The Most Callous of Pacific Northwest Tours

As an outstanding member of Caroliner I have found myself demoted to stamp licker, mail handler, and in charge of the cooking wares in case the Singing Bull Memorial Band decides to take a possible route that includes starvation on Grant's Pass or some other terror spot in the Sierra mountain range. People of odd and winsome characterization have associated themselves to the band to be suddenly dismissed (as I was) over the past 2 years. Not to be confused I wrote down all the names on this tour in my diary and passed each day with a dash mark for congeniality. No dash marks after that final day for those keeping track. Here is the beginning of the diary as follows:Who played what instrument was hard to remember so I will just list everyone on this tour:

Cottypearile Weddingforke
The Chance Century
Knuckles McSodde
The Swiftest Log
Goate' Humilitevea
Skin Hints
Right Mangled Scare
Weighted and Charged Feetilizer

Set in motion with pumpkin footed abandon, the band took only the barest of clothes and wallpaper to cover the walls. Instruments were well looked after (the banjo altered with a cosmopolitan Vienna baroque casing, not used in a live show setting, but for backcart reverie). Amplification if each instrument was up to the particular club and host of the band who were "said" to be individuals of incredible caliber.

The cart pull to Oregon had everyone writing letters to loved ones, banks, decedents of political figures in history and cousins who could read. I pocketed each missive and promised to put them in the post at the nearest chance. They still reside next to my breast, possibly dear to me or ready for editing as I see fit.

At the estate of the Ecologists for Extinct and Rare Wolf Spider Cooncrib we were able to dabble our toes into the creek of the varied livestock living underwater. The occupants of said water nonplussed or sickened depending on the dabble-vidual.

I've noticed at this point TheRight Mangler giving notifications to the Caroliner band on the phenomenon of stray bees. With little qualifications as an entomologist he points at each winged honey maker as having the perfect wingspan for the palm, or the perfect flight pattern for the eye. A large and callous individual who neglects the random movements of larger arachnids underfoot.

On the way to Oregon, the pumpkin shoes have been lost or trampled by drunkards. People are walking around with borrowed shoes or without shoes at all. Fools all.

The club in Portland was surrounded by great marching men of glowing stock parodying Caroliner as to put us on our knees in their fantastic over-budget. Upsetting "Starlight" cultures as they were forcing us into, the Egyptian State, The Wand Wavers etc., the stage was pitched in the bar called Somewhat Lounge. This place was notorious for hosting the interesting acts around the city and the more indecent nudists that work out of Portland

There was a Jazz band opening the whole night. A tone band who drove the dogs in the audience wild called Honed Bastion followed. His set ended with a woman, oblivious, leaning into one of his neck high candles he had placed around the club, her hair catching aflame. A smell followed, then by applause.D. Menche ended in 12 minutes by pocket watch calculations. He is a black and white scrim with photographs that remove themselves in a matter of seconds. A woman triumphantly tumbled down a flight of stairs to the landing near the middle of the club. People helped her clown act by applauding in the same way Honed Bastion was cajoled.

As a result of wires and confusion the amplification process was dismissed during the actual show. It was a triumph for me (still bitter about not being an actual member, and in charge of stamps), and a great let down for the entire band who had no idea where or what the other might have been doing on a stage. The vocals were nixed by song one, idiot yammering by the castrato Weighted and Charged Feetilizer by the end had voice a possible raw edged whisper-callous. At the appropriate time I nudged the sound man and told him to turn up the black knob so the warty useless vocalized warble could be finally heard through the public address system. As a token gesture he took back his curtain attendance, crowd control procedure, and kelp hair management to replace an onstage microphone device. The comedy was captivating. Half the audience was running out the door by this moment. I knew this would be a trauma that no musical act could recover from so I bought my return ticket to San Francisco from an individual who drew up a receipt and tore me a bill for a fee of thirty eight dollars and twenty cents. It was a swell deal that I almost feel heartbroken that this was an on the spot deal with a vote of confidence from the ticket man, as a coincidence had a hand scripted "Ticket to San Francisco".

I left the band in the hands of Awl A. Keist who decided she was the only person to put in a handful of black lit sun rolling when the audience was completely gone. "What can I do? What is happening?". I informed her everyone was ill and was leaving immediatly, so she promptly left also. Right Mangled Scare wanders the club complaining his face is too heavy and has pushed aside his breast bone and neck for a new residing place. Havoc and self flagellation is happening hither and thither. Skin Hints talks of cats and owls fighting on steep jagged rocks not realizing at the time the club has locked the doors around us.

As a preparation to leave the city of Portland, ex-friend Chance Century takes me aside and says the ticket I own is a hoaxed paper that has no value. Under closer inspection I see it is written on a paper commonly used for the water closet! Dastardly mayhem! I continue with this band until further notice. On the second show Seattle our friends in Boot Sabbath Black Ear put together a wonderful sound system with a bizarre cavalcade of strange wires and effectuant tabbings. This saloon called The Chummery had seen many a group playing a secret in full view of an audience. Each area of the showplace was cordoned off by amplifications. None of these acts were known to anyone but the people of Seattle who we had hoped would saddle us with the best sound workers. I was hoping for my entertainment anyways. The Red Squirrel band was an array of bulky objects with Christmas ornaments and speakers pointing every which direction. The people in the band were dapperly dressed in war gear brought in from a lumbercaced spider farm down the street. Intriguing interests of disorenting qualities were played! Another act followed called Chaostic Magic Cystal-a guitar and violin featuring an Ostrowski brother. Not sure where or what they were doing exactly as it was confusing and borderlining more confusion. Some more quick flashing photographs on a wall and it was over. I wanted more of this confusion, but the show ball had rolled into a pace that was fast and furious!

Blue Sambo and the Black Ears was a tribute to the chilling fog of San Francisco. From the middle of this visual soup came a terrible scramble of rocks being ground down by the wild Blue Sambo of Port Hearon. It was amazing to behear such a catastrophe. As soon as his stomping attack was to begin it was over. The room was an empty trough of tear laden men and woman. Such audio fantasies. Such Francisco.

Now, as you may have guessed, I am not a big fan of the Caroliner band anymore since my dismissal to mail management. By the time they took the stage, the momentum was gone and the audience was bored. I put a chair dead center in the middle of the "stage" area for a confusing series of mayhaps that turned into "antics". A man in a wheelchair came to the front and befriended it followed by several other concerned bodyguards. Posh flush!

The sound here was crisp and pointy. Not a single note was miss appropriately misplaced, and everyone seemed to be on nodding terms to each other in the crowded area. The chair was passed to the rear of the club, and "Quelling Gums" (the song) did not sound like "Terrible Hunger for the Perfected Pie". "Titeus Polecat" sounded like a rickety monument rather than rickets. "Hold of Culpers" was fast and reactive to mass ergot jitterbuggery. I ried to walk onto the stage area several times and was pushed back by more than one member of the band. More self-congradulating in the next batch of badly written letters will spill out, I am sure of it. They don't want me there. When things go bad they might, until then... I say FIE! Good bye!

This band is doing too nicely for me so i will hitch and hike home.

(A pause here...)

I was looking for a trip to return home with a batch of letters when you last heard from me. These letters seem to get very moist and smell like my armpit as the days progress. I find a travel cart pointed the direction I'm going, settle in comfortably, then realize that I am surrounded by Caroliner band members. Curses and black Kentucky muck coil! I've caught a ride with arses!

Heading south slightly we end up at Stephen Bard's Exploritaurium Stackit Barn. A delightful place where each square inch is covered by chotchke or rare book. His odd presentation of each of the 8 million objects took up most of the day. Rats with 7 inch teeth. Talking African Grey Mewparrots. A macaw. Minotaur statue with attendant tridents. Dancing glass covered women. Demons with bicupid eyelids. Frog babies in jars. Double Headed Animals, Funeral items from the 1800s. Each object when described would lead Skin Hints to lift the object, test the realness before nodding and dismissing it back near the place it came from. It is an impressive place that no human should be allowed into. There is just too much to break and dismiss. 2 of the members with beards and breasts complained with gesticulations so we finally left the dream house to find ourselves witnessing Knuckles McSod demonstrating her strength. Let's talk a little about this incomprehensible being. She says things in an Irish brogue that makes you question mark your face until you hear "I can lift THIS over my head" at which point your leg is four feet off the ground, or a bag of cement, what have yous. She was lifting everyone's appendage one by one on the way to the food source and then ravenously dug into a bowl of darkened matter with a pointed stick. The Irish are such queer folk!

Taking herself ill for the third time so far, Humilitevea begins to groan and roll at the live show-barn at which members shuffled up the walls to paper the place. I've seen this madness before that comes with starvation, and genuinely dismiss it. Long time postering professional and blueprint grand nurse Ille Culinair Cabras (the humble goat) showed up to insert massive amounts of saltwater and provide soapy enemas for the more sick people of the tour. Afterwards with needle and thread began to whack away at the pile of fancy clothes that everyone was tearing apart for each note played during live shows. Pumpkin feet surface, and talk of improvised taxidermy routes the collective minds into something agreeable. Everyone begins to call her Mama Cabras or the even more silly "Moomy". After negligent illness, Humilitevea further embarassed herself by contangling her own unkempt locks 'bout the nether regions of her "instrument". Were it not for the everloving skills of the Moomy she would have spent the later half of the spectacle huddled on the floor. Too bad. The huddling would certainly have been an improvement. It's a disgusting sight seeing so many placated in the band at once.

The Rebarn-club is a place in Seattle I am familiar with. The solace of the black bathrooms and the dispensing of dark teas always keep me very moist by different means and orfice. This show poster went through no less than 8 different changes to the roster of who is playing on it. Ultimately the only original person on the playbill was a homeless singer Alvarious B. He sang of Wicker Women, Wanton Gunslingers, and Eagles who have discovered they can make their own mud. His acoustic guitar had distractions and obvious fans. Next was The Afclgots, a tribute to historical rock and roll musics. It was very much for the audience rather than the rest of Caroliner, so that was pleasing on the one hand. The downside was the actual dance music which was like a ....like a radio. Terrible! Between each act was a clown horse riding maid named "Princess Shmooquan" who insulted people enough that her lunch was stolen off the stage. The musicians behind her seemed drunk, yet supportive. Long stories leading into off key songs which were one tiny step away from Lucia Pamela or the Nialle Twins. Caroliner, again, mixed themselves up in songs yet kept a crowd attentive during the show. I would imagine this was the 2nd time on this tour when things worked out in a large percentage. 4 members bobbing up and down in rapture or bullied full bladders. Falling into the crowd repeatedly the singer showed his lack of talents for acrobats or sense of intelligence. Revealing tomfoolery. More semi- self congratulating inkings will follow. I have a large stack of unmailed items. The comedy doesn't escape me. Again we find ourselves locked out of a club (The Rebarn), and with short sighted blunderbusted brains there is nowhere to sleep. There is an audience of 2 people in the parking area, one making percussive vomit sounds with no fluids, the partner encouraging the puke to come forth. Sohn and Jarah come to the rescue. Sohn has very vague ideas of where he is usually but if you follow him at his walking pace he will 'get you there'. We follow Sohn and his roommate Jarah to the Travel Tater Den. There is a dozen lidless bottles of bathroom cleansing solutions that we try to cap at one point and then end up lounging in fumed death trance, some with eyes open. Being spry and of good health the character Knuckles McSod hops to the cart seat to push us to Eugene as a designated die first. Eugene is a sleepy land that seems some of the more modern ideas of ignoring everyone has been trampled by kindness and talks of precipitation. I realized why I was on this tour. Rather than setting up the Caroliner walls and walkers I talked with the Veterans who ran the Vet's Hall. We covered such things, in talk, as what I've been up to, what I would like to do, and the precipitation of light rain outside.

Caroliner is to play in a carpeted room that is easily covered with it's low ceiling and hooks placed into the ceiling before the show. How thoughtful these elderly lads in preparation! The Unknown Artist opened a dirty diary talking of a child witnessing adultery and scum covered dishes in a month old sink. Horror of horrors. A keyboard, a measuring tape of metal quality, varied boxes of different sounds encompassed the Unknown Artist experience. Very satisfying to see these security guards in live therapy with the sounds as a passing Merce Cunningham Duo is one man playing keyboard, drums, and xylophone at once. Caroliner plays to a crowd of 25 people, all for free. 20 more people stood outside waiting to be paid to walk in the front door, cigarettes
in hand. The money never came.The little devil of a song "Prune Picking Huge Hand" is still not in sync with itself. Three notes mixed beyond comprehension of the most complex thinker. How can this be? Incompetence and pompous thick eardrums. I am laughing to myself. Fools! The doomed Caroliner who, although they don't realize this, take one million steps backwards while I languish in the side drawer. The fire of ambition stay lit through the whole show with people wanting to be in the show, in the performance, and possibly playing the instruments and bull heads laying about. Rude college children with beer. This bordered on entertainment, but evoked sympathy. The show concluded with shredded bullfaces and pants. This performance was one of the more energetic things I've witnessed on this tour. The place we are to stay is in a shanty town composed of cardstock, loose wood, and the possiblilty of nails (use your imagination) by one V. Peranio who also works on movies. The city is called Glenwood and has many a vehicle parked on a lawn, raised into the air without wheels, or as in the neighbor's house keys still in the rear, open with empty beer cans about. The floor here at the bedding down spot slants at a 23 degree angle, and the talking and singing ends at 2:51 am. The next morning there is more light, we see cupboards full of air only. A bit of dust hints at this minimal display of austere living. The road home is peppered with golden logs (possible kin to The Swiftest Log), rain and the vultures who sunned themselves afterwards along the way, speeches about the Platerians (people who believe plates are extra terrestrial flying devices), and a green leaf mauling catepillar who was wishing for a ride into the dark wilderness of California. Not a bad ending for a long long trip. I have several letters to file in my dustbin so please don't let me keep you.

Special thanks to the crew who were helping me through this trauma, Tigerliner, Tarpita Foxora, Angusto, and Shay Morre.

Yours truly,
Cottypearile Weddingforke

[posted July 17 2008]