We Curse Only Behind Metal Masks

Frank the Witchdoctor sleeps as birds squawk and planes hum. Stress and I were dancing the Macarena, but it evolved into more of a Salsa.

But this is me, here, now, inserting chill pill into mouth. Swallowing chill pill!

I bought a heavy duty guitar case that I can throw under the plane. Cynthia said, "Do it." It's actually a keyboard case that Frank and I will modify with foam.

I've been practicing. Long, organic D and G drone solos. Thirty minutes each or deeper. I've also dug into the back catalog! I've been feeling some of the oldies, some of the three/four chord trippers. What will unfold onstage remains to be seen.

Frank and I drove to Fascist Square Mall. We tiffed momentarily near Anthropologie, and walked separate directions. I hopelessly scanned a mall directory. Frank called my cell phone from twenty feet away. Smooth jazz permeated everything. Our tiff ended with me revealing to Frank, in all honesty, that the booth near us was where I got my ears double pierced in the early '90s. We browsed at Circuit City. I bought a hard drive.

I drove to Upland to run spotlight. I spewed long strings of expletives at other drivers. Creative ones! Ones I probably couldn't remember now if asked. The metal mask feels good though. I got my music, my loud phone calls, my loud singing, my strings of expletives. Animal Collective was perfect for the 605 at rush hour sunset. Absolutely meant for that environment. It's a shame that cars feel so good.

But now it's all about Long Beach and putting things in bags. Sunny, bougainvillea, backyard, hardwood Long Beach. And Saturday's that damn plane.



This band is called Oil. Oil was formed in Long Beach in 1997 by guitarist Blake Nelson and ex-Dark Angel vocalist Ron Rinehart.