do we look like we know what we're doing?

Try This on the Road: Lessons 7-8

9/12 Day Off!

            In Adair, Iowa…*sigh*

To those armchair rockers who think that going on tour is just a party on wheels, allow me to turn your amps down from “11.” While we may officially be “working” for only the forty odd minutes we find ourselves on stage any given night, getting to the stage can be a job on its own (which is to say nothing of the labor it takes to try and get potential Fie Fee Fas out to bear witness). Our mission is porous but immutable: we are as a sieve, catching attention while letting the many miles and hours pass us through.

All the more reason to enjoy a day off to shake off the rust. Of course, much like any gig or a drunken tattoo it all comes down to location, location, location. So when passing through the Midwest and you’re looking for a scenic and friendly place to kick back for a spell, be sure to drive past Adair, Iowa and keep searching.

Tucked behind the questionably named Kum and Go gas station, the local Super 8 Motel resembles a place where heroin junkies might hold a three-day convention to indulge in black tar and vanilla ice cream or perhaps your curious 70’s horror flick psycho killer might look for an intersection of gainful employment and extracurricular activities.

Still, our room had the necessary amenities, namely a television through which I could watch my beloved New England Patriot’s season opener as well as a fridge to keep some whiskey on ice for touchdowns.

And for those of you looking to still drink like you’re at a penthouse instead of a Super 8, allow me to introduce to you the Crashin’ Old Fashioned. All you really need to have on hand is a bottle of Angostura bitters (and if you don’t, than you’re already missing out on the silver bullet to hangovers).

How to make a Crashin’ Old Fashioned:

1. Fill a paper cup with ice from the motel ice machine

2. Throw three dashes of Angostura and a packet of sugar over the ice. Sugar in the Raw is best, but the cheap bastards at any motel will likely only have the non-descript white shit on hand.

3. Fill the cup ½ to 2/3 up with whiskey or bourbon. Jim Beam seems to be the perfect balance of quality and low price.

4. Squeeze a couple orange peels over cup and submerge them. Add some fresh orange juice for added citrus if desired.

5. Drink one for every touchdown.

And lo, there were touchdowns.  Giselle’s jizz man and new fan-of-drunken-New-England-fans Tom Brady threw four touchdowns and lead the Pats to a 38-24 victory over the Dolphins, handing the Miami team the greatest embarrassment since they lent their brand to Ace Ventura: Pet Detective.

After the Pats finished slicing and dicing the Dolphins like a Japanese fisherman desperate to make quota and everyone else in the room was amply fed up with my whiskeyed whooping, we sat down for a listening session of one our recent recordings.

Musician’s are inevitably mother’s to their music, with their work never done. But as much as kids may tell lies to their parents, recordings never will. Timing incongruities, squirrely structures, and the overzealously busy bass lines (forgive me, Bootsy, for I have sinned!) shine through like copper warts for us to freeze off with icy consensus. By the end of the review we were humbled but ennobled with resolve to tear the Side Door off its hinges with the best show yet.

9/13 The Side Door

            Omaha, NE

The sun rose innocently over the wind turbines and cornrows, but by the time it began it’s westward descent, we were on the run from the law. Unaware of the felonius behavior we’d become a part of, Aaron and I tended to some pressing business involving a large sack of dirty laundry. In the band van, blessed be the one with no nose.

As we awaited the coin-op drier to finish its contracted duty (hee hee…doody…), a sharp rapping visited our door (and no, not the sort of sharp rapping boasted by “It’s So Cold In the D”). A diminutive little man who looked remarkably like Deep Roy after a couple precious minutes on Procrustes’s rack exploded through the door, hotter and more inflamed than rancid curry. Evidently we had registered as a mere one tenant for the room instead of our five-strong force.

His vicious peppering of four letter words that’d make a Calcutta pirate blush betrayed a stumbling grasp of the English language, but the message was clear. We had to leave now, we were motherfuckers, we were to never come back as we were certainly not welcome, and he was calling the cops. Did I mention he told us to go fuck ourselves?

Having to suppress the urge to give the little potty-mouthed Oompa Loompa a big hug, we hurried out to load our luggage into Ron’s cavernous rear only to realize that our laundry was still rolling around in the dry cycle. Beneath the cover of a hummed rendition of the Mission Impossible theme (a groovy 5/4 for your odd meter junkies out there), we snuck into the basement only to find the draconian overlord of the Super 8 had locked the laundry room on us. But with a couple kind words to one of the snickering cleaning staff we managed to extricate our clean underwear and steal away to the open road before the fuzz arrived. Evidently, ducking a $20 surcharge for more than one head justifies getting Super 86-ed for life. Still, we knocked off two more squares on our Rock Tour Bingo board as we “Earned the ire of a hotel staff” and “Ran from the cops” in one quick stop.

We found the Old Market neighborhood of Omaha just a quick jaunt down the highway and it was there we beached Ron Burgundy to peruse the local thrift shops and pubs. George showed great restraint from pillaging a local shop for all of its collectible Star Wars toys while I decided the impending heat of the south would be unkind to any vinyl I might hope to bring home.

We rolled up to the leafy-walled lunch box of the Side Door on the other side of town for load in. The joint was green (figuratively and literally) but warm, the walls plastered with curious fluorescent paintings of racecars and sexy-ugly-ugly bar flies.

Nevertheless, our fine-toothed scrutiny of our live set from the night before paid off in spades, even if the gig didn’t pay at all. We delivered a 1-2 punch four times over as our set now eight songs strong clicked on all four musical cylinders. But the night had yet to shine hope on George, as he had yet to spot an “albino fire breather in Omaha” in order to win enough money to support himself for the rest of the tour.

Try This on the Road: Lessons 5-6

9/10 Hell’s Kitchen

            Minneapolis, MN

Editor’s note: For those of you who are sworn enemies of the written word, we love you, too. Our super secret 5th member Parker has followed us every step of the way to commit savage acts of shutterbuggery. Catch up with her videos below!

 We awoke in the morning brushing sleep from our eyes and cat hair from our matching footie pajamas. While the night had imbued us with rejuvenated vigor, Ron Burgundy was quick to remind us that he was still afflicted as we rolled away from the domicile of our lovely host, Indira. Still haunted by the shadow of Chicago’s auto mechanical incompetence, we plugged our ears from Burgundy’s sickly wail and put a few more miles between us and the Windy City before pulling into a Firestone nestled in a vast archipelago of strip malls called Madison.

As the mechanic opened Ron up for the second time in as many days, George and I wandered amidst the sprawling temples of consumerism, passing by Abercrombie and Fitch, Lane Bryant, Bally Total Fitness, and Cold Stone Creamery. Ahhh, how efficient we’ve become at sanding out the curves of our own downward spiral. Within half a square mile, an impressionable woman could see how she was “supposed” to look, find the only store she could currently fit into, swear to lose weight at Bally’s, and then drown her sorrows in a trough of chocolate chip cookie dough butter bean heaven.

By no means is this a cynical implication of Madison. Indeed, this consumer’s compound could very well be any place we’ve stopped for groceries thus far. In fact, with enough Floo Powder, we could probably follow our same tour route traveling via mall fireplaces. And for those of you keeping track at home, Harry Potter just took the lead with two references in the blog thus far, leaving 2001, Ghostbusters, and the Godfather still tied for second place.

After another five hour slog down the highway with nary a rebellious squeal from Ron Burgundy, we reached the city of Minneapolis. Founded of course in 1919 by Minnie Mouse, the city is laid out much like a grandiose hamster cage a doting child might construct for his furry ward with glass walkways connecting squat buildings.

 Our stage for the evening would be Hell’s Kitchen, a subterranean den boasting hot barbeque and cold beers. The walls were tattooed with prints of Ralph Steadman along with kitty-cornered altar to Michelle Pfeiffer. Solidifying our hypothesis that the further from New York we get, the more welcome we feel, we were treated to free heaps of delectable sweet potato fries and a slew of succulent sandwiches to tide us through our midnight set time.

The three mannish boys of Hardcore Crayons kicked off the revelry with a brutish lesson in math rock steeped in dubby goodness. Their bass maestro of questionable sobriety quoted our name profusely, causing a brief lapse in our sense of self. If they were Finding Fiction, then who were we? Kitty Rhombus showed twice as much skin as the Pussycat Dolls and twenty times the facial hair, and two hundred times the talent. Falsetto harmonies and knuckle dragging jubilation shrink wrapped in spandex like a gorilla skanking about Studio 54? Forgive my ignorance, but Minneapolis rocks beyond my wildest dreams, which is to say nothing of the evening’s main event With a Gun for a Face. A savage splice of Jesus Lizard and Jesus and Mary Chain, not only did these guys slay, they offered us a living room floor on which to crash. Thankfully our drive to their abode in St. Paul was 100% dead body free.

9/11 Mars Cafe

            Des Moines, IA

Here’s a couple more fun facts! 4 out of 5 Finding Fictioners agree: Iowa is flat! During the last ice age, Iowa was the go-to region for Cro-Magnon ice skaters and the home of the Pleistocene Pulverizers who won the hockey championship five hunting seasons in a row until their star goalie Ogg was eaten by a saber-toothed tiger.

What is the dominant vista as we roll towards Des Moines (which is of course Swedish for “Heartland of Ice Hero Ogg”)? Must…resist….urge….to make… cheap…corn joke… Windmills! Ahhhh, I made it….

Yes, wind turbines. If there’s one thing Iowa has, it’s corn. If there are two things Iowa has, it’s corn and wind turbines.  Don Quixote could wage a war anew in the fertile fields in Iowa, a dubiously chivalrous crusade against clean energy. I suppose there’s already a legion of stalwart republicans fighting such a battle but they’re admittedly closer in spirit to the illiterate Sancho Panza.

We coasted up to the glass façade of the Mars Café around dusk. The venue sat tucked between the outskirts of Des Moines and the outskirts of Drake University. Tonight would mark the debut of Finding Fiction’s acoustic side. No headlining acts, no light rigs, no earplugs, just acoustics, amps cranked to three, and a lot of free coffee.

While the others guzzled down caffeine and free wi-fi, I had a higher calling. It was September 11, 2011 and you know what that means. FOOTBALL SEASON! What better way to commemorate this second Sunday in the ninth month than by watching mountains of muscle collide into each other in hopes of carrying an oblong ball across a field, right? I prowled the main drag outside the Drake campus, looking for any sort of beer light to light the path like a Bethlehem star, but alas no such neon angel shown. I realize it’s a Sunday, but there’s a college right here! Drake students must be really dedicated, or just too uneducated to realize the true meaning of college.

Here’s another fun fact Aaron draws from his smarter-than-us phone. Violent crimes are rare in Des Moine, but vehicular break-in’s are strikingly high. Of course, the much publicized stain that continues to haunt the town is the midnight strike at the Children’s Zoo when 50 ducks were brutally stoned to death by nocturnal ruffians.

But regardless of the spectral silence that permeates the town, the café Martians listened as they dutifully studied. Much like the drive through Iowa, the audience in Des Moines was all ears. Gah…Fuck! I was so close….

Try This on the Road: Lessons 3-4

9/8 The Elbo Room

            Chicago, IL

Okay, enough of the dumping on Detroit. We took the scenic route out of town to see if it looked better in the daylight. We tried to interview a local musician who was filming a music video, but no matter how much our off-camera zany antics caught her eye with, she wouldn’t cut. Very professional. See for yourself.

Can’t you see how cold they are? Detroit needs your help, not your derision. There was a Jaguar convertible just sitting in a field. Unlocked. Go find it and it’s yours, and while you’re looking, please support the local economy. If you do indeed discover its whereabouts, buff it’s fenders three times to free the auto-genie and it will grant you three wishes provided you use at least two of them to restore Detroit. Sorry. Sheefy, you’re going to have to choose between 420 barrels of weed ice cream and your own personal porno production company.

Chicago welcomed us with the warm embrace of a traffic jam. The bumper-to-bumper hug was so warm in fact that our engine began to overheat. The five-hour drive left Ron Burgundy suggesting perhaps we had not given him a strong enough name. Or perhaps he just doesn’t appreciate us trashing the good city of Detroit with such abandon. Who knows, the Motor City could very well be Burgundy’s birthplace.

We plied Burgundy with a hefty splash of coolant, but he pissed it straight to the tarmac like a mechanical racehorse. This was clearly something a lot more dire than road burn. Nevertheless, we coaxed Burgundy to the curb outside of the Elbo Room where for the first time since leaving New York it looked like we might have an audience.

Whether watching The Godfather or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre there is one immutable life lesson to be learned that always manages to prove it’s value when playing shows: family is everything. If you’re in a band, keep in touch with that third cousin with the lazy eye, help grandma chew her food, and maybe it’s even worth getting back in touch with that weird uncle who was always trying to lure you and your neighborhood friends into his basement to play Twister with promises of candy and ice tea that tasted like burning.

While friends can be deviously resourceful when mining for excuses to stay home, family bonds can draw a crowd. Hell, even Fredo showed up for Michael Corleone’s parties (of course he might have just been in it for the free fishing trip).  Anyway, in addition to producing one hell of a musical grandson, Mario’s grandparents were proactively procreative enough to make sure they also produced an audience of cousins to welcome us to Chicago.

Arguably one of the best parts about going out on the road is all the great music you see from night to night. Of course it can also be a sobering reminder that a band’s work is never done. But in all fairness, the fact that we’ve been playing as a band for only eleven days now instills a certain “No Shit, Sherlock” humility, one that inspires us to accelerate our progress as we consecrate the stage before some truly inspiring acts. There was The Sideshow Tragedy, a two man wild rumpus that lumbered like a Hill Country mastodon of Mississippi and wailed like a bayou banshee, and Jascha, our brother band from Indianapolis whose angular chorales will be heard many times before the end of our tour. Dig them like a garden, fellow aural addicts, as our own musical family tree sprouts a couple more branches.

9/9 Frank’s Power Plant

            Milwaukee, WI

Mario rises with the cloud-suppressed sun to tend to the ailing Burgundy while we trawl through Wicker Park in search of coffee and internet, the two necessary amenities for any band on the go. We soon receive word that the van requires the equivalent of a triple bypass heart transplant to replace the radiator along with several gaskets.

Lucky for us, we found the greatest coffee shop ever. No, not Peet’s  (I don’t buy coffee from a guy named after Irish moss), not Starbucks (they’ve let me down ever since they covered up the mermaid’s tits), and no, not that hole in the wall with the cute barista that draws smiley faces in your latte foam. Sure, that last place is good and all. But does it have an old school Nintendo with a phalanx of old school cartridges that you don’t even need to blow in to get them to work? Does it have Gremlins and Ghostbusters toys strewn about? Does it have a flux capacitor behind emergency glass? Does it have a menu of espresso drinks named after obscure Star Wars bounty hunters? And here’s the coup de grace. Does it have a life sized Delorean replica with accurate OUTATIME license plate parked just inside the front door? I think not.

Yes, road runners, when stopping through Chicago, be sure to drop into the Wormhole for a cup of joe and a couple rounds of Bubble Bobble. Your inner child will thank you. Just try not to cross streams when using the urinals. Total ionization would rob the town of such a nice café.

But even caffeine and 80’s nostalgia can get stale after a couple hours, so we retreated to the domicile of Chris, the college buddy of Finding Fiction’s keyboardist and honorary math whiz, George Chen. There we watched tennis and became the target of his yapping canine ward, Peanut. This particular pup corroborated the old adage that the smaller the dog, the bigger the yap.

As the tennis broadcast gave way to Thundercats the zero hour when we could leave and still make to Milwaukee drew perilously apace. Burgundy’s surgery had been further complicated by a dubiously installed part. Evidently the resident mechanic sympathized with our need to hurry, so they installed a radiator with a crack in it, ostensibly to reduce the amount of wind resistance. But just as we were about to resign ourselves to another night in Chicago (and perhaps another trip to the Wormhole for some more Metroid action), Mario swooped in with a healthy Ron Burgundy to swoop us off to Frank’s Power Plant.

Ahhh, Milwaukee. The native Algonquins called it “Mila-wah-kay,” meaning “the good land. That’s “Mila” (as in the actress who gave Natalie Portman a most phantasmagoric fuck in Black Swan) “wah” (as in one half of every guitar player’s favorite pedal, the wah wah), and kay (as in “white people should not try to pronounce Native American words, okay?”). We made it.

Unfortunately, our van seems to have merely traded ailments. A shrieking rattle now threatens to drown out our feeble stereo. It sounds as if the mechanic replaced our radiator with two velociraptors fighting over a chipmunk. Still, the engine stays dutifully cool, and regardless of our sub-hood din, it’s time to make some sweet music of our own. For those of you playing road trip bingo from home, “Inconvenient Car Trouble” is the freebie square in the center. If you haven’t already, scratch it off now.

Milwaukee was the ideal destination in a time of automotive troubles and not just because of its close proximity to our city of departure. After a stressful scramble to a load-in, nothing paves the way to the stage like a frosty beverage, and the brewers of Milwaukee both provide and abide (though word on the street is that they suck at baseball). I was expecting to have to wait till at least the Rockies to get a proper IPA down my gullet, but the fine folks at Frank’s kept the local IPAs flowing like wine.

Here’s a fun fact! Many people think IPA stands for Indian Pale Ale, referring to the ales carried over between Britain and colonial India. Sailors would dump extra hops into the casks so the ale would continue to ferment, keeping it fresh for the long voyage. These people, while elevated in the ivory tower of historical fact, are full of shit. It actually stands for Inebriation Probably Ahead. You don’t need a history textbook to understand that acronym.

Once again we were joined by our friends Jascha. Filling out the bill was a group of young blood locals named Animals in Human Attire, their raucous anthems recalling Television by way of TV on the Radio. The centerpiece of the percussionist’s array was a discarded propane tank plastered with stickers that read “DO NOT USE.” Can they not read? Perhaps their name may be more accurate than I initially thought as they guy was wailing on it like the monkey from 2001 on a tapir. Revision Text, the bearded and bespectacled hosts of the evening, ushered the Friday night towards last call with a breakneck set that took no prisoners and left only earworms.

While the evening’s ceremonies proved sublime, the drive home was all too sobering. A garrison of flashing lights held parliament on a downtown corner while a flood of sirens chased us past a scene we did not expect to see, especially in Milwaukee. Being in a rock band, bodily injury and blood are not strangers to our ocular faculties, but never before have we seen so much blood in so much quantity from such a fresh squeezed source. Coming from New York, you become desensitized to homeless people masquerading as corpses, but this poor soul was the real deal.

Before embarking on our tour, we all staked our (sure to be astronomical) earnings from the tour against each other in a band pool. Simply put, we waged bets on what we would see where. While we have yet to see if Mario will successfully shoot the moon with his “naked midget riding a moped in Phoenix” wager or if George will make enough to avoid having to go back to work with his “albino chainsaw juggler in Omaha.” Still, we all lost money in Milwaukee. We all thought “dead guy in Detroit” was easy money.

Try This on the Road: Lessons 1-2

Staging a national tour is a much like plotting a military invasion, only less bloodshed and a lot more body odor. Also, we collect less federal funds and a lot more Walmart coupons. In such respects, Napolean really was a 19^th century rock star. Granted, he could fit more comfortably in a van than our lanky asses, and if our own campaign fails, we don’t have the luxury of being exiled to a pastoral Mediterranean island.

Covering 6,000 miles is one journey with many destinations. Our performance at any given destination remains largely consistent from night to night, but it is the time between our exit from one stage and our entrance to another when we rock to fresh themes and variations. Our new EP Try This At Home (download it for free here) is perfectly suited for consumption within the comfort of your own domicile. Our live show, however, requires a lot more leg work which will be documented on this sight for the duration of our tour. Try This on the Road will be an account both confessional and educational to those who want to meet up, or just follow along.

We’re the kind of DIY band that is so DIY that we have trouble conforming to conventional acronyms, so we came up with our own. We’re a WOOOSPBOM band: We’re On Our Own So Please By Our Merch.

The first thing you’ll need is a means of conveyance. Private jets and buses are likely still a few years out of the budget, so a van will have to suffice. Make it comfortable, and become friends with it. Give it a name. Something strong and endearing that infers a certain mechanical fortitude. Do not, for instance, refer to your van as Wheezy, the Incinerator, or Tandori Oven. Also keep in mind that it should be reputable if not regal. A bohemian trek can draw some unfortunate attention if you need to shout across the bar for your band mate to pull around the Shaggin’ Wagon.

Our particular crimson carriage is named Ron Burgundy. Its name rolls off the tongue as smoothly as it’s cantankerous frame rolls down the road, provided that certain tongue belonged to a stutterer. Seriously, we accept fuel injector fluid as currency at our merch table.

9/8 CLEVELAND, OH

To those of you who joined us at Brother’s Lounge in Cleveland, tonight you became the envy of Finding Fiction fans (or Fie Fee Fas as our Wikipedia page will someday call them) around the world. You heard the world debut of two new songs. Actually, one was the cut “Them or Me,” but to the person writing this blog, it was just as new as the yet-to-be-titled ditty drummed up in Cleveland. If engineers hold necessity to be the mother of invention, then to a hapless rock band with a set time on the skinny side of an hour, it is the mother of inspiration as well.

And thus, a new song was born on stage tonight, swaddled in synthy goodness, nursed by cymbal splashes, and spanked for good luck by the applause. Thanks for being a great midwife, Cleveland. In a related note, since you were the first to hear that song ever, your eardrums have quintupled in value on the black market, so you might want to get them insured.

But don’t worry. To the few of you who don’t live in Cleveland, I have a feeling we’ll be nurturing this dewy newbie in towns further down the road. Unlike a white trash high school girl at prom, we don’t just leave our babies in the dumpster when we go to the next party.

For us, the next party was a birthright pilgrimage to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It doesn’t resemble a hall so much as the Louvre being dragged into the water by a cement octopus, but shoddy facsimiles were thankfully left to the exterior. The inside houses a staggering collection of genuine artifacts: John Lennon’s coat from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, original stage props from The Wall, and even – wait for it – Britney Spears’s on stage outfit from the days when she had yet to shave her head and wage quixotic flights of crazy. You know, the good ol’ days. The days of classic rock Britney Spears. Wait, what? Those of you playing Road Trip Bingo’s “What the Fuck?” Edition, scratch off your “Undeserved Veneration of Pop Culture Cancer” square.

Still if you do indeed plan to try this on the road (and if you’re in a touring band, your really don’t have an excuse not to), bring as much irrefutable evidence that you are indeed in a band, and you can get in for free. CD’s, t-shirts, posters, discarded bras from groupies, actual groupies, stage blood, real blood, etc. You should go if only so you can stand in the lobby and call everybody who ever though you were wasting your time making a cacophonous racquet and trying to pass it off as music. Call up every naysayer and shout into the phone that you’re “in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame” and then quickly hang up before they have time to challenge your semantics.

9/9 DETROIT, MI

Woe to the weary travelers who set their sights on the burning lantern wicks of Detroit for respite. Is that a wick? Oops, my bad, its just a tire fire.

We’ve all heard the campfire tales of Detroit, of the city’s glorious history as the automotive titan of the 20^th century, a blues Mecca, and the birthplace of Motown and how it’s now rusted to a hunchbacked, hollow husk of it’s golden days, its boarded up spires now reduced to dilapidated mausoleums in which the gilded memories of yore are entombed behind an epitaph of “Post No Bills.” Well, it’s all a lie. The truth is much, much worse.

Just how depressing is Detroit? No matter when you drink and no matter how much you drink, it is never happy hour in Detroit. Dememtors, the guardians of Azkaban with an insatiable hunger for hope and joy, have become extinct in Detroit having all died off from starvation. The Detroit City Council just amended an initiative to dose the local reservoirs with Prozac. The original bill, which received overwhelming support in the public polls, called for cyanide.

A couple things we’ve wisened up to since spending some quality time in Detroit: don’t park your car out of sight, and don’t, under any circumstances, ask a native what they do for fun. There is no fun here, and you are a sadistic fuck for asking and may the beetles of a thousand dung piles infest your genitalia, you insensitive prick. You’re not actually laughing at this, are you?

Given the mirthless wash of this prototypical blueprint for the post apocalypse, it speaks to the durability of the human spirit to meet such kind souls as bar maestro Karen or lord of the soundboard Trevor. It also begs forgiveness for the likes of Sheefy McFly and the Deloreans. Consider these sad souls, treading water in the overflowing gutters of a city with no one to pull humble artists to dry land. Of course they have no soapbox greater than Twitter to disseminate their rapturous sermons for hope and salvation in 140 character doses.

Poor Sheefy, like a motherless Grendel, bellowing and moaning for a euthanizing Beowulf to descend upon their stage. Sheefy bleats petty tweets, calling us, his support act for the evening, “so corny” while the motley Dash Jr. professorially postulated “Finding Fiction blows.”

But can you really blame them? I would dump my rage on any innocent souls in tweeting range as well if I was in a local band that was unable to bring a single soul out to support them. To be fair, Sheefy’s profile makes the bold claim that he is the “hottest nigga in Detroit.” The denizens of Detroit most likely avoid being in the same room for fear of spontaneous immolation through proximity. Thankfully, Sheefy has twitter so people might drink down his wisdom from a safe distance. Don’t worry, Sheefy. It gets better. Somewhere outside the chicken wire fence that divides Detroit from the rest of the world lies a pint of weed ice cream with your name on it. ~LD

Super excited about the new album cover yeyy! Can’t wait for you to see it!