Yeah, that's what I said to Greg the tour manager when I saw the name on the day sheet. "Where the hell is Klamath?" The people are nice enough but Klamath is nowhere. I swim in the pool. I sit in the hot tub. I do my laundry. I use the phone. For some reason I can't log on in Oregon. I haven't logged on in 3 days. I have 50 emails to send and pile to receive. Klamath. The only reason we stop in these nowhere towns is to save money. We have to pay the driver double on every day he has to drive over a certain mileage. So we stop in Buttfuck Oregon or wherever to save money. The glamorous life we lead.
"I saw you guys on MTV - you must be millionaires."
Yeah right.
After another tough day in the pool I eat at a Chinese restaurant with Greg. It seems the staff know who the band are and they know who I am and they want autographs. I get the boys to sign some posters with me as I eat my mock duck and noodles. I never figured Klamath Oregon as a big Pitchshifter town. Maybe that's just my fault. People can like good music no matter where they live. I used to listen to the Dead Kennedy¹s and Big Black when I lived in the armpits of the Earth. More power to you all. Excuse my arrogance.
We head for Seattle at 1 am. By 10 p.m. in Klamath I can't take it anymore. I can't get on the internet and I've played all the pool one man can endure in one evening. Even a brief conversation with a deranged one legged Vietnam vet in a pool emporium can't hit the spot. I'm no big drinker but I have to get drunk. I find the bottle of Tequila I bought in Mexico stashed in one of the cupboards in the bus and pour out shots for the boys. What else can we do? The computers are useless. We've done our laundry. We can't play pool. TV sucks. I'd rather get drunk than watch TV. At least by getting drunk we might find some interesting morsel of our psyche we've never discovered rather than sit their and absorb someone else's sanitised point of view leaking from a cathode tube. The tequila flows and the hours 'till departure dwindle.
At 11 p.m. there's a knock on the bus door. It's three girls and a bottle of Jack Daniels. They want us all to go to their apartment and help them to finish it. Well why not? Here we are in the middle of nowhere with a couple of hours to kill. Inside their apartment we find a frantic persian kitty and a big bag of Jamaican rolling tobacco. We roll some of our own and soon Klamath doesn't seem that bad and suddenly it's time to go. Funny that. We thank the generous ladies and scuttle off to the war dolphin. Ramming speed Mr Ennis. Seattle here we come.
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