We wake up in Chico and go to record store we like, where last time we bought Bee Gees Odessa on vinyl and a sweet Muppet Show poster. I saw in Seattle that the first season of Muppet show has been released on DVD, so if anyone is trolling for a Xmas gift to get me, then, ahem. In first grade I had a Muppet Show lunchbox, a metal one. On the reverse side was Pigs in Space. This prompted a bratty crossing guard to call me Miss Piggy for the entire year. It probably didn’t help that I have a rather upturned nose.
Our show is at the Rickshaw Stop, a club with unbelievable sound and the nicest soundperson/owner I’ve ever met. His name is Waldo. We are on a bill with familiars—Si Claro, Fishboy, and The Mantles. It is my favorite show of the entire tour. The sound onstage was so clear I almost ask Waldo to turn me down in my monitor.
Fishboy, especially John the drummer, destroy. I catch some of it on camera video. I am technology-impaired, so this seems like a miracle. I keep watching the footage, awestruck. It may as well be an old nickel arcade movie—gadzooks! what’ll they think of next?!
One of our friends, Chris, is obsessed with a bar we walked by earlier, which she has dubbed “The Santa Bar.” All night she keeps entreating us to return to The Santa Bar. I love that stuff, so it’s a given. The bar is terrifying, something out of a Stephen King novel. There are 1000 Santa Claus dolls packed into about 200 square feet. There are Santas on every surface–hanging from the ceiling, encased in glass, revolving on a Santa ferris wheel. The bartender is an unbelievable dick. He clearly doesn’t want us there and keeps hissing about how we’re playing the same fucking songs every fucking person plays: Fleetwood Mac, mostly. But we keep staying, keep singing along with gusto.