Gordon spilled a pot of coffee into Joe’s laptop this morning on the bus. I think the lid fell off the coffee-pot when he tipped it, sending hot coffee flowing right into the keyboard of Joe’s powerbook. It didn’t turn on after that.
But unlike the shit-phone incident where Joe had to rely on faith, patience, and his own unique willingness to talk on a phone covered with turd-particles after it fell in the toilet, this time around Joe had legitimate reason to believe things would turn out okay. And that’s because it was Gordon, our mutant know-everything-about-everything sound engineer, who within minutes of the disaster had hatched a plan. He took the battery out, unscrewed the keyboard, removed the top panel — basically took the computer apart so it was just guts and innards — and put it in a sealed cardboard box with a hole cut out of it to fit a blow dryer. He turned a blow dryer on high and let it sit like that for three hours. Then he brought the junk-sale that Joe’s computer had become back onto the bus, re-assembled it, and turned it on. I caught the moment of truth on coolpix video:
The space bar key sticks a little bit but it works. Moving on…
In what would have otherwise been our ‘farewell arizona’ show, people came out in droves to see us in Tempe and clapped after almost every song on Monday night. We were impressed. To top it off, someone made us a sculpture out of white chocolate, featuring the doll from the cover of Parachute and the doll from the One Man Wrecking Machine video (our band has dolls). When I met the aspiring chocolatier after the show, I asked her how long it took to make and she said “only about twelve hours.”
I wouldn’t put it past us to set up a photo like this with carefully-positioned fringe elements, placed in the frame only to stir up controversy (like a bootleg copy of OJ’s “If I Did It” or the complete DVD set of the early seasons of Everybody Loves Raymond, or The Bible). But the photo was pure, snapped hastily before the hopefully-not-poison-chocolate was devoured in “only about twelve minutes.” So the clock really read 3:23, the back of a Cheerios box is really there in the window behind the chocolate sculpture, and R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet, Chapters 13-22” is really there on the table, right before we got around to watching it.
And whereas chapters 1-12 were so bad they were good — I mean, so bad they were a masterpiece — chapters 13-22 fizzled out. I really wanted it to be the epic follow-up I dreamed it’d be, and when R. Kelly sang “you crazier than a fish wit titties” in chapter 13, I thought maybe he’d done it. And then, when R. Kelly was a gospel preacher in chapter 19, I was snug as a bug in my bunk, belly full of chocolate, ready to hear about how it ended in the morning. I dunno, somehow he lost me. I needed more unintentional comedy and less intentional comedy. It’s hard to explain. I think I am a victim of my love for the first 12 chapters.