September 15, 2006 "Kirisute Gomen"

09/15/2006 The Social - Orlando, FL
Other bands: Lola Ray

Bivouac this time was with a girl Philip knew. He had quite an extensive Internet fanbase, shall we say, which bothered us none as long as the rest of us could take advantage of floor space and stovetops.

This was a smallish apartment with a wide living room that both bands could stay in, and did. Most of our next few drives were less than three hours away, so I spent a generous chunk of my days indoors on my computer trying to feel in touch with the rest of the moving world. This life was the Fast Lane to a point, a point after which you begin to notice your friends younger siblings having babies and getting paid sums of money equal to or more than their parents. Suddenly they're the ones that seem to be passing you by. And your record contract, once a status symbol of goodbye-mundane-world, becomes a millstone around your neck.

I had a stack of Netflix movies I brought from home that I'd watch and then throw in the nearest mailbox. Had some library movies, too. Usually four, which was the maximum you could check out. I'd just call every week and renew them, sometimes half a dozen times. I always thought I'd eventually make them mad, but they never seemed to care.

"Hi, I'd like to renew some DVDs I have out. Jonathon. Newby. Thanks."

I watched Bad Taste with a couple members from both bands. Ridiculously horrible, but I'd wanted to see it since I was a single-digit age and saw the VHS cover in the Marsh Supermarkets movie rental section of the alien giving the finger. I used to devour Fangoria Magazine as a dweeby teen hanging out at the bookstore and the image of the alien zombie stumbling around with the axe in his head was as iconic as a Z-grade screenshot can be.

The Subway across the street from the club still employed the world's biggest crank, a 40-year-old man that considered customer service an inconvenience to be sidestepped. It was of such a magnitude that complete and utter strangers standing in line would bond over how distastefully rude this man could be. I guess I didn't blame him. This was the downtown of a steamy party district and I could foresee his store getting deluged by hordes of drunk and high trasherati in the late hours of the night, most of whom also likely considered most civil niceties an inconvenience to be sidestepped. I used the restroom there once and only once, after I realized the used condom on the floor was probably the cleanest thing in the room.

The Social wasn't nearly as full as when we played with Emery. The stage is high and towers over a pit, which is surrounded on all sides by rising landings with handrails and places to put your drinks if you happen to be TCTM. Third time around, the club seemed small, like visiting my old high school. Depressing.

I think I figured out what it was, though. That lonesome feeling that kept pulling at my shirt tail when we'd hit venues we'd played before on larger bills. I'd seen these places - participated in them and their accoutrements - when they were full of life and vitality. Beautiful people. Rapt people. Ticket-buying people. And seeing these same walls again on a low-tier bill, with vast swaths of empty space and noticeable reductions in crowd decibelage was like walking into your living room the day after a party. It's the same room, with the same furniture, the same paint. It's just hollow. And a bit sad.

I'm not sure that we sold much merch that night. We grabbed our $250 and made our way back to the bivouac to lounge around in decaying sleeping bags and sweat-damp clothes, hoping we weren't wearing out our welcome. In my promoter days, I'd had bands stay with me for more than a single night due to van trouble or itinerary gaps.

It wasn't easy on the other end of the coin either.