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Entry date: 10-3-2023 – Visiting Old Friends – Letters to My Friends

Dear Friends,

As I look back on the weekend a bit more, just being at Mark and Mo’s house made the whole thing worth it. Going on the road, even for a day, is hard. I’m glad I have done a little bit of it here and there, but I have zero regrets about the things I haven’t done out there. Sure, in my brain it seems nice to think about playing certain cities and places, but I’m stoked on the ones I have done and, most importantly, I got to do it with a lot of my friends present and accounted for each night.

After the show on Saturday night, Shane, Liam, and I got some killer food from a little taco truck across from the Sardine. Easily the best grilled onions I’ve ever had in my life. Seriously. Sofa King Good. I’d go back there just to eat at that little taco truck again.

On Sunday, we got up and had a really good breakfast at the Doho Café. I had waffles with eggs and sausage, and they were the bomb. Not as good as the grilled onions, but close. We took a little drive and looked at the ocean afterwards and then got on the road. We had to get the rental van back and I was ready to go to bed. I slept hard, too.

It was back to work yesterday after what seemed like a really long weekend. We crammed a lot of life into just under 48 hours. Over the weekend, I overheard several conversations involving different people who were talking about the idea of living. We lived over the weekend. The boy got some valuable life experience and we spent time with people we loved. The only thing that could have made it better was Rhondi being there…or more of the kids going with. That’s it.

Go out today and live your life. Please.


Yesterday I got a new student. He’s another one that will not make my life any easier. I can add him to my small stack of children who haven’t a fucking clue. Clueless kids just make me sad. I hope I can reach him, but I fear that he is too far gone already.

Cocaine baby got in trouble yesterday, too. He wrote a little note to one of the young ladies in class asking if she liked him on one side and on the other it said, “I hate you, fuck you.”

I had to tell him that it was no way to impress a lady. He didn’t seem to get it.


There was a long, narrow hallway that slowly descended from the back door of the club to the basement. John Preston was no slouch when it came to moving gear. Most lead singers would disappear when it came time to load in and out of a show, but not Preston. He moved the shit like anyone else in the band.

As he wheeled Ferdie’s bass amp down the hallway, his eyes adjusted to the darkness coming toward him. It was the opposite of the whole “light at the end of the tunnel” thing. It was almost as if he was dropping down into some weird level of hell.

His band, Bukake Culkin, had spent the previous night driving from Buffalo, New York to Boston. Preston had crashed out pretty quickly after they had gotten on I-90. It was always a little discombobulating waking up in a new state, but after several weeks on the road, he had gotten used to it.

Chimi Frasier had a cousin, Ed, that lived in Brookline and Ed was cool enough to let the band crash out while he was at work. Ed’s house was nice, but it was a bitch to get to during rush hour traffic in the morning. Preston had to listen to Gator and Petey complain about it during the first 20 minutes of his day. All he had wanted to do was just go back to bed, but his bandmates needed to vent, and it was, apparently, his job to listen.

Cousin Ed had saved them from spending what little dough they had on a Motel 6 and for that, Preston was grateful. It was Bukake Culkin’s first tour and they were spending money they didn’t have. All these thoughts were flooding Preston’s head as he pushed the speakers down the hall.

This club was creepy. Preston had booked it, too, and he was sure that he was going to hear about it from the rest of the band. It was almost easier to just carry the gear in, he thought, than have to sit out in the parking lot and listen to them critique the place. It’s not like they were experts yet.

This was the band’s first show with Born Against, too. Preston was looking forward to rocking out with Sam McPheeters later that night. They had corresponded, a little, about the gig, but had never met in person. Preston loved McPheeters’ lyrics. Maybe a little too much.

Bukake Culkin had four shows lined up with Born Against. Boston, Providence, Portland (Maine), and then back down in New York City were on the itinerary. After the New York City show, Bukake Culkin would start heading back to Phoenix, but before that, they had work to do. They had to kick the living shit out of Boston.

Preston didn’t like the feel of the hallway. He was almost to the end when it occurred to him that people had probably died in this building. It was old. Maybe a hundred and fifty years or so. At one point, the building had held several doctor’s offices, hence the club’s name, Dr. Rock. Bad things happened here, Preston thought, as he dropped off the Ampeg 8x10 bass cabinet and started to head back up the hall.

Though the lights were dim, Preston could make out a few shapes walking toward him. The voices sounded familiar.

“Hey, who’s there?” he said.

“Hey, yourself.” Came the reply.

Preston could feel his pulse quickening. For a split second, he wanted to run the other way, but he had to keep going. It was time.


See you tomorrow.

Cocaine baby has a way with words.

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