Abby kept a tour journal back in 2006 documenting life on the road with SLUNT. Here are a few choice excerpts...
TOUR JOURNAL ... NEW ENTRY 11.6.06!!
So we're gonna start keeping a tour journal here in this blog section. We'll
update it whenever we can get to a computer, so feel free subscribe to it or
just come on by for a visit every once in a while to see what goes on. It may
not always be pretty, but it will always be real. That I can promise you. Ok
then, I guess I'll start. This one's called "When The Circus Comes To
Town." Enjoy. Abby-
8/15/06 "When The Circus Comes To Town"
The circus is coming to town. New tour, new cast of clowns, same van, same
hangover. My stomach eats itself as the coffee settles & the headache dissipates.
Another day in the circus. All is quiet as we drive to the next town. The Stones
come out of the speakers & Connecticut whirs by. Glad to be leaving this
town. What a bore. Not even our drunken barrage of clowns, midgets & tightrope
walkers could rouse up the sleepy strippers hanging off their poles like drugged
up psych ward patients. Whats going through their heads right now? Probably
something about what theyre gonna eat for dinner when they get home or how
they cant wait to slip into their flannel PJs, nuke up a hotdog & veg out
on the couch in front of some old Threes Company reruns. Sad. So sad. So we
take the circus home. Home is the Super 8. Home smells like stale carpet & molding
air conditioning units. Home has hard pillows & hallways that are always
under construction. Home is where I lay my drunken head at night & dream.
This time I dream of worms. Big fat fuckin earthworms. And little ones too.
Little squirmy maggot ones. Orlando Bloom is there too & of course we get
it on, but thats nothing new. So there are worms & theres Orlando & things
are gettin heavy until all is interrupted by the earthshattering ring of the
classic beige cheap-ass motel telephone & someone of Indian descent is
telling me to get the fuck up. So I get up, shower, shit & get ready to
do it all over again.
The circus is quiet in the morning. Ears still ringing from the night before.
The silent hiss that has become the soundtrack to my very existence. Do I even
hear it anymore? Is it even there or am I just used to it? Right now it is
being camouflaged by the sweet falsetto "oohs" of Mr. Mick Jagger.
Peace out, Connecticut! Get the fuck out of the left lane cuz the lions are
roaring in their cages & there are faces to paint, death-defying feats
to perform & bunnies to pull out of hats. The adrenaline from last nites
show pulses through me for a moment & dangles in the air before me like
the proverbial carrot. I think about the songs & the connection we felt
up there. About the old guy taking pictures in the front row & the sea
of heads bobbing in unison to "Over It." About the new friends we
made & all the fun body parts I got to sign. OK, the left lane just isnt
moving fast enough right now. Move over, fuckers! Weve got a show to make.
Time to glitter up, put on our clown suits & start workin our magic. Where
to next? Philly? Jersey? The sun peaks through the clouds & we paint our
nails & laugh & bullshit. Someone is reading about some big Hollywood
break-up & we discuss it for a good half hour. About who would bang who
if we ever saw either of them hanging out at Cups & about why their shitty
marriage that looked so good from the outside probably ended in the first place.
Did he cheat on her? Was it drugs? She deserves better anyway. Hes too old
for her. Blah, blah, BLAH.
This is what we do. This is what we talk about when there is nothing left
to say. A greasy breakfast lurks in the very near future & it makes my stomach
churn even more just thinking about it. We may not have time for it, but we
will stop anyway cuz we need to eat & it needs to be REAL food. And beef
jerky is NOT real food. This is fact. And this is our bubble. These are our
three rings. This is what happens when the circus comes to town.
8.18.06 "What Would Jesus Do?"
The sign in front of our beach motel says "Church Groups Welcome," but
what would Jesus do if a rather large & unassuming palmetto bug went dashing
across the dirty tiles of his bathroom floor? Would he squash it with his foot,
bearing in mind the slight possibility that he could be karmically fucked for
eternity, or would he try to scoop it up with a little piece of paper - perhaps
a hotel pamphlet offering some kind of discount on pizza or the address of
some proper Chinese grub - and do the proverbial "right thing"? What
would Jesus do? Hmmm. Thats a tough one.
Tonight there were three Myspacers at the show that thought the new tunes were
cool. And the club owner's nice daughter who had a spell of something or other
so I couldn't shake her hand. I DID, however, manage to shake hands with a
trannie just after he (she?) came out of the stall in the girls' bathroom.
Why did I do that?! Thank god for antibacterial soap. Or should I thank Jesus?
We ARE in the South after all...
The show was alright tonight despite the poor attendance and the even poorer
acoustics of the room. The trick is to just pretend you're playing Madison
Square Garden. The superstar stage lighting & the crowds of screaming fans.
If you close your eyes for a sec you can even hear them. C'mon people... fuckin'
clap for christ's sake. I just poured my fuckin' heart out.
The ocean was delicious tonite & it washed away any funky vibes that were
trying desperately to worm their way under my skin. Ahhh... the ocean. We swam
for quite a while, illuminated by the giant, beautiful sliver of moon & it
was SO fucking cleansing that I feel very strongly that doctors should just
start prescribing swims in the ocean to all the hypochondriacs of the world.
Headache? Go swim in the ocean. Feeling crampy & bloated? Go swim in the
ocean. Giant scabby cyst pussing out of your asshole? The salt water will clear
that RIGHT the fuck up! And fuck sharks. Better yet, fuck the people who created
JAWS for making me not wanna swim this late. Despite the over-sensationalized
fear that lurked in my gut like the aftermath of a bad b-movie horror flick,
I reveled & frolicked & dove through waves & smiled. Mmmm. Almost
like Florida. Almost like home. The beach always seems to bring me back to
home. Just the smell of it. Now I'm in my bed & I'm sleepy & there's
sea in my hair. (Better than SEMEN in my hair! Ha!) Ok, I'm out. The three
bites of that Power Bar I just had just might make for more wacky dreams...
Last night I...
...documented on video the murder of one very frantic & terrified palmetto
...shook dirty hands with a trannie in the girls room.
...sang my ass off.
...scolded someone for not eating.
...got in trouble for littering. (Im NOT a litterbug... I swear!)
...swam in the sea & loved it.
...stayed in another crap-ass motel that smelled of mildew & dirty carpet.
...contemplated buying a ninety-nine cent bikini but couldnt find the matching
...picked at my cuticles till they bled.
...wanted to have a baby.
...wanted to have a career.
...tried to figure out how to have both but couldnt.
...locked in with Charles.
...had a moment with Pat.
...got dissed on the come-over by Jhen.
...waved good-bye to seven good ole' southern boys who in about seven hours
were ALL gonna get laid.
...became insanely jealous of seven good ole' southern boys who in about seven
hours were ALL gonna get laid.
...ate unripe avocado & it kinda ruined my sandwich.
...made some new friends.
...chatted with some old fans.
...wished I was in L.A. snugglin' with my man.
...wished there were more people at the show.
...laughed, sang, strummed, shmoozed, boozed, rocked, ate, swam & didnt
jerk off. Not even once.
So that was my night. I know it might sound like I didnt have a good one or
that the bad outweighed the good, but it was quite the contrary. I DID have
a good night. Was it the best? No. Did it even come close? No. But life is
what you make it & it's too short to always be depressed, upset, angry & annoyed.
So you gotta take each day for what it's worth & laugh at all the obstacles & petty
annoyances. Cuz that's what they are. Petty. And it could always be worse.
Just think... I coulda been that palmetto bug. Or Jesus.
8.20.06 "The Club"
The rain falls heavy against over 4,000 pounds of moving steel & we forge
on - through THREE states today as a matter of fact - toward the dank, darkened
club that awaits us. Right now The Club sleeps. It sleeps standing up in the
harsh reality of daylight... proud, vacant, ugly & unashamed. People pass
by it all day long, hustling with things to do - a meeting to catch, errands
to run - & nobody notices it. Mothers, frat boys, crack-heads, nine-to-fivers,
thugs, all with somewhere to be & nobody notices the pale purple paint
job with the hand-drawn lettering or the garbage cans overflowing with beer
cans, plastic cups & crumpled up napkins with phone numbers that will never
get called. No one knows that less than ten hours ago someone was puking not
too far from the front door while a young couple had a yelling match in the
parking lot... & that there was a band here rockin' out while people watched,
drank, smoked, flirted, played pool, talked shit & achieved yet another
level of permanent hearing damage at some point in the night due to the fact
that they think earplugs are for pussies & old people. Dumbasses.
We will be at The Club soon. In about 243 miles to be exact. Two more states
to drive through, a couple of gas stations to piss in, a few local roads to
turn down (perhaps a country one and/or one named after a certain Dr. King) & we'll
be there... at The Club.
We get to The Club & it is still sleeping. The soundman or porter might
have already arrived & tried to awaken it, gently creaking open its shut-eyed
doors & flicking on a light or two, but for the most part it is still in
a deep state of rest. Its morning breath reeks of bar rot, stale beer, & way
too many cigarettes & it lets out a sleepy breath of this as we approach & slip
through the heavy steel doors, leaving behind our bright journey of sunshine-filled
rain showers & entering into its dark, muggy depths.
We get inside The Club & stand there for a second letting our eyes adjust
to the dim light. Ahhh, Ive been here before. Didn't we play here with Drowning
Pool once? Oh, no... that was The Club in Jacksonville. It looks just like
this one though. Back entrance next to the stage, bar to the left, pinball & Galaga
machines to the right. They all kinda look the same. And they definitely all
smell the same. And they all have that same crap-ass, nasty bathroom covered
in graffiti & every band sticker imaginable & you can be DAMN sure
it won't have TP, hand soap OR paper towels. We shake hands with the sound
guy & squint through the darkened room trying to figure out the easiest
access for load-in. Hopefully someone will be there to help, but probably not.
Usually it's just us, lugging our shit from the bright, burning heat of the
afternoon sun into the dark, damp heat of the soon-to-be-air-conditioned room.
Our clothes stick to our backs & sweat trickles down every available crevice & we
wonder why we even bothered showering this morning just to get this sweaty & nasty
during load-in. Will we get to shower again before the show? Probably not.
But that's rock n roll, right? And nobody said this wasn't a dirty job. Load-in.
Fun stuff. Do you think Ashley Simpson has ever moved an amp in her life? Dont
even get me started...
The Club begins to stir a bit. It yawns & stretches & gets ready to
be social again. The beer truck makes its delivery, more lights are switched
on & the sound guy tests out the speakers with a CD of some way-too-loud,
local metal band that are probably good friends of his & this is his sneaky
way of getting us to listen to them. (Can anyone say "captive audience"?)
A pretty blonde bartender shows up but she hasn't put on her make-up yet & you
can tell shes gonna be WAY hotter later on behind the neon glow of the bar
lights, smiling for tips & all dolled up in her tight jeans & even
tighter black tank top perfectly sliced down the front. Especially after we've
all had a beer or two. Then one of us will most likely wanna make out with
her. One thing's for sure, she will definitely wear a strategically placed
SLUNT sticker at some point in the night & be photographed in all sorts
of flattering angles showing off her new badge of honor. One of the boys might
jump in there for a photo or two & will probably score a nice hug, but
thats as far as it will get cuz hugs are not cheating. And apparently everything
SO where was I? Oh yeah, The Club. I could go on & on about it for hours
but to tell you the truth, right now I'm away from it - cruising down the rock
n roll highway in our happy, air-conditioned van, listening to led zep & watching
all kinds of signs flash by telling me about how Jesus died for my sins - & to
be honest with you I really dont wanna think about The Club anymore right now.
I'll be there soon enough & all of the afore-mentioned will become my reality,
so I'd like to enjoy the sunshine & the rain showers for a bit longer & Robert & Jimmy & cold
AC & the American landscape whirring by before my very eyes. The Jesus
signs I could do without, but that's a whole `nother journal entry unto itself.
10.4.06 "Gig Neck"
Gig neck. Gig head. Or am I just sore from sleeping in a fetal position for
two hours on a freezing early-morning Irish ferryboat? Or at least I TRIED
to sleep. Seven a.m. & the restaurant bustled, kids screamed in their little
pink cowboy boots, a cartoon blared from a TV somewhere nearby & I tried
to block it all out, I really did. Shades on, hoodie pulled up over my head,
my pillow purse providing no comfort whatsoever & just as I finally began
to doze off this old man started yelling at me cuz apparently I took his wife's
seat. Excuse me Mr. Fukyusin, but I didn't see a reserved sign anywhere & she
could have left a bag - or YOU - to hold it while she waited in line for her
greasy plate of beans & eggs, but NO... you failed. As a husband, as a
table holder & as a human being. She asked you to do ONE miserable little
thing & you dropped the ball & now this girl in all black with big
black shades & boots not to be reckoned with is curled up on the last cushioned
bench there is & you are completely fucked. Sorry dude.
So where was I? Oh yeah, gig neck. It could also be from the three hours
I just spent curled up in that very same fetal position on the back bench
the van, careful not to spill over onto the other half of the seat into someone
else's space. It's just like I used to do with my brother on long car trips
in the old maroon Caddy, only back then he couldn't fit on HIS little half
of the seat & he would get so pissed off that I could curl myself small
enough to fit onto MY side of the armrest divider. It would usually turn into
a fight somehow & I would always win cuz after all I was just an innocent
little girl trying to get some rest on my side of the seat.
So now my neck hurts & I'd like to think it's from last night's rocking & unrelenting
hair flips. Gig neck. That's usually what happens after the first night of
tour & it will surely last a good three or four days, maybe even a week.
Gotta get those neck muscles back into rocking condition. I should have done
some neck rolls last night, but I didn't & now I'm left with this dull
ache that accompanies & compliments my hangover headache just perfectly.
First night back on the Jack too & I shoulda just popped two Advil when
the 5:30 a.m. wake-up call came, but I had other things on my agenda like washing
off last night's sweat & glitter so I could be somewhat fresh for a 10-hour
We're on our way to Glasgow now & the only lingering remnant of last night's
show is my gig neck. Hills roll by with painted sheep on a dull gray backdrop & the
cows are sitting which means it's probably gonna rain. And what's with the
neon splotches on the sheep? It looks as if they've been playing paintball,
but I'm sure it's just some farmers code for who's going off to the slaughterhouse
first or who might be the most tender on a plate next to some mushy peas & mint
jelly. Oh but the hills are pretty. Different shades of green & brown & even
the gray sky has sort of a calmness to it. Incubus plays in my headphones & it
provides a nice soundtrack for the rolling English countryside. It even makes
me forget about the constant throbbing in my head & neck for a hot minute,
but now the pain is back & the café Americano is helping a little
bit but not much. And of course I'm annoyed that it was two pounds for a cup
of coffee, cuz in my head that means about four dollars & at home I would
NEVER spend that much on a cup of coffee unless it was one of those fancy mochachinos
with lots of whipped cream & chocolate syrup. But no. it's just a regular
cup o' joe. Tastes good though & Brandon's swooning is keeping me grounded & helping
me not think about the gig neck that has taken over my afternoon.
So the rain falls & where did all the sheep go? Are their 80's dayglow
paintball spots waterproof or will it run into their beady little eyes & perhaps
ruin their wool? Damn, that one coulda made a nice sweater too. Bahhh.
10.5.06 "A Big Mouth For a Little Girl"
It was 3 a.m. this morning when the cops came knocking. English coppers in
their yellow neon vests. There were about seven of them & I swear we weren't
doing anything wrong. We were just sitting there having a chat but that didn't
seem to matter to them. The party upstairs had disturbed some family's sleep & everyone
was asked to leave. We miraculously made it back to our room after I patiently
explained to the stone-faced woman at reception that we had absolutely no plans
to continue the party & that I just wanted to catch up with some old friends
I hadn't seen in a while. But now the pigs were here knocking & that mean
woman had a hard-on for us anyway so there was no way we were gonna rationalize
our way out of this one. I tried of course, cuz rationalizing is what I'm good
at. It's my strong point. It's what I do. As far as I'm concerned, if there's
a rational argument for something then it's worth putting up the fight. I was
a paying customer after all & I was just sitting quietly with some friends
in my room. There was no party & no loud disturbances coming from THIS
room. No sir. Just a few friends quietly catching up. They really didn't have
a case either besides the fact that apparently we were violating some sort
of fire code by having two extra bodies in the room & not telling them
about it. But that's a bunch of bullshit, so I stood my ground & put on
my best lawyer routine. "I swear, Your Honor, there are NO shenanigans
happening here WHATsoever." They weren't having it though. Not this time.
My levelheaded rebuts & pleas of innocence were getting me absolutely nowhere.
Steph & Johnny had to leave & I waved at them down the hall & told
them I'd see them in Manchester & just when I thought the whole ordeal
was over, one of the cops kicked the door back open & told me I had a "big
mouth for a little girl." Well that was just the highlight of the night
for me. A big mouth. Ha! All this time & I'm usually the quiet one. The
voyeur. The observer. The person that just kinda takes it all in. But not this
time. Now I've got a BIG fuckin' mouth. What a hoot. I'm pretty sure he's just
not used to people rationalizing with him & this is why he's pissed. He's
used to putting on his scary cop face & clutching his little black stick & that's
usually enough for people to just shut up & do what he says. Not me though.
I'm gonna rationalize the whole thing until my face is blue & the conversation
has gone around in multiple circles & there's nothing left to say that
hasn't been said a thousand times. It was funny too cuz while all this was
going on so many things were running through my head. Should I tell this guy
off & prove him right? Should I show him just how big this mouth of mine
could really be? I thought about telling him my "dirty copper" joke,
but he didn't seem like the laughing type & that would probably just land
me in the pen which would NOT be a good thing. So I looked him square in the
eye & patiently explained to him once again how I really did nothing wrong.
And then the damndest thing happened. I was staring at this guy who was about
four inches from my face & not exactly the happiest of campers & all
of a sudden I saw the cartoon version of him. It was like a weird Simpsons
acid trip kinda thing & I wasn't even tripping! I mean yeah, that Northern
Lights we picked up in Holland was pretty groovy & all but this went way
beyond a standard high. He was standing there trying to be so threatening & all
I saw was his big pig nose & his pink puffy face & his fake plastic
dummy stick & I swear I wanted to laugh out loud - right in his face -
but like I said, these guys meant business. So I kept my cool, stood my ground & held
my head up high until his curly-cue pig tail waddled out the door.
The boys got evicted & so did the other band that had played with us that
night. Jhen & I were the only ones left. The sole survivors of a party
that never was. A great party that could have been had it not been for the
unhappy family & the horrible woman at the front desk who told me in a
motherly way how I'm making my "people" look really bad. What people?
Americans? Jews? Rock & rollers? What the fuck?! In the end though, we
survived. We were still there - in our room - with a bed to sleep in & a
pot to piss in. How were we able to stay when everyone else got kicked to the
curb? Is it cuz we're girls? Or did all that damn rationalizing actually work
out for me? Maybe my big mouth isn't such a bad thing after all.
11/4/06 "The Bubble"
Drug-fueled sex. That's what they're saying about that evangelist on TV. That
he bought a bunch of crystal meth & had drug-fueled sex with his gay lover
drug dealer. Awesome. And then there's the mother that just turned her mentally
disabled son in for murder. Sweet. This is what's happening outside of The
Bubble right now. That & war. Lots of war. Babies with malaria are being
adopted from third world countries by rich American celebrities in big white
houses & some doctor somewhere is getting sued by Tara Reid for a botched
liposuction & boob job. Oh and Saddam Hussein just got the death sentence.
Inside The Bubble is another story. The show is over & it's late. Someone's
in a pissy mood & wants to go to bed, someone is really high & out
buying fried chicken & someone is drunk at a party, settling & being
settled for. Another night in The Bubble. See, what happens is when you're
inside The Bubble, everything else is all just front page news. What's really
important is getting back to the hotel room to sleep it all off, or how long
the drive's gonna be for that that juicy piece of chicken that will most likely
cause loud & painful gaseous nocturnal emissions, & why does coke dick
happen every goddamn time especially when they're such good kissers? Problems
become escalated and - contrary to some of our inbred philosophies - we begin
to sweat the small stuff. My mom once told me not to sweat the small stuff.
She even gave me a book about it. But when you're encapsulated in The Bubble,
all there IS is small stuff & you really can't help but sweat it no matter
how hard you try to let it all roll off your shoulders. (Saddam who??)
Some nice woman named Strawberry gave me a dream catcher last night. She
said it's for the van & that it's supposed to get the good vibes flowin' so
I suctioned it onto the window in my bunk & it does have sort of a calming
effect. Anything to keep The Bubble chi in check is cool with me, cuz when
things are outta sorts & the yins & yangs aren't in alignment things
can get pretty hairy. I've got my lucky sharks tooth on that I bought in London & that's
been doing right by me for a while now. Hank Williams is crooning on the Ipod & that's
helping too. The music is so pure & simple (even if it is all mostly about
Jesus) & it's wild to think that he was a heroin addict. I didn't think
people like that DID those kinda things. But then look at the news this morning.
Mr. Evangelist family guy all tooth & gums & nervous smiles speaking
so earnestly into the camera. "Yes, I did buy meth, but I threw it right
in the garbage. And NO, I never had drug-fueled gay sex of any sort. Not even
once." His wife sitting next to him in the car was a nice touch too. She
had that desperate deer-in-the-headlights look in her eye. Poor thing. I hope
she goes & gets herself tested. Better yet, I hope she leaves his lying,
preaching, meth-smoking, same-sex-marriage-banning ass for a woman. Wouldn't
that be brilliant? Then she could start picketing for gay rights & maybe
her two daughters could be gay too & then their WHOLE community would shun
them all. (All except her husband of course because after all, he DID throw
the drugs in the garbage & how could he be gay if he's married with kids & why
would a guy like that lie anyway? He really just needs to be saved.) The Bubble
for her is heavy right now. It's tight & closing in on her & I don't
know how she can even breathe in there. Our Bubble on the other hand is floating
along happily & is about to stop at a truck stop. It's morning now & the
sun is shining. It's cold but not too cold & the shitty moods & acid
indigestions & limp appendages are all a thing of the past washed down
with a hearty breakfast & a nice hot cup of coffee.
Right now The Bubble is traveling west through Michigan & we have a fun
show to look forward to tonight with about 1,200 Kiss fans to play for & subsequently
convert into SLUNT fans. There are usually a lot of families at these shows.
Parents wanting to turn their kids on to THEIR brand of music & show them
how rock n roll USED to be. ("See kids, that Emo crap you listen to really
isn't music. THIS is music. Not that whiney bullshit you've been moping to
in your bedroom, ya dig?") The dads will really like us & their sons
will like us even more. We'll probably give out a bunch of hugs - mostly to
the teenage sons - while the dads beam proudly & the moms get their boobs
signed. There might even be a few MILFs at the show tonight, but all in all
there really haven't been as many as we expected. Whatever the case may be,
we're sellin' the crap out of our merch & people seem to really be diggin'
us. This is all extremely good for The Bubble. Cuz when the shows are solid & the
money's rollin' in & there are MILFs & teenage boys & hugs & smiles
then all is fine & dandy in The Bubble. That is of course until the next
episode of small stuff happens that all seems really huge & we begin to
sweat & fight & annoy & ignore each other & someone huffs & puffs & someone
goes off for another horrible night of blurry, half-assed sex & the rest
of us eat food that's really bad for us & go back to our stale hotel rooms & floral
bead-spreads with lots of other people's DNA on them. (Ewww.) Hopefully that
won't happen tonight though. Just gotta keep it all in check & things will
run smooth. As far as what's going on OUTSIDE of The Bubble, that I have no
control over. Hopefully Madonna & Angelina will save some more souls & Tara's
boobs will finally get fixed & the holy roller will get plenty of drugs & butt
love within the four grey walls of his urine-scented jail cell & his wife
will wear dark shades at the supermarket & learn to really love the taste
of vodka in the afternoon & Saddam will be nothing more than a weak chapter
in our future children's history books. As for me, I'm just gonna chill out & eat
candy corns till we get there. Ffsweet.