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Splitcock Tour -- Europe & Japan '07 Archives

June 16, 2007

PRESS RELEASE: WORLD TOUR Announcement!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Lacey’s Relations
1142 Wilshire Blvd.
Suite 600
Los Angeles, CA 90017

HEAVY METAL LEGENDS ANNOUNCE FIRST WORLD TOUR IN 10 YEARS

HOLLYWOOD, June 16, 2007 — For Abysmal Crucifix, the past two years have seen in-fighting, production problems, financial difficulties, embarrassment, and failure. In recent weeks, the band has regrouped and tried to put their recent problems in the past while looking ahead to the future. Slated for an October release, they are nearing completion of their latest album (Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Return’). Before the tentative release date, Abysmal Crucifix wants to return to the hearts and minds of fans and consumers—with a world tour.

Dates have been set for performances in Japan and many Scandinavian nations in July and August. More dates will be announced as they are booked. For the moment, the OFFICIAL TOUR DATES are:

Date	City	Venue
7.7.07	Turku	Ruisrock Festival
7.11.07	Helsinki	Kyrpien keskitalvi
7.13.07	Oslo	Das Auge des Gotthaus
7.14.07	Oslo	Das Auge des Gotthaus
7.18.07	Stockholm	Arenan
7.20.07	Lund	Mejeriet
7.22.07	Reykjavík	Grand Rokk
8.11.07	Tokyo	Makuhari Messe
8.12.07	Tokyo	Makuhari Messe
8.15.07	Nagoya	Stirrup Nation
8.18.07	Osaka	Lagold Electric Now
8.19.07	Osaka	Lagold Electric Now

Tickets will be available for purchase starting this Sunday (June 17, 2007).

Abysmal Crucifix’s friend/artist, Alistair Freeman (designer of each Abysmal album cover and logo) has created two promotional posters to be distributed by Abysmal Crucifix’s Japanese street teams. Unfortunately, when we contacted members of our Scandinavian street teams for aid in translation and distribution, we received few responses. Those who did reply suggested their time would be better spent “hunting gypsies.” We assume this is an odd language-barrier malapropism. Check out the Japanese promotional posters below.

Click each image for a larger view.

###

Press Contact:
Lacey Greenwood
818.655.5000
laceygstring@girthmcdurchstein.com

Written by Lacey Greenwood on June 16, 2007 8:07 AM
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July 5, 2007

Off to Finland

After a solid week of rehearsals, we are back with a vengeance! We got all our shit loaded up and a private jet booked for Turku, and let me tell you motherfuckers we’re stoked!

Our new intern, Jason Fields, will be manning the website until we get back from our tour. He’ll be in charge of posting our blogs, keeping in contact with friends, et cetera. Unless he’s sending attractive girls lewd messages again, you can consider him an official conduit to Abysmal Crucifix.

Hope to see our Finnish fan base on Saturday! ROCK ON!

—Girth

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 5, 2007 4:26 PM
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July 7, 2007

Tour Blog: Permanently Banned from Tremorden Castle and Ruisrock

The plane ride was uneventful but excruciatingly long. We made two stops for refueling, one of them in England, so I insisted on visiting Tremorden Castle, the former U.K. headquarters of Kelleystein Recordings and the site where we recorded our 2002 masterpiece, Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Hedge.’ Unfortunately, the band and label’s recent financial problems forced us to sell the castle to an unattractive Scot who insisted on turning it into a restaurant/medieval theme park.

I was embarrassed to discover the castle is no longer a castle at all—the first thing I noticed as the private limo arrived was an enormous Ferris wheel rising high in the sky behind it. A huge parking garage had been erected at the base of the hill, and as we pulled up toward the castle, a neon sign shrieking MEDIEVAL EMPORIUM OF SWEET TREASURES nearly blinded me.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 7, 2007 7:22 PM
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July 11, 2007

Tour Blog: Midwinter of Bullshit

Our booking agent/intern, Jason Fields, called in sick, so I had to follow up with the booking of our 2007 WORLD TOUR!!! We concentrated pretty heavily on our Scandinavian and Japanese fan bases (sorry, Canada!), so one of the first places I called was obvious: Kyrpien keskitalvi in Helsinki, which we played during our 1998 WORLD TOUR!!! I dialed all 37 digits of the phone number and listened to it ring.

“Päivää,” said a gruff voice on the other line. Like most transcontinental calls, he sounded like he was about five miles away from the phone microphone. With all this advanced technology, you’d think Europe would finally have decent phones. It really is a wasteland.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 11, 2007 8:22 AM
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July 13, 2007

Tour Blog: Car Theft in Oslo

After far too much time in the truck, we arrived in Oslo late Thursday night. I parked the truck and took the boys (plus Margo and Mikey) out for an early breakfast at Günter’s, a little diner in Majorstuen. It was a great meal with excellent service from a bleak-looking waitress. All told, we spent over two hours simply eating and chatting. Since Carl, Riffs, and Mikey had to ride in the back with all the instruments (and no access to the many boxes of Cheez-Its Margo and I kept in the cab), they were starving.

After we finished, I spent several important minutes giving the waitress lewd suggestions for alternate payment methods. She frowned at me and refused to respond, so I’m pretty sure she didn’t understand English. We paid the bill and dragged Riffs away from the mechanical-claw machine (I didn’t know they had those in the wasteland!).

Mikey was the first to notice the truck was gone. “What the fuck happened to the truck?” he asked helpfully.

“We’re parked on the other side,” I said confidently. On the other side of Günter’s is a train yard, not a parking lot. Embarrassed, we trudged back around to the front of the diner and I finally accepted it: the truck was gone. All our instruments, clothes, the special black silk tablecloths and sheets I bring on tour to spice up the motel rooms, the Cheez-Its—all gone!

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 13, 2007 11:55 AM
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July 14, 2007

Tour Blog: Some Shit Is Going Down…

Gently, I caressed my small plastic credit card within my fingers. The Njord brothers didn’t count on the good credit that comes from having all poor investments and financial mismanagement run through a bankrupt company. They didn’t count on my $10,000 monthly spending limit, my $100,000 maximum limit—or Margo’s ability to shop.

We left the boys and Mikey at the hotel and went to a flea market in the city center. Margo got me all dolled up in leather, while she strapped on some fishnets and a purple pleather skirt that left very little to the imagination. The lack of panties left even less to the imagination when she sat down teamster-style and waited for me to pay. But we had our outfits: a filthy Norwegian prostitute and her uptight pimp, the perfect front to hang around outside car thieves’ headquarters.

To the untrained eye, Helgensgate 12 looks like any other abandoned factory in Europe: from dusk to dawn it surges and throbs with endless house music, but during the day it shudders with inactivity. Unless you know where to look…

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 14, 2007 11:54 AM
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July 17, 2007

Tour Blog: Stockholm Syndrome

Our intern, Jason Fields, called me on the road on Sunday to tell me our show at Arenan in Stockholm had been canceled because of poor ticket sales. We didn’t even get the message until we arrived at the hotel in Stockholm, thanks to poor cell reception. It’s pretty crushing to know that Abysmal Crucifix can’t sell out a large club in one of the few places we’re still considered “popular.”

Since we still had a hotel reservation and a few days to kill before driving up to Lund, I did what everyone comes to Sweden to do: drove to the beach. There’s a nice one at Långholmen, and I needed some relief from the cool night air and the pressures that came from such a disappointing tour. We’ve been on the road for over a week, and we haven’t yet played one show.

I just sat there on the beach, thinking. After awhile, I waded into shallow water, trying to cool off from the heat of the Swedish summer. When I returned to the beach, I fell on my knees. With my eyes closed and brow furrowed, I prayed, prayed to the gods of the Church of Rafelman, a divine order I belong to that believes many of today’s rock stars are reincarnations of ancient gods and goddesses; for instance, I am believed to be Paoponicheleus. Borne of a lesbian affair between Demeter and a water nymph, Paoponicheleus brought soil pH measurements to Greek farmers in the same way I bring the rock to anyone willing to open their ears. I prayed to the reincarnated gods I worship, and when I felt a cold gust of wind coming in off the colorless lake, I turned around and saw—

A man in a heavy black robe. His face was very pale and he kept his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I am Death.” He spoke with a light Swedish accent, in the deepest bass I’ve ever heard.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 17, 2007 9:47 PM
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July 18, 2007

Tour Blog: Cancer Crisis

When I got back to the hotel, I told the rest of the band exactly what had happened: my ex-fiancée, Sarah Goss, had been diagnosed with cervical cancer. Prognosis? Terminal. My arch-nemesis, musician Owen Autumn, confronted me on the beach and Långholmen to give me the news. Grief-stricken, Riffs ran into the bathroom and locked the door.

Mikey and Carl sat on a love-seat, trying as hard as possible to not actually touch. Mikey muttered, “Serves that whore right,” which prompted Carl to smack him in the back of the head. Then he looked at me, shrugged, and said, “I didn’t know her. I mean, I feel bad on a general ‘wow does cancer suck’ level, but it doesn’t go any deeper.”

“That’s what she said,” Mikey said, trying to avoid eye contact with me.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 18, 2007 10:45 AM
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July 20, 2007

Tour Blog: Persona Non Grata

When it was time to leave for Lund, Little Riffs Nicky still wouldn’t leave the bathroom. Through the door, we could hear him moaning and whimpering softly, like a small dog who doesn’t quite understand the permanence of death, but somehow instinctively knows something has changed forever. We tried coaxing him out with Jell-OÂ® Puddin’ Pops, the sensual sounds of “Put It Where It Doesn’t Belong” (his self-confessed favorite Abysmal Crucifix song ever)—we even went so far as to hire one of the millions of prostitutes constantly roaming the streets of Stockholm. The poor guy wouldn’t budge.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 20, 2007 3:08 PM
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July 21, 2007

Tour Blog: East to Iceland

Unfortunate scheduling forced us to ferry our truck back into Finland and drive clear across the country to get to Russia. We spent most of the day enjoying the Finnish countryside.

Click image for a larger view

It was dark before we got to the border. The road divided into three lanes with wide medians as we approached large checkpoints. A man in a midnight-black uniform came from the guard-shack, assault-rifle slung over his shoulder. He came to the truck and spoke hostilely in Finnish.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

The soldier sneered at me. “Little,” he grunted.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 21, 2007 12:34 PM
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July 23, 2007

Tour Blog: Gone to Grenoble

This tour has had its share of financial difficulties, and our lack of income from not playing any shows (so far!) is really putting a chink in our monetary armor. In fact, we’ve spent so much money that yesterday I had to turn in the truck to Lainata Sinä Kuorma-Auto in Helsinki and figure out what our next move was. We couldn’t afford to fly to Reykjavík. Hell, we couldn’t even afford to fly to Grenoble, the French city where we planned to just chillax until we went to Japan.

Then Margo came up with a brilliant idea: “We can pack everything, including us, into a huge shipping carton and ship it to the EconoLodge in Grenoble!”

Carl interjected, “Stupid question: won’t we die?”

Margo shrugged. “Doubt it.”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 23, 2007 2:10 PM
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July 29, 2007

(Temporarily) Banned from MySpace?

On late Thursday night or early Friday morning (Pacific time—here in the wasteland, it happened around eight in the morning), we were banned from MySpace. I suppose it happens to everyone, but not everyone is Abysmal Crucifix.

At first, I really didn’t know what caused it. I received an automated message from MySpace:

Hello,
MySpace has deleted your profile because we received a credible complaint of your violation of the MySpace Terms of Services.

Prohibited activity includes, but is not limited to:
-Any automated use of the system, such as using scripts and/or bots to add friends, send messages, etc.
-For band and filmmaker profiles, MySpace prohibits sexually suggestive imagery or any other unfair, misleading or deceptive content intended to draw traffic to the profile.
-MySpace also investigates credible complaints of copyright/trademark infringement and will delete any materials that infringe upon the intellectual property rights of third parties.

For a more thorough list of prohibited content/activity, please refer to the MySpace Terms of Service located at the bottom of MySpace.com.

If we delete your account, it cannot be reinstated.

Thank you,
MySpace.com

I thought, “This must be some kind of a mistake, or perhaps it’s spam.” While replying with my credit card information and Social Security number, I thought, Maybe I should login and check to be sure. I tried to login, and it let me—sort of. It said I was logged in, but refused to take me “Home.” I decided to go to the link to our profile—and it was gone, replaced with a generic message telling me I’d either typed an invalid ID or the profile was deleted.

“Noooooo!” I roared, then quieted down so as not to wake the others. I had snuck onto the computer intentionally for—personal use, let’s say.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 29, 2007 11:46 AM
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August 3, 2007

Tour Blog: “Two Berries on a Twig” Music Video

It wasn’t the sound of glass shattering that woke us up—no, after a week in a French EconoLodge, you’re pretty much used to the noise of brawls, guns, and whores and can sleep through World War III. Maybe it stirred us a bit, but it was the shouting of “Kaplan! Kaplan!” over and over again that drew our attention.

Margo and I seemed to awaken simultaneously. Our eyes opened and we stared at each other for a quiet moment until the name “Kaplan” registered. We both got up and looked out the window at the bright blue light of the pool. As usual, Little Riffs Nicky was taking a nude night swim. He paid no attention to the man shrieking his last name.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 3, 2007 12:01 PM
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August 7, 2007

PRESS RELEASE: Girth McDürchstein Arrested!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Lacey’s Relations
1142 Wilshire Blvd.
Suite 600
Los Angeles, CA 90017

McDÜRCHSTEIN UNFAIRLY ARRESTED AS LEADER OF “CRIMINAL SYNDICATE”

GRENOBLE, FRANCE, August 7th — Legendary rocker Girth McDürchstein has been arrested as part of a joint effort between Europol and French police officials, Reuters reports. In a largely fictitious press release, authorities in Grenoble suggest a “stormcloud of criminal activity” that “follows McDürchstein all along the tour of Scandinavia with his ‘band,’ whose music should be criminalized.” Also included in that press release is a list of charges McDürchstein faces:

Murder - 1 count
Assault with a deadly weapon - 11 counts
Financing a terrorist organization - 1 count
Attempted murder - 1 count
Accessory after the fact (to car theft ring in Oslo) - 1 count
Consorting with criminals - 1 count
Solicitation - 1 count
Breaking in entering - 1 count
Fraud - 2 counts
Following the Church of Rafelman (illegal in Sweden and Norway) - 2 counts
Loss of identity (illegal in Sweden since 1966) - 1 count
International mail fraud - 5 counts
Indecent exposure - 5 counts
Filing nuisance lawsuit - 1 count

Longtime Abysmal fans understand this is not the first time McDürchstein has been railroaded. Abysmal attorney Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, Esq., has already filed a motion to drop all charges. It has gone largely ignored, a result of Mr. Feinstein’s not being licensed to practice outside the State of California. McDürchstein is being held in Grenoble. No bail has been set. Other Abysmal Crucifix members have been asked to remain in the country, possibly to be held as material witnesses or arrested for their own false charges.

Speaking through his attorney, Mr. McDürchstein commented, “You gotta get me outta here! I’m begging you! These Frenchies—they like to…do things, and they’ve all heard “Bay-Ooh-Tay-Tay!”

UPDATE: Europol has provided McDürchstein’s mugshots to the press.

###

Press Contact:
Lacey Greenwood
818.655.5000
laceygstring@girthmcdurchstein.com

Written by Lacey Greenwood on August 7, 2007 7:11 PM
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August 9, 2007

Tour Blog: Get Myself Arrested

I shuffled along the EconoLodge breezeway toward the vending machines. Around the corner, squeezed close together, was an ice machine, a snack machine, a soda machine, and a cigarette machine. I popped two €2 coins into the cigarette machine and pulled the tab for a pack of Kools. Out of nowhere, I heard shouting in French, followed by the stealthy but still slightly clanky (thanks mostly to the high-powered assault weapons they carried) running, growing louder, louder—

Until I was tackled and thrown onto the concrete by a man twice my size. He shoved me around onto my stomach. All I really remembered was that weird, kinda spiky feel of the concrete digging into the skin of my arms and legs, and even my gut through my t-shirt. It reminded me a lot of junior high. The man who sat on top of my ass, doubtless considering going tongue-wild back there, yanked my arms around my back, held my wrists together, and slipped one of those annoying plastic ties around it. He cinched it far tighter than he needed to; within minutes, I lost circulation.

It took a few moments to realize I had just been arrested. The cigarette-machine ruse must be a pretty common occurrence—something we’d witnessed at least five times since coming to Europe—but it still distressed me. Why had I been arrested? Who, other than me, had witnessed the nature of my crimes?

I received my answer much faster than I thought I would. The man sitting on me, his duty done, leaped off and twisted me back around. A lanky man with a narrow mustache and sad, puppy-dog eyes stood before me. He tossed a well-worn cigarette onto the cold concrete and, for some reason, rubbed intensely at the chest of his black trenchcoat. “Monsieur McDürchstein,” the man grinned. He spoke with an odd combination of an educated London accent and a buried, Jean-Claude Van Damme-esque Belgian accent. “I have waited for quite some time to meet you.”

“Who are you?” I groaned.

“My name is legendary inspector Gillaume Pinafore,” the man said, his grin growing wider. “I hereby place you under arrest by the authority invested in me by Europol.”

“Europol? The fuck is that?”

“It is like the Interpol, but for European Union countries only,” Inspector Pinafore replied.

“Very exclusive,” I muttered. “But why are you arresting me? What did I do wrong?”

Inspector Pinafore giggled in a surprising, girlish way—tittered, in fact. He said, “Monsieur, it would take less time to list the things you haven’t done wrong.”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 9, 2007 11:43 AM
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Tour Blog: Algeria’s a Distant Land…

The moment we stepped off the boat in Algiers, the men were waiting. They took one look at my spandex-encased crotch and knew I was the guy. In all, there were four gentlemen. Two looked rather polite and pleasant, dressed in tweed suits and horn-rimmed glasses. Enormous gun-toting militants, glistening with sweat, flanked the polite-looking men.

“Girth McDürchstein, I presume,” said the shorter of the tweed-clad men in an accent halfway between English and Danish.

“What’s this about?” I asked.

The militants aimed their guns, but not at me—at my friends, my bandmates, my wife. Margo didn’t look very happy with them, but she made no move.

“Come with us, please,” the shorter man said.

I glanced at Margo again. She nodded slyly, and I went with them. They forced me to sit between the militants in the backseat of a Jeep, while the two “intellectuals” drove. We went out of the city, into the desert—harsh plains of sand that felt remarkably cool in the evening with the wind blowing sand grains in our faces.

When we had reached a point that the living world had totally abandoned—just sand, far as they could see— I saw a little black pellet on the horizon. As we drove closer, I realized it was a very small cabin—a shack, even—near the side of the road. They drove right up to the cabin and the militants forced me out.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 9, 2007 11:22 PM
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August 10, 2007

Tour Blog: When We Hit Japan

I felt a little stupid wearing the pith helmet and khaki shorts, but Margo insisted. She wore the same basic outfit, although with more cleavage, and we sat across a small, private booth from a grimacing Algerian. He and Margo were engaged in a staring contest, an alarming battle of wills. This man may have believed he knew the score, but nobody knows Margo like I do, and I knew, just as I’m sure she did, that after a short time he would—

“All right,” he finally said in his musical accent. “I’ll do it.”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 10, 2007 3:17 PM
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August 11, 2007

Tour Blog: Sushi Surprise

The short man had a menacing glare that betrayed his dorky Harry Potter rounded spectacles. What made such a vastly inferior specimen of manhood so terrifying to someone as large and powerful (in more ways than one) as Girth McDürchstein? The expensive black suit and matching tie? The greasy, uncombed black hair? The array of blood-encrusted tools he spread on an aluminum table next to me? Yeah, that was probably it.

He came closer, and I spat a mouthful of blood onto the dirty concrete floor. He had inflicted so much pain that I had almost gone numb; I could have spit out some teeth or my entire tongue without noticing. I merely sat in the uncomfortable ergonomic stainless-steel chair, hands wired together behind my back, and waited. The short man carefully selected a new tool for this round of torment—this time, a scratch awl would do the trick. He lifted it like a delicate flower, caressing it with alarming and erotic gentleness, then leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Will you do what we ask?”

I could barely hear him. The stench of his sour-mash breath, combined with the pain and dehydration, made me feel like passing out. I resisted the temptation long enough to whisper, “Yes. Anything.”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 11, 2007 9:40 AM
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August 12, 2007

Tour Blog: Master Tetsu

After discovering, for the third time on this tour that we’d been bumped, I was furious. I first called band intern Jason Fields. He didn’t answer the phone, I assume for masturbation-related reasons, so I called the owner of Messe Makuhari myself. A mysterious man known only as Tetsu, he spoke in a series of grunts and broken-English commands. He insisted that I come to his home in Chiba prefecture and personally plead for my life.

I assumed this was a mistranslation on his part, but when I arrived in the spacious rooftop garden where Tetsu apparently lives, he stood with hands clasped on a katana sword aimed at the dirt-dusted concrete floor. He wore a muscle shirt and loincloth and nothing else. His shaved head gleamed in the sunlight dripping through the grated ceiling. His nostrils flared upon my arrival, and I heard him growling like a mangy dog.

“Huh,” I said.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 12, 2007 10:17 AM
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August 15, 2007

Tour Blog: Stirrup Nation

I’d be lying if I said the Stirrup Nation gig didn’t disappoint us. It never occurred to me that it’d be a tiny, smoke-filled strip club. Maybe I should have seen it coming, but you know how Japan is—they just arbitrarily string English words together with no rhyme or reason, in much the same way that confused art students have Japanese-character tattoos of things they think mean “Poet of the Sea” or “I ♥ Marijuana” or “I will die penniless and soaked in gin,” when in actuality they mean things like “I enjoy the flesh of small children” or “Reinstate the Draft!”

Normally a strip club wouldn’t bother me, but I felt we were lied to—when we booked this gig, the promoter assured us it was an arena that would seat 50,000. Barely 100 people crammed into the tiny room, and before long many of them were distracted by the strippers. In fact, for much of the show we were distracted by the strippers. They do quite a few things differently in Japan than they do in the States, and strip clubs rate among them. I’m sure you don’t want the details without photographic evidence, and unfortunately none of us thought to bring cameras, but let me put it this way: they don’t call it “Stirrup Nation” for nothing. I’m pretty sure I saw at least two colons—as immaculate as the rest of their bodies, I must admit.

Despite our popularity, the only interest generated in our performance came from Margo’s quick thinking—about half an hour into the set, she started a striptease of her own. Inexperienced as an actual stripper or dancer, her arrhythmic gyrating and strangely unerotic attempts at pole-dancing would have instantly turned off any red-blooded American. Fortunately, we were in Japan, where American women are as exotic to Japanese men as the $15 prostitutes you find on any given street corner in a Japanese city are to us. As they pounded down warm rice wine, they stuffed ¥1000 bills into areas I hesitate to mention.

After the show, a few people—mostly the strippers—stuck around for autographs and merch sales. We used Margo’s “tips” to pay for a motel on the edge of town. We’ll be in Osaka in a few days, and I for one look forward to it. I Googled it—it’s a real place that hasn’t been destroyed and is a real arena, so I can’t wait for our two nights of magic. Any Japanese fans interested should check it out, come hell or high water.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 15, 2007 2:22 PM
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August 18, 2007

Tour Blog: Osaka Flue

Crucificionados who have come to see us on our recent tour of Scandinavia and Japan may have noticed that we don’t travel with roadies. We’ve received several questions asking is why, but it’s only now that this has been relevant. It dates back to the “Thunderbird” tour in the summer of 1996. We used to travel with a full, huge crew—we couldn’t afford them, but most were such big fans they’d take what we could give them, even if that meant “nothing” (it usually did). One fateful night in St. Louis changed all that.

August 19, 2007

Tour Blog: Last Night — We Made You Cum!

After the disappointment of last night’s show, which ended after two song-halves, I was really hoping the second night—the final night of our long tour—would end well. To my surprise, I got my wish.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 19, 2007 4:22 PM
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August 20, 2007

Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Return’

Man, we’re back in L.A. and the weather’s perfect, the chicks are perfect, the sky is perfect—life is perfect. I’m just glad to finally get back to a normal place. Europe was starting to freak me out, and Japan was more violent than I thought it’d be.

As soon as we got off the plane—I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this or not, but Hansai paid for our return airfare in addition to covering our stay at Rabu Hoteru—we were greeted by two men in black suits, our attorney Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, and our publicist Lacey Greenwood.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 20, 2007 3:50 PM
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