Alright dammit, we're back in the fucking van.
Currently, I am sitting in a dining room in a house in New Orleans. There are some flowers wilting before me. Our sojourn toward Pensacola was marred by a horrible accident on I-10 westbound. We only saw the aftermath, but a truck hauling horses must have veered off of the road running at top speed. The driver had smashed into a tree and the trailer had crushed the bed sandwiching the cab. Dead horses were strewn about the highway. We were waved through by a smiling cop. Just another day at the office for him.
Needless to say the accident left a black smear on the beginning of the tour.
We got to Sluggo's around 7 and started in on the dollar PBR tall boys. The venue was incredibly accommodating to us. They offered up houses for us to stay, and we still got payment despite the incredible low turnout. One of the two locals cancelled the day of the show. I wouldn't suggest playing with the Noiseheads. I will admit, through all this touring, we have become adept at receiving consolation prizes from the staff. The bartender shared shots of rumplemintz and whiskey and called over to another bar we were heading towards to make sure we got a round on her. We ended up at lounge/package store for karaoke night. A gentleman tattoo artist named Gabe kept feeding us Jameson. Thomas and I did a stirring rendition of "Born in the USA." Brought the house down.
To be completely honest I don't remember much after that. I woke up in the back seat of the van, still very drunk, with Thomas in the seat behind me looking just as confused.
We play New Orleans tonight. I expect to wake up with questions.
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