Paul: We are playing “The Weapon We Have is LOVE” on the country’s second largest army base. I don’t care if there are only a half-dozen people watching us. We are STICKING IT TO THE MAN!
Jesse: Getting close to midnight now, we're still unsure of where we're going to stay in Kentucky. Ian hooks us up with some folks from the previous bands who have a place we can crash. "They drink and smoke; I hope you guys are okay with that." Ian my man, if there's a roof and something resembling running water, we're good.
Marty Allen: Now, it must be said that the folks who put us up after Fort Campbell were extremely kind, nice, and generous. But they were also deeply prone to partying, did not seem to require sleep, and lived in a giant ramshackle dwelling that was somewhere between the house from Fight Club and the house from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, without all that Hollywood glitz.
Jesse: The stench of cat urine belts me in the face when we're five feet from the open door. It's like walking through a forcefield of stank.
Paul: As I’m outside doing a Real World-style monologue with the video camera, a cop drives up and asks if I live around here. When I answer in the negative, he tells me that it’s not really the kind of neighborhood that’s safe to be using fancy technological equipment outside. This inspires us to bring all of our gear inside.
Jesse: A game of Soul Caliber III starts and Joe is handed a controller. He’s not a hardcore gamer like the guys in Uncle Monsterface, and watching him take to a fighting game is like watching a hippie's child get their first taste of sugar. The normally placid Joe is wild-eyed, shouting; in a fury even a guitar to the face couldn't stir up.
Joe: I’m fighting Marty. But it’s okay. We’re videogame fighting. And it’s pretty violent. It makes me want to fight him in real life. He’s some chick with giant bladed rings and I’m some owl dude with a wizard staff. This game is weird.
Jesse: "I'm going to fight you, Marty!" Joe shouts, "For real! I'm going to fight you!”
Paul: For the second time on tour, I’m listening to the Uncle Monsterfacers go into the slow-zombies-vs-fast-zombies debate. Everyone’s agreed that fast zombies are just too much. At least the debate is short. Joe and I go outside to sleep in the van (for the first time ever!) and leave the Monster crew to fend for themselves for the night. Tonight, they’ll learn the hard way about the hazards of life on the road.
Joe: Why did we bring all of our stuff inside if we were just going to sleep in the van?
Marty Allen: Amidst these profound theories and a serious zombie debate amongst the handful of hangers-on, I managed to sneak in about 2.3 hours of profoundly restless sleep. It seems as though still more questionable events unfolded as the evening wore on, but I woke up unmolested, albeit covered in a thin layer of goo.
From the sockpuppet journal of Terrycloth Blue: The military-industrial complex is a facade, perpetuated by our own inability or unwillingness to wake the fuck up. Do you know what's actually inside a B-18 Missile? Hot dogs. And do you know what's inside hot dogs? Vitamins.
