Tuesday, June 13, 2006

In which Birdmonster plays Boston, visits Providence, and witnesses new lows of sorry, degenerate drunkenness

We're on about four hours of couch sleep right
now, but, unlike when we chased Art Brut
throughout the bottom half of the country, it's
not going to be the normal plot on this trip. Most
of our East Coast drives are doable without drive
-thru breakfasts, gas station coffee, groggy
cackling, and early morning R. Kelly. Part of me
will miss that. The sane part won't. Well, even the
sane part wants some R. Kelly, but that's it.

For me, most of the stops on the East Coast will
be my first visits to each respective city. I did
take a trip back at the turn of the century, but I
remember New York and twelve dollar lobster in
Maine, but that's about it. I think the family and I
traveled around here too, but when you're five
years old, you just don't give a shit about the
Liberty Bell. Peter's from this whole New English
mash of teeny states, which translates into tour
guide-y driving moments, old friends, and free
floors to sleep on, but for me, and for all intents
and purposes, my first trip to Boston was last
night. I must say: Bravo.

First off, we played at a funky little club called
the Great Scott (a mural on the wall asked "Who's
the Boss?" with pictures of Bruce Spingsteen,
James Brown, and Tony Danza. The answer, of
course: not Tony Danza). Nice, helpful staff in
what, apparently no more than a year or two ago,
was a testerone soaked frat bar. This might be
hearsay, but, at any rate: a kick-ass show. If I
may be so pompous. The Bostonians seemed to

Afterwards, we drove an old friend home and
departed for Providence to avoid the morning
Bechtel-induced traffic nightmares and for an
aforementioned free floor to sleep on. Then, this
morning, we ate delicious Rhode Island diner-ness
and saw one of the most impressively pathetic
sights I've ever seen: namely, a bearded dude at
the diner counter who'd eaten breakfast while
polishing off eight beers. Before 10:30. I imagine by
now, he's in jail or on number thirty-eight. There's
really no other possibility.

Now, in what we may as well officially christen
the Whaleship Essex (where's my smashy
champagne bottle?), we're rolling to Washington
D.C., that partially slummy, strangely Disneyland
-esque place where our country's leaders make
important decisions about Freedom Fries, Freedom
Onion Soup, and vote on gay marriage every third
Tuesday. See you there.


maureen said...

I think Louie's is the only place that sells beers that early in the morning. Hope one of you had a pumpkin muffin or pumpkin pancakes. I have to go...I'm getting teary-eyed with nostalgia for my old college haunts

Dahlgren's Daddy said...

An apt selection, the Whaleship Essex. Homeport, Nantucket.

Also, on your East Coast wanderings please avois using the phrase "I love you, Johnny Cakes." It is only memorable line from this seasons "Sopranos" but it has some homoerotic overtones. Though you might want to try to eat some johnny cakes if the opportunity presents itself.

Also, try scrapple and baked beans for breakfast. It will at least leave a lasting Birdmonster impression in the upholstery of the Whaleship Essex.

shan said...

this bostonian agrees. absolutely kick ass. i reviewed it already, if you'd like a look.


Dany said...

how was dc/the hard tomorrows? rob's a great guy

birdmonster said...

Dany: See newest post. He was effing radical. How very Californian of me.

Mo: I had Cranberry pancakes. Or, as I like to call them: Crancakes. Unreal food. Trully.

Shan: Aw, thanks. That was really kind. No snarky joke necessary.

DD: Scrapple. Check. Crancakes are certainly superior though. And, then, there's always today's breakfast: the bland egg & sesame "bagel" with "ham" and "cheese." I got zero essential vitamins. Sheer misery. Ohio is NOT known for it's bagels. I promise.