Salton Sea IV - Death by a Thousand Cuts

The Range. They thought we weren't going to be there on account of the rain. Surprise, surprise; we were there in full force. At some point, Nicole says its bunny time. I stripped down and suited up. The hippie raver bike scum sound-bike showed up, and I took it on. Me and my megaphone vs. obnoxious dance music. I yelled at the speakers and made it better. Drum machines have no soul, unless you rub your soul all over them. I rubbed my soul all over everything. There was dancing and bike tricks and whatever else I saw in pictures later. Fucking awesome. I hi-jacked the sound-bike and played the Raising Arizona theme for ten minutes. I helped draw fishnet stockings on Greg with a sharpie, and gave him a Tomatoes “Wish Ya'll Were Here” sharpie-tattoo on on his arm.

Fashion show. Nicole on the mic. Apparently, she did a bang-up job. I was pretty solid into a manic phase, so I don't remember much. I strutted across the stage and then snuck over to the drumset. Thus, the fashion show transitioned into the music show. Me and Kel sang something, apparently. There's a picture to prove it. People in the audience requested “White Men Don't Name Their Babies Jesus” so I found a guitar and played it. Of course I played it in the wrong key and my whiskey-stained voice couldn't handle it. I guess it was cool, though. Beth told me about it later and she sounded impressed. After that I just watched people play. There's a picture of that, too. It was nice to sit and listen and clap.

Fashion show over. Time to disperse. I didn't know where to go or why. I ended up walking with Tomatoes' mom for a while and talking to her about something I don't remember. All I know for sure is that at some point I started crying like a fucking baby. I had to sit down. She crouched down with me and put her arm around my shoulder. It felt good to cry, I guess. It was a “good cry”. I don't know if I was crying for Tomatoes or what. It's possible. I read all his blog writings and published them. I'm now in the process of reading and editing his book, Tijuana Tap Water. I may have never exchanged two words with the guy in life, but I'm definitely getting to know his ghost. In fact, I would venture to say I know his ghost better than anybody. He's looking over my shoulder, right now, in fact. He thinks I'm an arrogant hack, both as a writer and as a musician. Whatever. Fuck you, Tomatoes. Return your mom's phone call. (Weirdly, Tomatoes' mom called me later on the same day I wrote this. I don't know how she got my number.)

I could have used a tour guide at this point. I wanted to see Charlie's place and play on his piano but I didn't know where Charlie's was and I was more concerned with not getting lost. As is my tendency, I wandered off alone. I didn't know where I was going or what I was doing. All I could do was walk. I headed back towards where I thought camp was. At the top the ridge overlooking camp, I hooked up with some kids with instruments. Banjo, trumpet, accordion. Awesome. They played songs up there and I held my megaphone out for the guy with the banjo because he was singing. Apparently they are a band called Gibbon and the Sluts. The next night I joined them as they serenaded the campground with an extended version of the classic: "Fuck You, Eat Shit Motherfucker!" along with some other great songs like "You're Still on Acid" and "Third Eye Blind Ain't Nothin' To Fuck With."