Awright, I’m damned unfamiliar with this “MySpace” business, and for some reason it creeps me out a little bit. Seems like we’re scavenging through each other’s rooms, looking between the mattresses, in the bottom of underwear drawers, etc., kinda like stealing your sister’s diary or some shit. And don’t get me wrong, going through other people’s things and finding out secrets and potential blackmail information is DAMN good fun, but I’m always nervous about being caught. Guess I’m not Mr. Sneaky Man, so much for my 007 dreams. But hey, I’ll post the occasional road story and announcement here ‘cause it seems simple enough, and there seems to be an abundance of freaks, which makes me somewhat more comfortable. So, with that said, on the beginning of The Big ’05. New Year’s weekend (why keep it to one day?) ’05 New Year’s Eve: Asbury Lanes New Jersey, Us, Butchers, lots of other bands. It’s a PUNK ROCK PROM! This show is different for many reasons. The main reason is THE NEW TEASER. That’s right, Lousinda Teaser made her premier in Asbury Park Dec. 31st, 2004. Make a note of that, it’s the sort of thing you’re going to want to remember one day. Jimmy Brad is NOT above the occasional pop-quiz, note taking is encouraged. But, I’m getting ahead of myself: We left The Teaser Ranch a LITTLE late, but not bad. It’s just a damned long haul to Asbury Park, about 10 hours by my guess, including that Infernal East Coast Traffic Purgatory known as Washington DC. We stopped in Richmond to pick up Tigerbeat Tony, ya’ll know Tigerbeat, since he had the weekend off and Richmond is no place to spend New Year’s ,so we offered him the classy option of Asbury Park, NJ, right? So, seems like it was a fairly easy ride except for Asbury Park itself, ‘cause Asbury Lanes is NOT an easy place to find, especially when technology has taken the place of good sense and Mapquest is taking you on a sadly thorough inner-city tour. Anyway, Tim eventually remembered the way from the last time we were there and we made it, no problem. Went in and checked out the preparations for the “Punk Rock Prom” deal, just our style with lots of garters and fishnet and beer. We loaded the GOD FORSAKEN EQUIPMENT and headed to the bar for two hours of free PBR Draft. Beggars/Choosers, blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, I go outside to find the thoroughly toured Butcher’s pulling in, with Justin Brimstone and the lovely Amanda in tow, and we do the whole howthehellyabeen? Justin was a little flushed, having played Asbury Lanes, like, five times, and still being apparently clueless as to its exact location. Supa-V also discovers our friend (the thoroughly toured) Gina, a new resident of Philly, transplanted from Atlanta, and transported to Asbury Park by the modern miracle of the train station. Lousinda has some (thoroughly toured) friends (Julia and Faye) arrive and when Garman, Lanie and Ms. Booze (you guessed it, been lost as well) finally show up, we have a full-blown gang. Not a healthy sign. AND SO, after a slow start by me, the night gets blurry fairly quickly: The Butchers played first and had a great set, I even did an impromptu dance number in front of them, delicately choreographed to be intertwined with the spinning and oddly psychedelic light show that was going on. Then Supa-V reminded me I should NEVER do the dance, and, sadly she’s completely correct. Guitar players, historically, cannot dance at all, at least not in public. Whole careers have been destroyed, and whole dance floors disgusted. Anyway, the Butchers plowed on through a smokin’ set. At one point on the movie screen behind Booze there was an image of a baby in a trash can. The only occurrence of art all weekend, I’ll assure you. We were to be third. So we waited. And waited. And…..here it comes…“you guys wanna go on next?” Mel the owner had told us we’d be flying by the seat of our pants tonight. Mel wasn’t kidding. But it was perfectly cool ‘cause the whole thing had gotten off to a late start. So it takes us some time to set up THE GODFORSAKEN EQUIPMENT. The logistics of a bowling alley are difficult, what with blind-drunken bowlers mistaking one’s legs for pins. Anyway, it’s Lousinda’s first show and she ABSOLUTELY KILLS it. No problem, no worries, she didn’t even show fear when Dusty Booze jumped on the stage in mid-song, a sight that has surely cast fear into the heart of many large, sullen and dangerous men. So, toward the end of the set things get silly, there’s a chair involved, and Dusty and I go crashing into the drumset. Nothing unusual kids, let the professionals work. So people are screaming for “Can your Pussy Do the Dog” and Justin gets up to sing it. I ask if we have time, but, well, remember the psychedelic light show? I can’t see what the sound guy says. So, me being me, I just start the song. I was told later that it was the greatest instrumental version of that song ever. The sound dude cuts the P.A. see, ‘cause apparently he hates fun, and then tries to cut off Tim’s amp. Soundguy received a DAMN good scolding for that one. “A solid talking to and one more chance” as Alvis might say (long story). So he cuts off Lousinda’s amp, Val and I are still playing, when a scheme comes to mind: As he goes to cut off my amp, I’m gonna run and cut ON Lousinda’s. How beautifully Bugs Bunny! Well, I never got to try it, ‘cause in the aftermath of the Dusty Booze induced fall, my guitar cable quit and it was all over. Perfect, in a way. Mel the owner came up and apologized and I explained it was a misunderstanding and it was all in good fun and everything was cool. We packed up quickly and the Nebulas were onstage and in their wrasslin’ mask in plenty of time to meet the Mid-Night deadline. Now the night gets REALLY unfocused. LOTS of champagne in the Teaser Van, we discovered that when it’s unloaded, you can squeeze AT LEAST 20 people in the back. I also recall a moment when BJ walks up and Ryan says “Hey BJ, know what’s funny?” and BJ says “This?” and kicks the HELL outta Ryan, knocking him on the pavement. Don’t think Ryan thought it was all that funny, to be honest, but everyone else thought it was a riot. Booze never got anywhere close to getting all the fake blood off of his face and ran around scaring the shit out of Prom goers left and right, all the while doing something close to speaking in tongues. Then he and Tony were ejected from the bar for drinking Miller Lite, which wouldn’t be problem if that bar actually SOLD Miller Lite. More champagne, Nebulas and Sasquatch and The Sick-a-billys tearing it up, plans for future destruction, possible Van or AstroVan? copulation, and one sad and misguided attempt to roll a bowling ball. All in all, quite a night. Toward the end, Mel the owner comes up to me outside and says “Look, I wanna pay the Butchers, but I’m afraid to, they’re so fucked up they’ll loose it”. I look around at the various antics and shrewdly concluded that the man was indeed correct. So he gave the money to Amy Booze, whom I figured would keep it safe. Lousinda’s friends (Julia and Faye, remember?) had a nice hotel room a few blocks away, so as The Butchers cruised back to New Brunswick to crash with Justin, I spent a while convincing Super Val that she couldn’t sleep on the couch in the hallway of the hotel. It was officially time to call it a night. New Year’s Day, Manhattan, Otto’s Shrunken Head. The Butchers, Hillbilly Werewolf, Sasquatch, and more. So we woke up in the hotel after Lousinda’s friends had already split to catch their flight. It’s a nice day and so we headed to the creepy-ass boardwalk, which is without a doubt the coolest thing about Asbury Park. Hopefully one day it will be all restored, but even if it never is, it’s still worth seeing the…I dunno what you call ‘em…ruins, I guess. Whatever. The beach was nice but we were starving so we headed out of town. We ate, I don’t remember where. Oh…it was like…Taco, Baja..Fresh..something, it was tasty, but I accidentally ate a really hot pepper and had to act cool, which is seldom successful and never productive. So we hit the turnpikes and SLOWLY, SLOWLY made our way to Manhattan, with Gina in tow, violently screaming “HAPPY NEW YEAR” at every stone-faced toll booth operator. We finally made it, but not until after Tim had already wished for cancer. So the bar was supposed to be open but it wasn’t, so Gina suggested some places she knew off of St. Marks and it was on again. The Holiday Lounge is an OLD motherfucker and a very cool bar, with the same guy that opened it in 1939 still serving drinks. He made a few bucks off us while we discussed the actual entertainment value of a night of Ice-Capades. Then we went to the oldest bar in NYC, which I can’t remember the name of, (McSorley's, ed.) but anyway it’s Irish and they only have “dark” or “light”. You order a beer, and you get two. It was super crowded but we got a table and stayed a few rounds. Fucking place even had a real working wood stove and I’m pretty sure I saw a ghost. Place was extremely cool, Teaser stamp of approval. So, after 8, back to Otto’s. Otto’s is tiny but hip, Tiki bar from hell, we really dug it. Everyone, including Scotty and J-Lo (naw, he don’t like to be called J-Lo) and Mike Decay show up, another round of howthehellareyas, and back to the bar. Also I got to meet Lousinda’s lovely sister Rosalinda. Sasquatch played 2nd I think (the whole thing started late) and were smokin’, love that drummer. The Butchers played yet another killer show despite some amp problems, and then it was our turn. Another good one for us I think, lots of jumping, skin, falling, beer spewing and general bedlam. Just what you want from a rock and roll show. Bloodshot Bill had shown up and there was a brief interlude to wish him Happy B-Day. Then we got our GODFORSAKEN EQUIPMENT out of that tiny little room and got ready for the Hillbilly Werewolf. Scotty and Josh FUCKING KILLED. It was a fantastic set, as awesome as ever, I loved every second of it. Dusty and I dove through the drumset at the end, and I swear I think I broke something. I’m not kidding. It hurt. No joke. I think J-Lo’s knee, like, broke my sternum. Oh well, it didn’t hurt that bad then, and hopefully I’ll recover. I went back in the bar and was talking to the drummer from the Sick-a-Billys and there was some disagreement around the stage that I missed. It’s usually good that I’m not involved in those, especially in New Fucking York. I talked to Sean Blind Pharaoh who had stopped by for a bit, and then we went to some joint around the corner to tell stories, harass a bartender, take pictures, and keep our butts warm by sitting on a heater. Creepy Scotty wore a wrasslin’ mask the whole time. Cool. Went back to stumble into the Teaser Van, some of us quite literally, and then worked on trying to jump off J-Lo’s van for about a half-hour before Dusty figured out that the jumper cables were bad. Damn, I have never seen that shit before. Anyway, back to New Brunswick to crash. Yet another epilogue: Got up, through out a quick round of jesuschristwhatthehellseeyasoons, took Gina to the train station and hit the Turnpike. Stopped for a cheese steak at the Molly Pitcher service area. Quality. Got revved up, pulled out on the interstate, and the Teaser Van DIED. Dead. Nothing. On the side of the Fucking New Jersey Turnpike filled with all of our GODFORSAKEN EQUIPMENT in a cold drizzling rain. I looked at my Nathan’s Famous Cheesesteak with explicit disgust. OK, a quick look and listen led Tim and I to believe it was an electrical problem, which means it could be ANYTHING. Called Triple A, did a little hoop jumping, and soon there was a tow truck driver sporting a long ponytail, hauling us down the turnpike on his rollback. The tow truck driver was a really nice guy so, as we sped ass fast down the emergency lane past all the turnpike traffic, I asked what our options were. He said he had mechanics at 8 a.m. the next day, and that even if we wanted to work on it ourselves, the auto parts store was closed for the holiday weekend. Tigerbeat had mentioned, moments before the van’s failure I might add, that he didn’t want to go to work Monday. It started to look pretty seriously like that was a wish come true. Deciding we weren’t working on the van in the wet cold with few tools and no parts, we asked the friendly shop lady which hotel we should hit. She pointed at “the lesser of the two evils” and we trudged to the Trail’s End Motor Lodge. Damn, after all these years it finally happened: We’d been towed into a David Lynch movie. This joint was scary ya’ll, no joke. In fact the whole town, if not completely scary, was at best bizarre. It had two hotels, two gas stations, the auto shop, and a diner/bar (more about that later). Being from the rural south, I thought I knew from rural, but this was fucking RURAL. The tow truck guy couldn’t even suggest a place to get ICE. I said ICE. OK, we call home to straighten things out and then watched some TV (remote, but no batteries). While Supa-V is outside on the phone she actually is accosted by this insanely inebriated little guy with a fucked up accent. The stumbling freak somehow manages to simultaneously tell her he’s a P.H.D. and ask her for money. She decided, after a brief attempt at conversation, to ignore him, even though we were all watching from the window, betting (and hoping) on a well-placed kick to the head. We haul up some spare drinks from the Teaser Van and just hang out and joke about our situation for a while. As it’s getting later, we decide to hit the diner. The USA Diner in Windsor New Jersey, joined on the side by the USA Cocktail Lounge. No finer establishment have I ever entered. The menu on the restaurant side was EPIC, covering all the continents and including the cuisine of every possible culture, past and present. Sumbitch was about twelve pages long, not including the daily specials. They wait about 15 minutes before coming to the table to let you get over the shock. We ordered drinks, coffee, and a chocolate milkshake, and then proceeded to PILES of food. Mine was damn good. The waitress, with that mobster jersey accent, was lookin’ damn nice in a tight pair of black pants, but was apparently oblivious to the many charms of Jimmy Brad. She MUST have a boyfriend. We buy $100 worth of food and head to the USA Cocktail Lounge. The Cocktail Lounge had a cool U-shaped bar, was dimly lit, and served Miller Lite. SCORE. We sat at the end with the few patrons who were already there, and spoke to the Slovenian bar waitress who almost spoke english, and who readily admitted she was a new bartender and knew little about mixing drinks. We quickly told her we knew A LOT about mixing drinks, no worries. So we order, chat amongst ourselves, and I’m sure look like fish outta water. Then the inevitable happens: I dunno how, but we’ve captured the attention of the other patrons so much that we eventually start talking. It seems they probably spend a lot of time in there together, and since we were strangers, they were naturally curious. We told them our story, JATT, Asbury Park, Manhattan, dead van, Trails End Motor Lodge and the chocolate milkshake, and with the aid of the freely flowing albeit slightly mismixed drinks, we were all soon buddies and discussed many topics, like cars, jobs, haircuts, race relations, governors, dog breeding, driving directions and the differences in/advantages of MIG vs. TIG welding. These people knew each other well, and kept giving each other loads of shit. It was hilarious. We had a blast hanging out for probably a couple of hours. A second bartendress came in and Bob bought us all a round and we stayed until in danger of going broke. Goodnightgoodlucks were passed around and we walked back to the Trail’s End. To show you how cool these people were, when Tim went back in to ask where to buy cigarettes, they each gave up two from their personal packs and handed him enough for the night. We lucked out on that place. Went back to the hotel with a bag of ice our new pals had bestowed on us, and stayed up too late. The next morning the news wasn’t TOOOO bad, $200 for a distributor cap and rotor button (most of the charge was labor), and we headed home. We forced Tigerbeat to wish for a day’s work, just in case. Outside of stopping at a mysterious diner which had no apparent DOOR, the ride home was normal: it sucked.