March 6, 2008
Tour Blog: Wichita — Hunger Pangs
“I’m hungry,” Mikey whined from the back of the van.
“There’s not enough in the tour budget for food,” I explained. “You wanna eat, that’s out of pocket.”
“But you haven’t paid us in months,” Mikey complained.
“Have you done anything worth paying you for?”
“Motherfucker—”
“I will turn this car around!” I snapped.
Mikey sighed and slumped back against the wall of the van.
We checked in at the Braidwood Inn in Wichita. Mikey asked the manager about a continental breakfast. The manager laughed. I reminded Mikey that he could just go over to McDonald’s and get a good meal for under $10. He told me what little money he had, he didn’t want to spend.
I could tell this food thing was bringing the others down, as well. Everyone acted more sluggish than usual, especially Margo.
“Fine,” I groaned once we settled into the room. “After the show tonight, we’re all going for dinner at the nicest place I can afford—the Cracker Barrel!”
Normally, I don’t think that would have excited them, but none of us had eaten anything more than Cheez-Its since we left L.A., so they cheered with as much enthusiasm as malnourished, possibly anemic musicians can muster.
That night, we drove down to the Two Rivers Club. It confused me initially, because I expected it to be some seedy hole-in-the-wall with an alley entrance. Turns out, it’s in the middle of a country club. And it’s the Two Rivers Youth Club, something Lacey neglected to mention. I felt a little uncomfortable at first, fearing a repeat of what happened in Fargo, but things went better this time.
We opened with “Little Darlin’,” the hit that America’s youth so desperately wants to hear. Then, we kicked it up a notch with “Put It (Where It Doesn’t Belong),” but before we even got through the intro, Carl passed out. Unable to cohere without the aid of his kick-ass backbeat, we slowed to an uncomfortable stop, at which point Riffs set down his guitar and started to dry-heave.
“We need food!” Mikey shrieked, lunging at me. He missed and fell off the stage.
“Fooooood!” he screamed from the floor, as America’s youth gazed on with confusion.
“Well,” I said into the mic, “thanks to the lame-ass catering, I’m goin’ home!” I slammed the microphone down on the stage floor, stormed past the moaning, writhing bodies of my bandmates, and went backstage.
When the band finally got their shit together, they came backstage. I glared at each of them until, finally, Mikey slithered into the dressing room.
“That was embarrassing,” I admonished. “You guys are pathetic. You can’t go a few days—”
“Weeks,” Mikey muttered.
“Whatever! Come on! When I first moved to L.A., I survived for a whole month on sunflower seeds and sugar packets. Toughen up.”
“Are we still going to Cracker Barrel?” Margo moaned.
“You guys don’t deserve Cracker Barrel. We’re Baconating.”
However, when we drove to Wendy’s and I asked the drive-thru clerk how much five Baconators would cost, the answer surprised and displeased me. I kept driving.
“Pull over,” Mikey said. “I gotta piss.”
I groaned and stopped the van.
Mikey stood out on the side of the road for awhile, but he certainly wasn’t pissing. He slid down the slope next to the road, dove to the ground, and started picking at something.
“What the hell is he doing?” I demanded, cutting the engine.
We all hopped out of the van and approached Mikey.
“Mushrooms!” he screamed. “Delicious, wild mushrooms, as far as the eye can see!”
Of course, we couldn’t see very far because it was night, but the mushrooms did seem quite plentiful. We all ate until we were full.
We finished the long drive to Lawrence, passing Topeka on the way (reminding me that I need to stop trusting maps drawn by Riffs when planning tours).
But when we got to Lawrence, things got weird.
Real weird.
To be continued…
Written by Girth McDürchstein on March 6, 2008 7:20 AM
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