Just woke up in the bus in Northern Virginia. Played D.C. last – one of the best shows yet. A tight, packed room, and the weird DC folk had to countenance us right up in their grilles. Duder showed up, and of course we all loved that; it’s great to see him always, and he improves our shows immeasurably with his mania and energy. All through the end of “No One Was There” he sprayed us with white snowlike confetti from his modded-out leafblower fungun, and we went balls-out ballistic. The characteristically stiff D.C. crowd just stood there gawking in disbelief, and Deason was freaking out so hard that he fell off the stage with his guitar. Kept rocking and geeking, so I pantomimed stabbing him with my Les Paul. He rarely goes so nuts, so it was a damn sight.

Ian MacKaye and Guy Piccioto from Fugazi were there, and they were all about it; they told Bernard that we “blew their minds.” Ha! Wish I could go back and tell my 15-year-old Dischord-obsessed self that. I also had a good boy-howdy with a dude who I later realized was Ian Svenonius from Make-Up and Nation of Ulysses, who now writes for Vice Mag. We talked about our mutual love for Don Cherry, Sonny Sharrock, Sonny Simmons and all those free jazz cats. He’s a real nice fucker, and I certainly love his bands.

One of the best jams ever!

We slept out in the sticks. I slept great, and am not hungover for the first time in a few days.

Few hours later: made a big family meal – with vegan and nonvegan options, of course! – and then watched Kill Bill at our buddy’s house. Some of us jammed all day in a sideroom, figuring our harmonies and learning new songs. Good restful day out in the middle of nowhere.

Tonight is Norfolk. Last show there was epically bad, vastly unattended, and afterward we stayed with a wigged-out and overaggressive closet-case who we later figured was on Ecstasy. Unbeknownst to us, as well, was the sad fact that he had a wife and young kid stuffed away in the tiny apartment he offered us. After we drunkenly went skinnydipping in the sea, he took us as his captive audience in his front-room and prosthelatized in sanguine, effeminate tones about killing fat bald men, all the while donning but a pair of satin bikini briefs and wiggling and waving his barely-obscured garbage in all of our agog faces. When we heard we were going back – thanks to The Monotonix’ booking agent – half of us groaned and half of us cracked the fuck up. He was the most demented motherfucker we’ve ever stayed with, and we’ve crashed with some doozies, believe you me.

Here goes!

Jim McHugh