San Diego, California, The Casbah
We woke this morning in L.A. and went to breakfast at this bakery across from Spaceland. The food was good and we sat near Flea, the old bass player from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. He sat with some woman who wrote notes about what he said. The way I saw it, she was either doing some sort of interview with him about motorcycles or something, or else they had just slept together and he was giving her a list of all the things she should check for the next time she sees her doctor. Creepy! So we had lunch with Sam and Luke and Mike and... and... was there anyone else? Oh, it doesn't matter.

On the way to San Diego we stopped in Laguna Beach to visit Tim's cousin Magaret and her mom. It was a fine visit. I had a margarita, and then we went to the beach. Andy and Tim smoked, clearing a swath about thirty yards wide, while James body-surfed (he's from Hawaii so these things are second nature to him) and I tried to body-surf. What a pleasure. I splashed around, damaged myself a little, waded back to shore, and walked the length of the beach, looking for cute girls and movie stars. What I found was that practically half the people on the beach were Italian. I thought that was wierd.

Margaret took us to a clothing store where we all shopped successfully. To find something affordable at a boutiquey place in such a boutiquey town gave me the shivers.

We've played the Casbah so many times, oh I don't even want to go into it. We go to San Diego, we visit friends (though Jon Lee was out of town, so we couldn't visit Jon Lee. Greg Anderson wasn't in L.A., either, so we couldn't visit Greg in L.A. Someone else was missing somewhere, but I forget where. What's the point of going on tour if everyone's out of town?), we play a show which is always screwed up in some way, then we visit some more, then we leave. San Diego is such an absurd place to play a rock show. This time we were the only band of four who didn't prominently feature a cellist. In the Casbah, if you're a loud band (we are), the mirrors surrounding the stage turn you into a VERY LOUD BAND. Tim and Andy played through a pair of those little Rockman belt-loop amps and still people were weeping and pleading with us to stop.

Once again, the sound situation was screwy. Since we were the only band with a live drum kit, and every other band used only two microphones (one for the cello, one for the "mumbler"), James had to set up all the drum mics himself, having only a "grunter" (a soundman who grunts and never speaks) to help him. So we ended up starting late and playing all of eight songs or so. Shit! Andy was bummed, he felt rushed and couldn't get on down like he normally would.

I talked to some folks who thought the show was okay, though. Tim and I had a pretty good time, for as short as our set was. I thought of it as a hardcore show at half-speed. I was into it. In fact, I was so into it that I had two drinks and passed out in the van for both American Analog Set ("Aass") and Magnetic Fields. That was okay by me, I needed a good nights' sleep.

Tim drove from San Diego to Sam's house in L.A., where once again we slept like kings. If you see Sam Velde, buy him a drink or two.

While I was asleep, we passed an upside-down car on a desolate stretch of highway. Vicky kept saying, "how do they turn upside down when they're all alone?" I will never understand these L.A. drivers.

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