2003-05-29 - 12:12 a.m.
April 3
We’re circling central Ohio and it all looks the same. Our anchor date on this little run was supposed to be opening for moe. When that fell through we were reduced to this overly circuitous, unprofitable tour of Ohio. By the time I get home I’ll be broke and my ass will hurt.
Aw, it’s not as bad as all that. At least tonight we get to play for our old friend Tom McLaughlin. Tom used to be a big fan of Todd’s old band “From Good Homes”. He moved out to Bowling Green, Ohio a number of years ago to help his dad run a cool old movie theater called the Clovel. He also occasionally promotes shows in town and that’s why we’re here. The first time he had us in we played at a place called “Nate and Wally’s Fishbowl”. The band set up and played in the front window so that’s why I thought they called it the fish bowl. But no! They serve beer in actual fish bowls!! Nate and Wally are great guys. We out grew the place and went ‘round the corner to a larger room called “Harolds”. I wish we were still at Nate and Wally’s. “Harolds” features the most most disgusting stage in all of rock and roll. Your feet stick to it. The dust of Nebecanezer seems to billow up from it as you walk on it. The ghost of Elvis’s duct tape is pasted to it.
Before the show I hit the nearby CD store and find Joni Mitchell’s first album for $10!! We anticipated a good number of folks. Not as many as we thought but 86 exuberant fans showed up. Not bad for a Thursday. I had fun and it seems so did everyone else. We all made our way over to Nate’s club after the show (except Todd and Andy, who opted for a trip to the local greasy spoon) and Nate basically handed the keys to the asylum to the inmates. Tom, in the roll of benevolent bartender, proceeded to pour me a water glass of Jamesons. Ignoring the potential consequences, I drank it and soon after was heard muttering to him, “May ah hah ‘nother.” In short order I was not 3 but 4 sheets to the wind which may explain why I came in second to last at Golden Tee video golf, shooting seven over par. Or perhaps, more likely, I just suck at it. I barely remember getting back to the hotel.
