It’s his first tour ever! Don’t miss it! Here’s an update from the road.

The Homosexuals: Tour Diary #1
The Homosexuals: Tour Diary #2

TUE NOV 5
Rochester, NY - THE BUG JAR
Having poured out of our very own bug jar, a newly coined nickname for the tour van, we are greeted by a crack-head whose personality is literally steaming out of the crack that appears to be in the top of his head stretching through every ligament in his body resulting in a crazed St. Vitus dance, dragging him up and down the street. He circles us, he walks backwards and forwards past us, seemingly ready to engage us in either a sort of conversation, a hustle / pitch / death threat / “my momma’s at home dying of cancer and I need 10 dollars” / “where you all from?” / “do you need a hand to get that equipment in there?” … The man is jumping more than a drummer’s testicles in a strip club. After the 5th time of him stopping right in front of us opening his mouth with nothing coming out he gives up on himself and walks off with an unlikely gait that would only seem possible if one leg was 2 feet shorter than the other. I’m convinced that he thought he was normal, or at the very least a legend in his own mind. He retreats to a distance no more than 50 yards away, no doubt convinced that he is now as invisible as an ostrich with its head stuck up its own arse.

Being all boys our minds rapidly turned to food. One of the more remarkable things about being on the road is that boys tend to develop such a necessary bond that their biorhythms and cycles very rapidly coincide resulting in communal hunger patterns, farting, collegiate jokes of the wonder of nipples, assholes, pussies, and poop. This strange phenomena is something I have previously observed albeit in a more genteel manner when girls live together and their menstrual cycles rapidly coincide. At this point I feel I have turned into a large male sanitary towel, soaking up the blood of my merry band of warriors’ trials and tribulations.

Fast forward, safely seated in the local token Chinese restaurant, which seems Vietnamese, where the delightful lady who serves us is of an age that conjures up in my mind a 9 year old Vietnamese girl running from the jungle with her body set on fire by Napalm. My mind rapidly replays a movie of the whole of the 60s, the Vietnam war, and how in rare moments one person’s suffering can grip the imagination of a nation much more convincingly than a whole army of politicians’ self serving bullshit. At the same time I remember a conversation I had with a Jamaican friend of mine, Janet my dancing partner in London, which occurred less than 2 days before departing Britain some three weeks ago. I had mentioned to Janet how the image of that 9 year old Vietnamese girl had become a turning point in the way the American government had been able to convince most of its population that anybody regardless of age that looked like a “gook” must be a communist and therefore must be put to death, preferably in a horrible fashion on the basis that the only good commie is a dead commie.

This image of a child burning made people realize that their own children could be cast in the same way. To my astonishment, Janet then told me that she had met that 9 year old girl, now a grown woman, in New York, at a United Nations function. Janet herself, a 42 year old first generation Jamaican British woman, had elevated herself from the streets of a poor deprived area in London called Peckham and had become one of the few black working class women to gain entry to the gilded halls at Oxford University. She had refused to play the game of being the token black who would allow the future right wing fascist rulers of Britain to assuage their guilt of calling her “nig-nog” in an “affectionate” manner. All of these things ran through my mind in an instant between my eyes skipping from the delights on the menu and feeling the warmth of the lady proprietor’s voice. As my eyes skipped from chow mein to noodles to curry I felt a need to be desperately careful about how I spoke to her. Her grasp of the language indicated to me that her whole life revolved around the restaurant. for some reason I felt that she’d been in America for many many years, more years than would have been revealed by her facility of language. I decided to push this sadness to the back of my mind and just try and accept her at what I felt was her face value, a face that had been smoothed over and worn down into an affable smile, an amenable notepad. I also felt an overwhelming urge to call her Mommy or Mama but I resisted the inclination just in case I unwittingly upset her which was the last thing that I wanted to do.

All these images, thoughts, silent conversations with myself taking place between the banter of my band of super-heroes. Of course when my food arrived I had as usual chosen the very best that any stranger could have hoped to choose. For once we were in a lovely restaurant served by people who didn’t want to poison us and like the faceless corporate proprietors of the various road-stop places which seem to serve taste impregnated cardboard in such a variety of forms, the should qualify for some sort of performance art prize or at very least a week long display at the Whitney.

Suitably rejuvinated, watered, fed and with our horses hosed down we then took our selves to the Bug Jar and unloaded the van / NORMAL SERVICE RESUMED. Inside the Bug Jar, the television at a height where it was uncomfortable to keep craning one’s neck without the oiling cantilevered caress of pints of alcohol, spewed out gripping news of the historic Presidential election. I was honored to be in America to witness and bathe in the glory of Barack Obama’s victory. Mmm. My compatriots in the Homosexuals, Dave, Mike and Travis, are all educated and politically astute young men, something I feel blessed to have had bestowed upon me. Rarely in America have I found more than 1 or 2 such people other than in places where these people might be expected to gather in pursuit of their slice of power. Although we all know with the utmost certainty that Barack will win there is still the aftertaste of the abortion of Bush’s theft of the last elections.

We go on stage at about 11:00 PM and within two minutes Barack is making his victory speech. For the first time in my life I felt somewhat of an imposter on stage, set against what was happening on the television in the bar. All I wanted to do was to finish the show, get back to the hotel and imbibe myself of president-elect Obama’s honeyed words and rich rhetoric. I use the word rhetoric deliberately because of its association with cynical politicians. In the hands of Mr. Obama its almost as if I don’t care whether he was lying or not. … Whatever it is that he’s doing he does it with an eloquence, style and warmth that is undeniable and irresistible / I have given myself up to him completely. The essence of his campaign inevitable reaches reduced to slogan through repetition yet somehow daisy fresh when fragrantly falling from Obama’s lips . YEs and then … YEs the essence of his message has been HOPE and CHANGE and HOPE FOR CHANGE. Every time I hear him say it my Pavlovian reflex sprays my head with one of my more favorite graffittis: “faith, hope, and love. Of these the greatest is LOVE, without love faith and hope are like sand in the desert wind.” It had been of some concern to me during the campaign that the emphasis on hope without mention of love was something that threatened to reduce my dream for America as personified by the election of Barack, to just another dream that I would eventually wake up from with the news that President Barack Obama has this morning bombed Iran.

When we finally got back to the hotel, I managed to negotiate through multifarious channels of pay-as you-go porn, infomercials, commercials, sell-your-granny shows, loose-weight-by-eating-more-keep-fit-fitness videos, keep-your-home-heavenly-spotless-with-the Jesus-vacuum-cleaner — yes? I successfully managed to finally find a channel that was about to replay the whole of Obama’s speech. I had a feeling of smug satisfaction on my insistence on finding a channel that was showing the speech being as though my buddies seemed to think it wouldn’t be replayed until five or six in the morning. I swiftly put my slightly annoying smugness graciously back in its box and proceeded to let these magical moments wash over me. …. Be my, Be my little baby. Go Barack. A wop bop a-loo-bop OBAMA BOOM!

When I saw the beaming faces of Obama’s children Marlia and Sasha and that of his delectable first lady Michelle then I witnessed a love in action that had been missing from the country wide campaign. My companions swiftly fell to sleep safe in the knowledge that they would wake up with their man on the way to the White House. I sat up taking pictures of the TV screen as various personalities were interviewed to the accompaniment of the ticker-tape results at the bottom of the screen, “chirpsing” the confirmation. … Every last little crumb of certitude.

I finally climb into bed maintaining a safe distance from my old buddy Travis who is 18 feel 3 inches tall and 8 feet wide. I fall into a sleep which is more like a state of lucid dreaming than … I’m filled with a sense of wonder astonishment, relief and affirmation. When we wake up we will hit the road for our next gig Cleveland and then the day after in Chicago. I can’t wait. Zzzzzz. (lucid ones).

PS the gig was fantastic, never to be forgotten in much the same way as no one will ever forget when Kennedy was assassinated.