22/07/98 - Ogden Theatre. Denver, CO.

Uh oh. We've all lost it. The insanity of the road has crept into our
dreams. Last night Johnny dreamt that a meteorite crashed into the Earth. He
was standing in a crowd and he saw a meteorite hit the horizon. The
shockwave hit him first. Then he heard the sound of a jumbo jet hitting an
apartment block, then the cloud of debris and dust hit him in the face as
people ran screaming all around him. Later he said that it was like Mad Max,
people killing each other for a bottle of water and a can of petrol.

I, on the other hand, dreamt that the little curtain had fallen off my bunk.
In my sleep I had kicked off my duvet and was lying there naked . . . with
an early morning hard on (EMH to the initiated). The rest of the band and
all the crew were all standing in a line next to my bunk, pointing and
laughing at my erection. Johnny gets the end of the world as we know it and
I get sexual ridicule. It's so unfair.

Denver is a mile above sea level. A city of super lunged athletes. A genetic
experiment. They win. After the first song I'm dying. I just can't get
enough oxygen in my lungs. Feeble. The crowd are great tonight though. They
really dig Pitchshifter and they want us to know it. They throw money,
cigarettes, chewing gum and one condom. Thanks guys. I stick the dollar
bills in my shorts like some cheap titty dancer and give the cigarettes to
the band. Well, waist not want not. I can be a whore for 45 minutes and live
with myself in the morning.

After the show we hide from the rain in the dolphin. The dolphin likes the
rain in all it's bluey goodness. Soon there are some girls on the bus. I
don't know how they got there but they want signatures . . . from the crew.
This tour is just getting plain silly now. Women want the crew's signatures?
Where will it end? Stilly (our stage tech) has a 'logo' instead of a
signature. He always makes a line drawing of a mug tree. You know, the
little wooden thing you can hang four coffee mugs from in the kitchen.
Whatever. Soon I'm confronted with two stomachs (see pic) for a photograph.
As the designated impartial observer and holder of the digital camera I am
obliged to document the tour and all it's lunacy. I don't know why these
things happen or what they mean. I'm just the bag man.

As the dolphin pulls out of the parking lot. I finally mange to get rid of
the last straggler. The boys soon got scared and ran away from her. There's
a woman singing happy birthday in Spanish to me and intermittently telling
me how smoking as much crack as she does makes her very aggressive.
"Do you ever get really aggressive Jon? Do you ever feel like you could
kill? Do you ever stop typing on that computer?" (I'm typing this as she
rants) "Do you ever stop the tippety tap of the tappety tipping? A moment of
your brain scored to the keys - and who has the keys? I can't find them - I
need a guide. Can you take me there Jon? Would you marry me? You are so
very handsome. Want some coke?"

I get the tour manager to get rid of her. Who the hell is he anyway? Why me?
I was just typing on the computer and now some demented female Stanley Unwin
wants to shoot me full of crack and marry me? Sorry to say again and about
such a cool city, BUT GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!