Monday, November 14, 2005

Pirates of the Highway

The good ship The Sweet Grievous Black Angel of Death docked at the Star Bar in Atlanta, and it turned out we had traveled many, many miles to enjoy an all Big Apple bill there. The Liquid Ghosts (#36 in your program, #1 in your hearts) warmed up the PA for The Heroin Sheiks, who tore up the joint with sonic renderings that would rub the fuzz off a peach. They related strange and savage tales of the port at New Orleans so we elected to postpone our pilgrimage to Memphis to go and see if there wasn’t still some good booty still to loot.

Hatches battened and every inch of canvas hung, Ricky’s buddy Richard waved from the dock and blew kisses as we set sail with Captain Shelby at the helm, yours truly having had more than his fair share of grog. With Ricky safely stowed in the bilge and myself manning the pumps, Capt. Col. Shelby navigated the reefs and shoals of the treacherous I-85 to bring us safely to port in Montgomery. A finer display of seamanship (easy, now) of which I have never heard tell. We ended up lashing Ricky to the mast for reasons all agreed were best left at sea, but otherwise fine sailing through stormy seas with an able swabby at the helm.

And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.

Worth a Thousand Words? Really?

Imagination shot?
Not fully abusing the unlimited bandwidth of your company's T3 line?
Collecting evidence on the misdeeds of Ex-DGenners or former Ohioans?
At the recommendation of DaveHimself (the Oscar to our Steve Austin, the Houston to our problem) we've elected to further clutter cyberspace with pics of our inane exploits.
Check out the Flickr photsets of the Liquid Ghost Tour.

Besides, reading is for suckers.
(sucker.)

Sunday, November 06, 2005

We know when we're not wanted.


As part of the grand anthropological experiment that is the Liquid Ghost Tour,
Ricky, Shelby and I enjoyed a visit to the local mall in Raleigh, N.C. As we wander farther from the safety of the mean streets of Gotham, we have come to find ourselves with a steadily increasing consumer itch that only malls and truckstops seem to scratch.

Despite the warnings of the sign on the door that our kind were very unwelcome, we extinguished our smoking materials, stowed our pamphlets and weapons (including a my new katana sword with “Virginia is for Lovers” laser etched into it’s scalpel sharp blade) in the Sweet Grievous Black Angel and set forth boldly in search of a digital camera. Shelby lost the last one in a bar bet that while painful to lose, was amazing to see performed live up close (So many ping pong balls, and such a petite lady.) We on the Tour feel it imperative to record our activities in as much detail as possible since extortion is a nasty enough business to begin with, let alone further sullying it with shoddy audio visual work. Also we had a very hard time when we were blackmailing people with drawings on bar napkins and etch-a-sketch renderings.

So, camera acquired, we set off to enjoy the “Main St.” of the 21st century. It would seem that there are a great number of policies that they don’t see fit to put on the entrance doors.
To whit:
  • Shirtless disco dancing is forbidden in just about every store. The explanation we were given was that body glitter really messes up the floor waxing equipment.
  • Hiding in Anne Klein clothing displays and leaping out at strangers; no go.
  • Inserting any body part other than your arm into the blood pressure vending machine cuffs will result in false readings.
  • Using a Sharper Image Taser, even on a Sharper Image employee, makes the Sharper Image Manager appear with the Sharper Image Pepper-spray-that-looks-like-a-leather-bound-Charles-Dickens-book(patent pending.)
  • Punching toddlers, though not explicitly forbidden, is frowned upon.
  • Likewise, punching seeing eye dogs.
  • Piercing Pagoda only does ears.
  • Mini-bikes and go-karts may only be ridden in a clockwise direction in the Food Court (By the way, if Food Court was like Traffic Court all the restaurants in the Food Court would be heavily fined.)
  • Even though someone is not really a cop, they still beg for mercy if you hold their own gun on them.
Our new digital camera was crushed whilst I attempted to scare a gentleman out of his cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory.

I see drunk people.

When I walk into a bar and a kind gentleman in a Hellacopters t-shirt calls me by name and hands me a Makers, I’m pretty sure it’s some sort of trap.
The bar was Slim’s Downtown, Raleigh, N.C. the gentleman (and newest Ghost Boy) was Joe and the trap was only for Carolinian lovers of heapin’ helpins’ of mad sick Liquid Ghost Tour technology.

The rolling of the ball this Saturday night was kicked off by The Ghost of Saturday Night in top-notch ex-pat Gothamite style. Tales of streets and love and heartbreak to make one’s knees gooey and worthless made everybody wish they were a Regular.

My plate-spinning act went off to great acclaim. I had a brief scare during the ventriloquism portion of the show (which truth be told, actually added to the suspense) and all the trained lemurs remembered their cues and refrained from running up my pant legs. A top-notch entertainment, if I do say so myself.

Plates, dummies and lemurs cleared from the stage, King Richard Bacchus (that mad, twisted dwarf) called forth each and every Justified Ancient from MuMu to Zebulon and proceeded to breath fire in a manner surprising to even this observer (Listen to his Martin D-18 Dreadnaught go BANG!)

With Shelby’s lovely lady cousin witches, Meighan, Rebecca & Maria (much boil, much bubble, nary a sign of trouble) watching over us and Miss Min coming in with her merry band from Trasheboro, the room continued it’s thrumping well into the night, taxing Bartender Joe (he of the Hellacopter t-shirt) and his young ward and bassist, Jimmy, who came in off the bench for some stellar bartenditry of his own.

Slim’s Downtown is the bar that has set the bar high, America.

What you got?

Friday, November 04, 2005

Desperate Pink Living Flamingos


With the wings of the Sweet Black Grievous Angel icing up, the Liquid Ghost Tour made an emergency landing in the town where husky drag queens have been cajoled into ingesting dog poo on camera, Edgar Allen Poe died and Johnny Unitas deigned to walk among mortals.

After we bounced to a stop, our Baltimore man-friday, Rudi, cut us out of the wreckage, put Bactine on our boo-boos and escorted us smartly across the street to Dangerously Delicious Pies.
To our surprise and bewilderment, they seemed to be expecting us.

Our spirits bolstered by sweet potato pie and Bohemian National Beer the Atomic Elf and I each delivered rousing performances whilst those in attendance grinned back at us through crumb and berry filling smeared faces.

Inevitably, things turned Marxist (Groucho, Chico, Harpo, Zeppo) with performer and spectator alike tossing desserts with abandon. Things escalated to a dangerous level when Shelby got a spoonful of yummy peach cobbler right in the eye and laid low her attacker with the deft brandishing of a pie crust crimper and much honking on her Harpo horn.

Before things turned truly tragic, the melee was diffused by the musical stylings of the shop’s owner, Rod Henry, whose song about being a paper boy reduced me to sitting on the floor, rocking and wailing. Concerned that my carryings on would bring the authorities. We implemented a tactical retreat to the Full Moon to witness the twangy guitar wizardry of Al Wildcat in a smoky (up yers, Mr. Bloomberg) beer and costume filled atmosphere.

Then we were handed off to our hotelier for the evening, Wedge, who entertained us ‘till the itty-bitty hours in a salon type atmosphere with strange and wondrous tales of heart melting mercy and brutal, bestial savagery.

Next morning we were a bit frayed around the edges, what with the bon mots aplenty and the witty banter and all, but nothing the purchase of a bright blue 6-string ukulele couldn’t fix. That accomplished we barnstormed into Frazers on the Avenue for an impromptu set with our new ally Rockin’ Al Wildcat. Though the Ravens’ close loss briefly doused the spirits of those in attendance, joy was plentiful after an exhibition of crack Dodgeballsmanship by the local team who was then kind enough to all sign a ball and feed it to Dolly/Dali (urp.) The uke came in quite handy as Halloween brought the usual helping of zombie hula girls, vampire Don Hos and not one, but three people in full Sol Hoopi regalia.

Ricky and I managed to bamboozle a wiccan lady (who seemed to be channeling the spirit of a southern gentleman, say Jack Daniels or George Dickel, or both simultaneously and in great plurality) out of the phone number for a 12 year old guitar magi. All proceeds from his sale will go toward the Dolly/Dali Doggy Dodgeball Defense Fund.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door.

Little Doggies, Cheesesteak, Billiards, Blue Jeans


First stop for the Liquid Ghost Musical Juggernaut: The City of Brotherly Love ( A love which Ricky, Shelby, your humble narrator, and yes, even Dolly/Dali proceeded to practice in all it's most vile, humiliating and satisfying manifestations.)

Off to Grape Street where our avenging angel and ablest of hostesses, Miss Missi, pistol whipped the chatty and Ruebenesque camp followers of the following acts into quietude, all to the syncopated beat of "Big Brass Finger" and "dub-dub-dub-dub-nacious". Now that's class. Further unpleasantness was avoided as the Bacchi caught up with their people and I was comfortably seated in front of a Flyers power play with $1 beer and whiskey. Only narrowly however, as we were being goaded to violence by a couple sweater wearing fellas singing a Cyndi Lauper song [this blog is rife with lies and exaggeration, this is neither.] Cooler heads and the promise of cheesesteak deferred violence temporarily.

Out to the Sweet Black Greivous Angel (our motor transport for our expedition into the betrayal of the American Dream) and off to South Street and Jinx Clothing Co. for a bit of a backyard fashion party, compleat with a steam tray spread, two adorably nasty looking pit-bulls in hoodies, cheesesteak sandwiches for which to nourish our tummys and our battered souls and the sacrificial burning of minibike tires in a roaring outdoor furnace.

After jimmying open the garage door, we popped 'round the corner to Tattooed Moms where King Richard and I loaded up the downstairs jukebox, only to wander upstairs to the shimmering strains of "Reign in Blood" and the cheerful "clack" of pool balls. As punishment for squandering our $5 and our record selecting abilities, we hustled the locals for every last dime (Ricky also took a fellow for a dazzling 3-piece, abalone inlaid pool stick that plays "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts" every time you break with it) and beat a hasty Atomic Bitchwax fuelled retreat to Chez Missi and Jimmy.

There we debriefed, watched "Steel Magnolias" and tormented their mini-pinscher, Tia, into greater and greater displays of "fat lardishness".

Well rested, our merry band was off to Kim Montenegro's Very Bad Horse Shop for all manner of scintillating denim wear. Though I had trouble finding a halter in my size, Kim promised to tailor make one to my unique requirements and send it along directly.

An auspicious start to merry mayhem which will no doubt hold the entire country rapt as we caper nimbly across states, newspaper headlines and police blotters.

Nothing can go worng.