimes you think it may be their soul watching over them as they sleep: We're in our most vulnerable state, and our snoring is this little dog with a complex willing to take on anyone or thing with the nerve to invade their territory, standing guard half showing their teeth. Most of the time all it takes is a bump in the road and the little dog runs off, tail between it's legs.
If you end up in the far back of the van by yourself you contemplate the pro's and con's of masturbation into one of your socks and you begin to wonder if someone happened to turn around to see you, what you would do. Dave Attell says you should act surprised. Better make it quick.
Two hundred miles.
Your turn at the wheel; time to drive the circus. It's well into the afternoon. Those who slept are awake and vice versa. Usually when there's a changing of the guard that means there's another stop at a gas station to fill up. Other opportunities are at hand including more coffee using the coffee scam and more granola bars suddenly happening to disappear from the shelf. What's a coffee scam you ask? It involves your cup from the previous station and a clerk who's looking in another direction. Those sad perverts. The smokers smoke and eventually all those who don't want to be stranded climb aboard.
Back on the road you change the music to your liking despite the whines and moans or commentary about it. Using the atlas and a cohesive navigator you see new freeways and take onramps and off ramps and toll bridges and Mack trucks are to your left and your right and you wonder if the driver feels sorry for the livestock they're towing.
The sun creeps through the trees and buildings.
As your destination approaches every one in the van wakes up, shakes off cobwebs, whatever.
You are the viking of this ship.
You imagine having a great red beard and a helmet made from bone and tusks that once belonged to great mammoths you've slayed on previous excursions accompanied by a great flesh stained bludgeoning weapon. Depending on the geographic location and due to liquor laws a stop was made previous to arriving at the venue for purchase of cheap alcohol for after the show.
Maybe a shot or two before won't hurt.
You step out of the van and shake your pants from your legs, maybe a yawn and a stretch. You greet the other bands who are already there and the promoter of the show. Most of the time they're good dudes. After unloading the gear you grab a skateboard from under the middle bench of the van and cruise around for a few minutes, get the blood going. You get back to the venue and instead of the ten kids last night there looks to be closer to thirty in attendance tonight.
A couple kids wade around the table where you set up your t-shirts and cd's for sale. You chat with them and they promise to stay and watch you. Listening to other conversations you can almost call it when someone is about to bring up myspace.
After a local opening band and one of the other bands on this tour, depending on the rotation, you start moving your gear onstage. You say to yourself, out loud even, "Hey that guy has the same cab as me", in passing. Sometimes he'll hear you and surprisingly you'll have a gear head on your hands in which case you better make the conversation quick. Not to be rude, more just cause you're about to play.
The time has arrived.
After a waking hangover, bright sun in your eyes, coffee, chips, funny stares from people who have a limited vocabulary, assholes in traffic, aching back and a groggy-eyed day you and your damn good friends come together and that's when it all makes sense. Kind of like the feeling you get during a fight or a football game or when you win big money or have sex with a new broad. This is when a man feels his sense of purpose and puts his hands on it, tames it, if even just for a short while. The moment belongs to you and whoever you want to share it with. Nothing matters.
The feeling on a personal level, cannot be compared to anything.
You release the moment only to catch it tomorrow.
About thirty minutes later you're feeling what it's like on the other side of the passing as another member from another band says the same comment about your cab and as much you would like to engage in the conversation about why you bought the Ampeg 8x10 instead of a 4x10 and a 15 you give him a smile and get the fuck out of his way. It's his time to grab hold of his own glory and you need a drink.
You slowly realize the night has just begun. You got a bottle in the van waiting to be opened (if it hasn't already), like a lil genie in a lamp just waiting to taste normal life. The remainder of the night is a fork in the road with many options:
Get drunk and pass out?
Maybe on the way send text messages of random gibberish to friends back home?
Perhaps a run to the gas station with some cool kids you met at the show who want more beer and who will buy you food?
Smoke some pot?
Premarital sex?
Those drivers don't give a shit about the livestock.
The sun, having risen a couple hours ago, looks you right in the eye through the window.
You think, "What the fuck do tinted windows do anyway?"
Still spinning from the night before. Too much whiskey, vodka, beer, or whatever booze was free is letting you know right now, it still has business going on inside of you. It's almost expected. As you sit up you let those around you who were smart enough not to set an alarm it's time to get up. The bearer of bad news. They silently loathe you in their own moments of waking. Just a second ago they were somewhere naked with a celebrity.
Their limbs pop like old furniture would creak as they stretch the night from before out and wiggle in their sleeping bags.
Ever take the time to adore how infant like we are in the morning?
Within the hour you are mobile with the others. The van is alive and in full throttle, snarling at the uneven pavement in front of it.
Still haven't got the California plates.
Someone starts telling jokes and reminding you how drunk you were the night before.
Shit, you're lucky if you remember.
A few laughs, maybe a "Hey, fuck you man, she said she lost weight!" or "It's not gay if you don't look down!" Someone else lists off all the alcohol they had to drink last night and how they STILL didn't get drunk. What a great actor.
Before the onramp the circus pulls into a nearby gas station and everyone piles out. Some smoke cigarettes off to the side, some left-hand little snacks, some get coffee. You wonder what kind of life the lady behind the counter is imagining herself living that day as she effortlessly and indifferently gives you your change and shoots you a tired smile. Maybe she was also knee deep in excess last night.
En route to the next state and/or town you fill the time by reading books, listening to music. Some go back to sleep, still sitting up, eyes slightly ajar and mouth wide open. You'd be amazed at how many people snore. It doesn't matter who you are, chances are once you're asleep, you snore too.
Sometimes you think it may be their soul watching over them as they sleep: We're in our most vulnerable state, and our snoring is this little dog with a complex willing to take on anyone or thing with the nerve to invade their territory, standing guard half showing their teeth. Most of the time all it takes is a bump in the road and the little dog runs off, tail between it's legs.
If you end up in the far back of the van by yourself you contemplate the pro's and con's of masturbation into one of your socks and you begin to wonder if someone happened to turn around to see you, what you would do. Dave Attell says you should act surprised. Better make it quick.
Two hundred miles.
Your turn at the wheel; time to drive the circus. It's well into the afternoon. Those who slept are awake and vice versa. Usually when there's a changing of the guard that means there's another stop at a gas station to fill up. Other opportunities are at hand including more coffee using the coffee scam and more granola bars suddenly happening to disappear from the shelf. What's a coffee scam you ask? It involves your cup from the previous station and a clerk who's looking in another direction. Those sad perverts. The smokers smoke and eventually all those who don't want to be stranded climb aboard.
Back on the road you change the music to your liking despite the whines and moans or commentary about it. Using the atlas and a cohesive navigator you see new freeways and take onramps and off ramps and toll bridges and Mack trucks are to your left and your right and you wonder if the driver feels sorry for the livestock they're towing.
The sun creeps through the trees and buildings.
As your destination approaches every one in the van wakes up, shakes off cobwebs, whatever.
You are the viking of this ship.
You imagine having a great red beard and a helmet made from bone and tusks that once belonged to great mammoths you've slayed on previous excursions accompanied by a great flesh stained bludgeoning weapon. Depending on the geographic location and due to liquor laws a stop was made previous to arriving at the venue for purchase of cheap alcohol for after the show.
Maybe a shot or two before won't hurt.
You step out of the van and shake your pants from your legs, maybe a yawn and a stretch. You greet the other bands who are already there and the promoter of the show. Most of the time they're good dudes. After unloading the gear you grab a skateboard from under the middle bench of the van and cruise around for a few minutes, get the blood going. You get back to the venue and instead of the ten kids last night there looks to be closer to thirty in attendance tonight.
A couple kids wade around the table where you set up your t-shirts and cd's for sale. You chat with them and they promise to stay and watch you. Listening to other conversations you can almost call it when someone is about to bring up myspace.
After a local opening band and one of the other bands on this tour, depending on the rotation, you start moving your gear onstage. You say to yourself, out loud even, "Hey that guy has the same cab as me", in passing. Sometimes he'll hear you and surprisingly you'll have a gear head on your hands in which case you better make the conversation quick. Not to be rude, more just cause you're about to play.
The time has arrived.
After a waking hangover, bright sun in your eyes, coffee, chips, funny stares from people who have a limited vocabulary, assholes in traffic, aching back and a groggy-eyed day you and your damn good friends come together and that's when it all makes sense. Kind of like the feeling you get during a fight or a football game or when you win big money or have sex with a new broad. This is when a man feels his sense of purpose and puts his hands on it, tames it, if even just for a short while. The moment belongs to you and whoever you want to share it with. Nothing matters.
The feeling on a personal level, cannot be compared to anything.
You release the moment only to catch it tomorrow.
About thirty minutes later you're feeling what it's like on the other side of the passing as another member from another band says the same comment about your cab and as much you would like to engage in the conversation about why you bought the Ampeg 8x10 instead of a 4x10 and a 15 you give him a smile and get the fuck out of his way. It's his time to grab hold of his own glory and you need a drink.
You slowly realize the night has just begun. You got a bottle in the van waiting to be opened (if it hasn't already), like a lil genie in a lamp just waiting to taste normal life. The remainder of the night is a fork in the road with many options:
Get drunk and pass out?
Maybe on the way send text messages of random gibberish to friends back home?
Perhaps a run to the gas station with some cool kids you met at the show who want more beer and who will buy you food?
Smoke some pot?
Premarital sex?
Those drivers don't give a shit about the livestock.
poopy:
long update!!! 
