A dancing hot dog man, two car crashes, and "Wallmarting" through hell and back. In this final installment of Hayley and the Crushers' Crusher Confessions Tour, we come out the other side smelling like a couple of Las Vegas urinal cakes with a musky touch of ... is that Hennessy and Chinese food?Read More
Warning: Tour memories are like photos from a crummy disposable camera. Some are pitifully undeveloped; some wildly overdeveloped, and some have my dumb thumb blocking the frame, so no one will even get it but me.Read More
Tour ended last week, but it really started nine months ago. Way before booking began, way before desperately emailing bands I’d never heard of, and way, way, way before 3,030+ miles in a stinky van with two bearded partners in crime.Read More
It's 4:23 a.m. and I'm peeing into a mason jar while crouched in the backseat.
The van is parked in Josh's driveway somewhere in Oakland. Sprawled out on the mattress in the back is one Reid Cain. Even in the dark, I can picture his familiar scowl as he pretends not to be awake (Reid is a morning person. Not a 4-in-the-morning-person).
It's dark in Josh's driveway, save for the glow of a few murky street lamps. A cat sits quietly on the hood of the van, knowing that she is better than all of us.
Nearby--insanely nearby, maybe even inside the driveway with us--a party bus is blasting bass-thumping hip hop music. Drunk, desperate voices howl into the face of dawn itself. It sounds like an insane asylum being lit on fire.
With rap music.
This is exactly the moment I realize I have far more pee than jar. Panicked, I throw open the van door, sending the angry interior lights into dutiful action.
The pee is now immediately outside the sliding passenger door, a spreading storm cloud on the cracked concrete. Instantly, I wish I had thought to fling it further away. If I were a stronger person, I could have peed outside, come what (crackheads) may.
Indeed, Josh had actually given me a key to the apartment, but for some reason I had been stubborn and unrealistic (I now blame the grogginess that comes with two shows in two days, minimal sleep and Winter's Tavern's seductive Mai Thais).
In a moment of misplaced anger, I blame the party bus.
It had, in fact, turned me off to the concept of ever going outside the van ever again.
Bargaining came next. What if I didn't tell anyone what happened? It could be a secret kept between one lady guitar player and a mysterious feline acquaintance. Right?
No. I would probably eventually have to write about this.
Winding my way into the realm of grimacing acceptance, I grabbed for the nearest piece of fabric I could find, stumbling instead on Curtis' insanely soaked T-shirt from last night's show (how is it still that wet?).
I then accidentally picked up Chad's "sweat towel" for post drumming relief.
The question: WHY DID I DO THIS TO MYSELF?!
Finally, I find something dry and only sort of disgusting. One used cotton sock--then another. I begin wiping up any excess moisture from the floor.
"I'm sorry," I announce into the silence. "I'm just so sorry. Your socks. They have pee on them."
Rolling back onto the mattress, I am totally defeated.
However, I am also surprised to find that Reid isn't mad at all...or at least he's having a very hard time pretending.
.... Could it be? .... Laughing? At this hour?
Yes. At 4:25 a.m. Reid is chuckling quietly. I start laughing too.
"Kook," is all he says.
Hate to say it, but he's dead right.