Colour Revolt tour diary: 5/6/08

Nothing in God’s Universe is more depressing than Vegas in the daytime. We crossed the Mojave desert and I saw the huge Louie Anderson and Carrot Top billboards and I quaked and wondered things. What else was there to do but bust out Woven Hand on the iPod and try to take it head-on, like I was cavalry-charging Vegas, the Great Beast. I’ll lose to you, probably, but only a little.

Honestly, though, we had a lovely time. Our merch guy Andrew won $250 off his first shot at the dollar slots, and besides that, it was Friendville up in there—Bethany Carder (and her friend’s lovely bulldawg, which drooled on me and my sleeping bag and it was gloooorious), Chad and Sara, and that guy who threw us $60.

Which brings me to my next point: I want to buy the Blade Runner box set, but I don’t really need five versions of that movie (just two). What do you guys think? Should I take the $50 plunge, or what? Or just chill with season one of Twin Peaks? Lord, the options! Maybe I’ll just spend all van days watching anime.

Getting to hang out with the Breeders is wonderful. We’re finally getting comfortable enough to laugh, share a few beers. Jose, Cheryl, Mondo, Benji Orlansky and my band all went out to a karaoke bar where Jesse yelled at this girl to wait her turn when she interrupted this dude’s stunning rendition of “Ziggy Stardust.” The highlight was tall bro-looking guy doing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time.” I met a homeless guy whose dad sent him a bus ticket out to visit him in California. He hadn’t seen his dad in five years. I bought him a beer and told him good luck. I hope he made the trip okay.

Fast forward a few nothing days wherein we saw Iron Man (ruled ass, reminded me of my buddy Taylor Webb), and we were back driving through the desert. Such a strange place. Noble cacti standing like sentries, keeping watch over what? About 10 hours into the drive a storm blew up, dividing the sky in two. Half a great translucent lakewater blue and the other half a hellish bronze cut with lightning. Chimneysmoke raincolumns stretching from brown desert to brown sky, all dirt-colored clouds. The mountains as onlookers, judges even, weathering it all, more ancient than us, more lasting than our music or any music could ever be. (Sorry, Ben Gibbard. I will always choose humans over silly little art.) Like that Franz Wright poem about being spared from the “fate of those who love words more than what they mean.” That’s the real deal, son. No doubt about it.

So this is the part where I quit typing and go hang out with Patrick before the show. I hear he’s got some cupcakes, and one of them sucker’s got my name on it.