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April 6, 2008

Tour Blog: Chicago — Stripped

Written by Girth McDürchstein on April 6, 2008 4:27 AM
Permalink |  Happy Heartland Tour -- The Midwest '08  | Digg It

I feel empty. Margo left again. We’re two halves of a whole. What’s half a brick or half a car engine or half a pie? Worthless. I can’t live without her, so while I may not have thought things through, I certainly don’t deserve this torture.

We played a show at First Nazarene in a Chicago suburb called Lemont. I felt so bland and bored, but I guess it didn’t come across onstage because we ended up getting banned by the town police department and can no longer enter Lemont city limits. We had to get a different motel. It was around that time that I remembered a nice stripper who sent me several polite messages on the MySpace. She incorporated “Phone Sex” into her dance routine and told me to look her up whenever we toured Chicago.

So I rented a car, put on a fake mustache, and drove up to the Industrial Strip to see if she was dancing that night. She told me to let her know when I’d be in town ahead of time so she could make sure she was on the schedule. I kind of forgot about her, so I just hoped she’d be there.

She wasn’t.

Instead, I got five consecutive lapdances from a gorgeous, fake-titted blonde, who kept shoving expensive cocktails down my throat. Eventually, I decided to take her into a private booth. I told her many intimate secrets, and she told me many about herself. After awhile, I exposed myself to her—

—and within minutes, I was being hauled onto the curb by two gargantuan, foul-smelling men. They waited with me until the Hammond Police came and took me to jail.

I called Carl to bail me out. By that time, it was around 4:30 in the morning. He didn’t seem thrilled, but he drove up from Joliet with our nearly maxed-out Abysmal credit card. He got me into the van—we decided to ditch the rental car altogether—and took me to an empty traincar diner on Chicago’s south side, where he got some coffee to help sober me up.

“It’s time to give you some tough love,” Carl said, abruptly changing the subject from Lindsay Lohan’s breasts. “You’re my best friend, Girth. I hate to see you hurting, but I hate it less when everything that’s wrong is your fault. You made your bed, man. It’s time to take your medicine.”

I thought about that for a long time as I stared at the reflection of the overhead fluorescent in the tar-like cup of joe.

“What?” I finally asked.

“You love Margo,” Carl said. Not a question. “You have to make things right—not just for me and the band, but for you and for her. You guys should be together, so I wish you’d stop doing everything you possibly can to fuck it up.”

“I can’t help myself,” I sighed, taking a sip.

“I know, Girth,” Carl said. “I know. Just fix it.”

“Fine,” I said. “We’re gonna have to cancel some shows, though.”

“I’m sure they’d be canceled anyway,” Carl said.

I was too drunk to find that offensive, so I just laughed.