Road Trip

We squeeze the RV between two cars in a mud pit, hike up three flights of stairs and are instructed to make ourselves at home. I drink a few, hug TMIBH good-bye and head back to the sinking RV to text my wife.

The next morning I awake ready to take advantage of some shower action. Our lead singer, Shawn Adolph, joins me. We gather up our towels and sundries before heading up the three flights of stairs. It's barely 10 a.m., an ungodly hour on tour, but the sun has coaxed us out of our respective slumbers.

We knock on the door. No answer. We knock harder, to no avail. We dial Mike in hopes he'll answer to let us in. To our surprise, he's awake. He also happens to be up the street grabbing some coffee. "No one is in the apartment," he informs us. Really?

We sadly amble back down the stairs to get the whole picture. Turns out, after a good 12 hours of power drinking, TMIBH bassist Lawrence mistook Lacey's roommate's closet for the restroom, and emptied the contents of his beer-soaked and bloated bladder all over her shoes. Needless to say, this Ozzy impression didn't sit well with Lacey's live-in, and everyone in the apartment that did not pay rent was immediately kicked out on their asses. On the way out, Bim (drummer, TMIBH) pissed down the stairs for good measure.

Trojan Horses Got Nothing on Us

This might not be the smartest thing I've ever done, and I'm sure my bandmates will resent me for it, but I'd like to give America's hipsters some advice: Don't, under any circumstances, let us stay at your place.

Now, we're not bad guys. Really we're not. But get six of us (band plus roadie) into a tiny apartment, and you'll find out what it's like to be infested with human termites. We will drink all your beer. Wine? Yeah, that too. Do you mind if I have an apple? No? Now your refrigerator is going to be cleaned out. We will stop up your toilet or, worse, see to it that it overflows. We will use all your hot water, your clean towels, drink all your coffee and tie up your Internet. Sorry, didn't know we weren't supposed to let your cat out. After we leave, you might find your shower doesn't drain as efficiently as it once did. You guessed it: We each shot a load in your tub and, perhaps, in your bottle of conditioner as well. Some of us even twice (Shawn).

So, what kind of person lets a band of misfits like us stay at their house, anyway?

Some are clearly disturbed individuals. Like Paul, whom we met a couple of years back in Portland. Paul spent the night snorting fat rails of coke while cranking the new Ween album at bone-crushing volume, all the while screaming at the top of his tar-black lungs, "THIS SHIT IS FUCKING GENIUS, MAN!"

Some people who open their home to us don't open it to us at all, but to a gang of people hoping to "keep the party going!" In these instances, we're just bait.

Some girls who put us up are groupies. Not every female fan who opens her home to us is in it for sex. Quite the contrary. But when said female's fridge is coated with photos of her posing with other bands that have stayed with her and all conversations either begin or end with which bands she's, like, totally friends with and used to date, we tend to get a little suspicious about which one of us she has in her sights (Mike).

Sometimes it's not sexual at all. My wife believes there are certain girls (and guys) who have us over for "scene cred" or the ability to say, "Heard of them? Yeah, dude, they only stayed at my house in 2003! Jeez!"

The ideal host is one who's just a good ol' salt-of-the-earth music fan. He (note: this type of person is never female) thinks what we do as a band is interesting, understands that life on the road is hard, and may say, "If you guys need a place to stay, I'll cook for you." He does it because he enjoys and respects our contribution to music. We're much more respectful of these people's places, which is to say we've never jerked off into a bottle of their conditioner.

The Band (Part II)