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we have a date with the underground, chapter 8
by Michele Christopher
This is the eighth in a series of true stories about an anonymous ex-punk rock guy. This one was written by the turtle. I just took care of crossing the t's and shit.
When I was told we were recording the next week, I was sleeping in a three story Victorian house in the middle of nowhere. I could barely open my eyes enough to step over bodies to get outside. We had to travel. Yeah dude. Unfortunately these places aren't in the greatest locations. I wasn't recording for a big time label that fed us cocaine and vodka as we sat and waited while eating steak sandwiches. This was a warehouse in the projects. Just enough locks on the door to let people know you couldn't get in, but enough that neighbors wouldn’t think it was a meth lab.
It would be four hour drive to the studio. Welcome to LA. You can't fucking go to the bathroom without a four hour wait. You get used to it, but it doesn’t mean you have to like it. But we had a friend producing it all at discount so we hopped in the van and headed for the studio. In that god forsaken town. The land of the Mouse. Christ. Anaheim. Fucking Anaheim. When we got into town, we booked into a hotel, dumped our stuff off and immediately headed down to the studio to check out what we were going to be doing. How it was going to work and who was going to be there. I was tired. The only thing that made me happy was the hat I bought with the last of my money on the drive down. Fucking Anaheim. The last of my money. Spent on shit food and a stupid Mouse hat cause I was too drunk to actually think I might need to eat sometime.
I was so tired, my eyes couldn’t see Jesus if he stepped off a plane from heaven and asked me driving directions. I couldn’t see anything for that matter. I was wearing a headband fully pulled down over my eyes except for a slit that only let me look out if I raised my head. New hat on head. Bottle in hand.
I walked in to the studio and immediately hit the sofa in the front room. Hey dude. In a studio, a sofa is a life saver. The comfier it is, the more the owner scores "Jesus Points." If you get enough of these points you get to ride in the carpool lane to heaven. I think. Don't quote me on that one.
The sofa was broken in the middle and sagged. Like big fucking time broken. I carefully surveyed what was basically gonna be my bed for the next few days. I was not appeased. But what can you do? I tried to sleep as everyone else set up. If it is a gig, I'll help set up, even if I'm so drunk I can't remember how to take a piss, but if it is in situation like this? Fuck you. Set up your own damn drums. Thundercats is on god dammit.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Take two hundred and seventy six, you know this used to be fun. Studios aren’t in the best places in town and you're lucky to see a liquor store much less a theme park.
But we had one.
We got lucky.
We had Disneyland.
But we were broke.
But that’s another story for another day.
*there are 23 lines on a piece of binder paper. The title comes from a line in a song from someone who had no idea what to write when we were recording. "Write something fast about anything!" 23 lines. Tree Skin. Get it? Kinda cool line.