Jay The Road Warrior - Stop 7 - Gainesville, FLA

Jesus can Florida weather be more disgusting?  At 8:30 on a Sunday morning you can’t even smoke a cigarette without sweating your balls off.  How did I live down here for almost nine or so years and not blow my brains out?

It wasn’t a happy Sunday morning for me.  I woke up feeling like I was hit by a bus.  It didn’t help that my allergies were still going nuts, and just breathing made me sweat because it was so friggin’ hot out.  I suppose it’s a price I had to pay for drinking heavily the night before and being in a swamp.  I drank about five glasses of water, chugged a cup of coffee, and packed my shit.  Even though we only had a three hour drive until Gainesville there was stuff we wanted to do before heading out. 

Getting in the van was a chore by itself as it smelled like hot garbage (or Brooklyn at Ryan put it).  It’s understandable how this could happen considering there are four sweaty guys traveling the country without the luxuries of a daily shower or laundry like we would have at home.  It just seemed a lot worse to me considering my hangover state.

First up was meeting Bryon, the owner of Kiss of Death Records, for breakfast at a Thai Temple.  The temple was really cool.  Every Sunday they have a farmers market where you can get authentic Thai food (not that take-out crap).  So my breakfast consisted of ginger chicken over rice.  Sure it’s not a typical Sunday brunch meal but it was damn good.  I mean real good.  Bryon also bought these fried bananas that has some kind of crispy coating on it with sesame seeds.  They were like an orgasm in my mouth.  One thing I’m learning on this tour is always make sure to try new foods and eat well, even if it’s some hole in the wall.

After we parted ways with Bryon we headed over to Clearwater beach.  Mixtapes were going to be there and we planned on meeting them there (unfortunately due to my drunken state the night before I have no recollection of these plans).    I love the beach, especially Clearwater Beach, so a couple of hours in the sun and The Gulf of Mexico could be the recipe needed to shake my hangover.

We were unable to locate Mixtapes.  When you’re on a beach as big as Clearwater Beach is with no set meeting point and no one is answering the phone it’s like finding a needle in a haystack.  We walked the beach back and forth to no avail.  Eventually we set a spot, put down our shit, and hit the water.

The beach was nothing short of gorgeous.  Nothing like the Jersey Shore where I go now in Philly, or Smith Point Beach where I grew up in Long Island, Clearwater Beach is what a beach should look like.  Miles of white powdery sand and water so clear even at waist deep you can look down and see the bottom (and it’s not littered with garbage and medical waste).  The only issue I had with the beach was the water was so warm it wasn’t refreshing.  I shouldn’t be shoulder deep in water and my head is still sweating.  That shit isn’t right.

Although we couldn’t find Mixtapes, I was waiting on my buddy Mike.  Mike and I used to live together when I lived in Florida and he has always been a good friend.  We lost touch for the better part of eight years but tracked each other down.  The last time I saw him was in May when he passed through Philly on his way to Florida.  He stayed with me for about four days and we had a blast, just like old times.  I was hoping he would have made the show in Tampa since he lives in Clearwater, but he just moved and he couldn’t find his cat.  Some things are just out of our control.  I was just glad that he was heading to the beach. 

He and his girlfriend met me on the beach and we bullshitted for an hour or so, catching up on what’s been going on in our lives.  It was good to see him and hopefully he can make a trip up to Philly in the next few months.

Once I left Mike I found the band and they found Mixtapes.  After a bit more swimming in The Gulf, we gathered our shit and grabbed some ice cream (wholesome shit right?  Definitely Rock ‘N Roll).  Once our ice cream date ended we parted ways.  Mixtapes were headed to Birmingham, and we were bound for Gainesville.

Gainesville might be the music capital of Florida.  Known for bands like Hot Water Music, Less Than Jake, Against Me!, and even the great Tom Petty, the music scene there booms (unfortunately most of the bands there now try and copy the above mentioned acts with hopes to land on No Idea! Records).  When I lived in Florida I loved heading to Gainesville to catch shows.  Sadly over the years Gainesville has changed, and outside the standard date-rape douchebags who go to the University of Florida, there are two main types of people; hipsters and krusty punks (although you can find some normal kids, but it’s getting few and far between).

Hipsters…  Damn those people annoy me.  If you don’t know what a hipster is (and I guarantee they have crossed your path), think of Brooklyn or South Philly.  These clowns like to wear super-tight skinny jeans and some type of ironic tee shirt, like a 1983 Night Ranger World Tour tee shirt.  Upon first glance they don’t look like hygiene is a top priority.  They have some type of sketchy facial hair, normally a big beard or a sketchy moustache, and their hair looks greasy and disheveled.  They appear as they are too cool to try and look presentable, but it’s a blatant act because they try to look that way.

They normally hate anything related to sports (even though most of them secretly follow sports but fear if word got out they might be shunned by there hipster brethren), but love music.  Nothing mainstream though.  It has to be some obscure indie-rock band from Norway or  they make a claim they were at The Strokes first show in The Lower East Side of New York City and that Interpol suck.  Knowing facts about obscure bands and “being the first” gives the hipsters this type of musical elitist attitude (personally I think most of the music they claim to like they don’t, they just think it’s cool so they go with it).  They also think they are individuals, not like the norm, but meanwhile they are mirror images of each other.  Aside from an elitist attitude, there’s not much difference between them and they date-rape douchebags.  At least the date-rape douchebags don’t hide their douchbaggery with a poseur exterior.

Then there’s the krusty punks.  These assholes give the punk rock scene in any city a bad name.  You’ve seen these peckers before; it’s hard to miss their smell.  Krusty punks don’t bathe or wash their clothes (because lacking hygiene is really what punk rock is about).  They too enjoy skinny jeans and wear punk rock tee shirts from they’re favorite krust bands, but they never have a sleeves.  A good krusty punk will immediately rip the arms off their tee shirt because in the world of Krusty, it’s totally about appearance (even though they would like you to think it’s not).  Along with the tight jeans and sleeveless shirts a good krusty punk will have a studded belt or a bullet belt.  Should you encounter a krusty with multiple belts, tread lightly.  That krusty is higher up on the krusty punk food chain.

This is about appearance so remembering the hair is big.  Normally you’ll see three different types of haircuts.

1)      A mohawk – Yeah, the needed appearance a mohawk six inches high glued together with egg whites and filth gives you street credibility.  While they think they look cool, everyone around them thinks they look like a dick with ears.

2)      A mullet – Damn straight; the mullet isn’t just for white trash anymore.  The krusty’s are taking it back.  The standard whorehouse cut (business in front, party in the back), is a staple in the krusty community.  I’m sure they deem it as something the mainstream shuns, so it fits right in their self-righteous bullshit beliefs.

3)      A rat tail – This also is making a big comeback but it’s gone to a new level.  It’s not just a standard rat tail, it’s normally a couple of dreadlocks formed into a rat tail and possibly dyed a different color (that’ll show you mom and dad!).  Yeah, I know it’s super classy.

Krusty punks also have no shame.  They don’t bathe, so they smell like assholes and armpits (they are an aromatic assault), and will have no problem begging for money from people on the street.  Their conversations will consist of bullshit about hating cops, people who are gainfully employed, or bullshit talk like their experience riding freight trains across the country hobo-style.  They wear this like a badge of honor.  They also are music snobs and if you don’t like their shitty brand of punk rock you’re not really “punk” (SIDEBAR:  Taking punk seriously is a f*cking joke because the scene is a joke.  Its high school kids who don’t pay their dues and don’t respect any old punk bands because it’s before their time.  In a way it’s pretty damn funny in a sad way.).

Here’s the kicker.  These dirty bastards are nothing but poseurs pretending to be poor angry punk kids.  In reality they are from upper-middle class neighborhoods in the suburbs, but to give the finger to their parents, they’d rather live like a degenerate.  These little bastards don’t know how good they had it.  Well maybe they do because in order to buy all the shit they need to maintain their image they’ll need some money in the bank.

Hipsters and krusty’s have two things in common:

1)      They both are music snobs who have shitty taste in music.

2)      They both think they are individuals but they are exactly the same because they all look alike (Goth kids can be thrown in both of these as well.  Sad bastards, put down the clove cigarette and get a hobby).

Now that’s I’ve broken down Gainesville for you, let’s stop my digression and get back on track.

The drive was pretty uneventful.  I was hoping to meet with my buddy Steve at some point but it never panned out.  Steve is a close friend who I knew from Philly.  He fell ill and ended up moving to Florida.  I didn’t see him a bunch in Philly over the summer but
I was hoping to catch him on his turf.  Where he lives was a centralized town for three of our shows in Florida, but it never worked out.  He was hoping we’d crash at his place but being the guy in the van with the least valuable opinion; I was going with the flow and not push anything.  It isn’t my place, so unfortunately no Steve.  I was hoping he’d head to Gainesville but it never came to pass.  Next time I’m in Florida I’ll make sure the paths of Steve-O and I cross.

We arrived in Gainesville and headed to Boca Fresca, a Mexican joint the bands friend Colin works at (Colin also plays in a band called Spanish Gamble, if you never heard them, check them out, they’re pretty rad).  We only stayed there for about ten minutes or so because we intended on hitting a local barbecue.

The barbecue was pretty interesting as it was almost all krusty punks, so the five of us stood out like sore thumbs.  Not that it was a bad thing.  They had a shitload of food they were cooking and they were inventive enough to make a swimming pool with a plastic tarp and the bed of a pick up truck (I didn’t make my way in the pool.  The only one from our group was Joe, who had about five minutes of enjoyment before vacating the pool himself).

The food was good.  We all chowed down on hot dogs, hamburgers, ribs, and corn.  Although we wanted to hang out at the barbecue more and give the appearance we were not eating and running, but the bugs were completely unbearable.  I’m not sure what was more annoying, the mosquitoes or the gnats, but both sucked and we weren’t dealing with that shit.  We were hoping no one would notice if we left, since no one was really talking to us, but we looked like five grains of salt in a pepper shaker, so it was unlikely they wouldn’t realize we left (not they even really cared either way).  Regardless we went back to Boca Fresca.

Although it was around 7:00 we still had a ton of time to kill.  In most cases we’re at the venue by 7:00, 8:00 at the latest, but Gainesville has their too cool for school mentality so they don’t subscribe to that theory.  Doors were at 11:00 and the show probably wouldn’t be over until after 2:00 (mind you it’s a Sunday night).

We sat at Boca Fresca for a few hours just shooting the shit and taking advantage of $1.00 Schlitz bottles (we actually didn’t go very crazy, just a couple).  Ryan found an advertisement in the local free paper with an advertisement from a local wings place where they claimed you couldn’t eat seven wings in seven minutes because they were so hot, and that could be something up our alley. 

Here was the challenge.  You had seven minutes to eat seven wings, including licking the plate clean.  From then you had another seven minutes to sit there, where you were unable to wash your hands, or wipe your face.  Should you complete this challenge (which they claimed no one has done successfully); you win a tee shirt, your name on the wall, and a $100 gift certificate.

Jim is insane when it comes to spice.  I’ve never seen a dude eat some of the spicy shit he shoves down his gullet.  Actually earlier in the day when we first arrive to Boca Fresca, he ate an entire ghost chili pepper (which are the hottest peppers you can find), and it didn’t phase him (in fact the crazy bastard actually ate pepper spray on toast once just to see if he could do it). 

This was a challenge Jim could handle without a doubt, and $100 gift certificate would be more than enough to feed us for lunch the next day (which for struggling artists is the equivalence of gold).  Since we had time to kill we were going to head to the place then and watch Jim take care of business.  Jim called the place about the challenge and he couldn’t do it that night because they were out of wings (Really???  What kind of bar runs out of wings?).  Shit didn’t sound right to me but they said if you call the next day he could come in and take the challenge.

Since we had time to kill before the show and Boca Fresca was getting old, we decided to head over to Colin’s to drop off our stuff since we would be crashing there after the show.

I got to meet Colin’s dog, Louis, once we arrived there.  Louis is a Boston Terrier, and probably one of the coolest dogs I’ve encountered in a while.  A little high strung, but real playful.  I was glad we got there when we did.  There was another band staying with Colin that night (I forgot their name but remembered they were from New Brunswick, New Jersey), but they were playing in Tallahassee, so we got first dibs on where to bunk (I landed the love seat).

Enough of dropping shit off, there was a show to be played that night, so we hit up the venue.  Well venue might be a loose term for it as it looked more like a vacant used book store, but a gig’s a gig.  The crowd were most of the same krusty punks we saw at the barbecue, so I instantly knew that this probably wasn’t going to the best show considering The Fake Boys style and the crap the krusty’s listen too are total opposite.

Before the show even started the Krusty’s were already being assholes.  A group of them thought it was a good idea to walk up a concrete fence (it was angled), and go on the roof of the building.  I guess that’s how they chose to protest the “establishment” that we “norms” live in.  To take it a step further they started throwing pebbles off the roof onto the people in front of the venue, and dropping them on the skylight that led into the venue making a hail sounding noise (while some found it mildly amusing for the first 30 seconds or so after 5 minutes it got REAL old).  While I was hoping for an accident and one or all of them fell off the roof, after the pebble incident I was really hoping someone had to make a trip to the emergency room before the night ended.

I really didn’t watch any of the other bands.  Mainly because they sucked and the smell inside the venue made the van from earlier in the day smell like goddamn roses.  I spent a majority of the night outside chain smoking or walking Gainesville with Jim.  At one point I was outside smoking and this big “norm” stepped outside for a smoke and was almost hit with a bicycle tire that some stupid ass threw off the roof.  Dude yelled up at them and said if anything hits him he would go on the roof and light them all on fire.  I knew instantly I liked this guy.

He saw Jim, Joe, and I laughing so he came over to us and introduced himself.  His name was Mike and as it turned out he was good friends with Colin and came to check out The Fake Boys on his recommendation (SIDEBAR:  That’s a solid move right there.  It’s so sad that people don’t come out to see small live shows of up and coming acts.  They focus on the pre-fabricated tours liked Ozzfest and Warped Tour.  I call those “Just Add Water” shows.  Add water to a bill full of bands that aren’t very talented but promoted well, and the sheep will appear in drones ready to spend money.  It’s truly sad.).We all stood around and talked to him for a while and made fun of the krusty kids and their scene.  What really had me in stitches is Mike was bigger then bar bouncers so everything he would say the krusty’s heard but wouldn’t say anything back.  I suppose even the “real punks” get intimidated.

As many laughs as we were having outside, the time did come for the set and I had to assume my role as tour lackey.  I didn’t have a ton of hope for The Fake Boys given the crowd.  This was unfortunate because the room was a great size for the band and if they were playing with local bands who had somewhat of a similar style it would have been perfect.  I guess you can’t always have everything. 

The band overall sounded good except the vocals were off.  This wasn’t any of Jim’s doing; it was simply the result of a cheap PA.  It’s expected in a small show like this.  I’ve been at enough of their shows to almost know their set list word for word, so I heard everything but if it was the first time you saw them and you dug them you might have to pick up a record to get the lyrics (which is never a bad thing, by the way, thanks Mike for picking up both LP’s and the new EP).

Mike made the crowd highlight reel of the night.  During the set, some dirty krusty bastard was trying to mosh, but it was obviously to mock the band.  Mike went across the room to where the guy had his beer and helped himself to whatever he wanted.  That krusty kid wanted nothing to do with Mike so he had no choice but to let Mike take what he wanted.

After the show we packed up and bullshitted with Mike and Colin.  In conversation we learned that he owned a tattoo shop down the street.  Ryan asked if he would tattoo him the following day.  Mike said the shop was closed but if we were down for drinking some beers and grilling he would open the shop (lock the doors once we arrived) and tattoo all of us for free (there’s a real tough sell).  Considering we only had a short ride to Tallahassee the next day, this worked perfectly for us.  I exchanged information with him and we parted ways. 

We headed back to Colin’s an immediately put on a load of laundry.  Jim and Ryan told me I better not pass out otherwise they had plans on rubbing a ghost chili pepper on my lips and eyes (lips – Ryan, eyes – Jim).  I told them both it would result in a punch in the dick.  I wasn’t worried though.  I’d like to think they wouldn’t rub hot pepper juice in their lackey’s eyes (the lips maybe), and I only drank a couple beers at the show so I was fine.  Just physically drained.

Time for a little South Park and sleep before tattoos, beer, and barbecue. 

It was definitely a long day.  It started real shitty but ended on a high note.  Tomorrow is Tallahassee.  Stay turned to see what Florida’s capital city has in store for me.