March 22, 2008
Tour Blog: Iowa City — Old Flame
“There’s nothing I can do,” the Buddyline promoter muttered. “We just…we’ve heard too many things about you guys. We asked for a family-friendly group, and you’re about as…well, family-unfriendly as it gets.”
“You just have to get to know us,” I pleaded. “The parents in St. Louis really dug us once they started listening. And also once we stopped singing exclusively about sex.”
“You shouldn’t sing about sex at all,” the promoter grumbled.
“Suck my dick!” I snapped.
Her thick face pulled back in a matronly look of faux-shock. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she practically gasped.
“This isn’t over!” I roared, beating my fists on her desk.
I stormed out of the Buddyline offices and paced up and down Jefferson Street. The band had decided to hang around the motel after I’d received the “urgent” cell phone call from Buddyline this morning. I went downtown myself, and now this. I have a hard time handling stressful situations in general. This didn’t help, but—
“Girth?” a too-familiar voice beckoned.
I turned my head, and there she was. Robin.
“Maxine?” I asked.
Robin wrinkled her nose and slowly shook her head.
“I’m just fucking with you,” I chuckled, although I actually wasn’t. Since Robin’s makeover and move to Seattle, she bore a strong resemblance to an old girlfriend of mine, Maxine Fletcher. She worked at a tattoo parlor on Melrose for awhile before getting a job as an assistant at a production company in Century City, which is when she dropped off my radar. Last I heard, she was fetching coffee on a remake of Piranha, but who the fuck knows?
It is kind of weird to have two girlfriends who have such strong similarities, but I once spoke with a psychologist—in an unofficial capacity, I assure you; everyone who knows the history of psychology knows not to take it too seriously, but in this case I think she was right—who suggested we keep dating women who look similar to exes we simply can’t get over. It took me far too long to get over Robin, so I guess the resemblance to Maxine makes sense.
“So how have you been, Robin?” I asked.
She shrugged and smiled. She never used to smile.
“I haven’t seen you since Lacey’s party,” I said. “Hey, I thought you were in Seattle now. Didn’t you and Sharon start some lesbian coven or something?”
Robin laughed, another terrifying reminder of how much she’s changed. When I last saw her—the party doesn’t count, because although she was there, we barely said two words to each other—she was dour as always.
“Lesbian coven?” Robin said as her laughter tapered. “Come on, Girth. Who do you think I am? I can dyke out with a girl without joining a cult.”
“You…can?” This information was contrary to everything I’ve ever heard.
Robin rolled her eyes. “So what are you doing here? I’m sorry, I kind of lost track of your site. Are you on tour, or just visiting, or—”
“On tour,” I said. “We were supposed to play this place, Buddyline, tonight, but they’re jerking me around.”
“Buddyline?” Robin wrinkled her nose. “The kids’ place? Jesus, Girth. That’s like…Spinal Tap-level.”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“Is it? You busy?”
“Not really,” I said. “I can’t go back to the motel until I figure out how to solve this Buddyline problem or think of a really good way to lie myself out of it.”
She laughed again, and put one of her small, soft hands on my shoulder. Her perfume wafted through the cold air. Intoxicating. “Come on, let’s get a cup of coffee.”
“Oh, I’m off the sauce,” I said, making Robin laugh again (although I was being serious). “It was totally fucking up my chi. I only drink a rare combination of Asian herbs—Tibetan goji berry, cordyceps, ginseng, guarana…”
“I’m sure they have decaf,” Robin suggested.
“All right,” I agreed.
We took a walk down to the Java House, and I told her the whole story.
“That is the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever made,” Robin said when I finally finished. “But it does prove one thing…”
“What’s that?”
“Margo really is made for you,” she said, then smiled.
“She is,” I agreed. “I love her so much. Now help me think of what to tell her about this gig.”
“How about the truth?”
“That’ll never work.”
“Come on, Girth,” Robin said. “It’s true. They can either believe it, or they can go down to Buddyline themselves. Or you can go back there and shove it up their asses until they have to let you play—but if they don’t back down, at least you gave it your all, and you can be more confident in the honest approach.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I never should have left you.”
“Jesus,” Robin said. “Would you shut up?”
I forced a laugh, hoping she’d assume I was just kidding. Robin didn’t laugh or smile. She was back to her old self.
“It was great seeing you, though,” I said. “And if you ever want to rejoin Abysmal, Mikey fucking sucks. Nobody will miss him.”
Robin cracked a half-smile. We hugged, then she left.
I went back up Jefferson, marched back into Buddyline, and demanded, with all the intensity and passion I’m known for on the stage, that she let us play. She turned me down flat.
I sighed and drove back to the motel room. When I got there, everyone was busy doing their own thing: Carl watched TV, Mikey looked at a porno mag, Riffs sat naked in a dry bathtub for some reason, Lacey and Margo spooned on one of the beds.
These people were my family. Much as I once loved Robin, I love these people more.
“Sorry, guys,” I said. “They just refuse to let us play.”
“What the fuck did you do?!” Lacey snapped, and with that everyone turned on me, hurling obscenities and personal insults regarding my competence and the size of my manhood.
Family.
Written by Girth McDürchstein on March 22, 2008 5:47 PM
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