I knew things would not be as it seemed, when i finally could hear what the fuck he was saying on the phone. It wasn’t a connecting thing, or a quality of signal (we were, still in New Orleans) – it was loud and clear, and it was the night before Jay Pogge and his band were to leave for Europe for 4 weeks.

“Dude, we’re gonna have to pick you up somewhere in France,” Poggi says with the least amount of background hiss i’ve ever heard during a conversation with him. “Someone at the venue in Amsterdam’s sister died, we can’t do the show”

Alright, im gonna wander Bremen now. Plan C.

…..But i was already on Plan C from the day i busted my face on MC Trachiotomy’s Front Porch of Fuck Your Face at the Pearl Lounge, his home/bar/decrepid freak show parlour. It is an amazing place, just watch your step on the way out. Ask Ian Cunningham. Two weeks after i busta ma face he busta his face, but with a Texas Chainsaw scars to prove it and tell coke stories about it later. We can share now. You just can’t see where i landed.

I was at the Pearl that night and was having a very intelligent 4am conversation with my old friend Ben Hare, who was at the time, serving drinks. Or, just behind the bar trying not to look fucked up as Microshards lit the background noise. He told me i should come to New York w/ him and MC Trachiotomy for a few shows with the Butthole Surfers and do some pictures. “Brah, come to New York and do some pictchas, Trach’s tight with the Surfers. We’ll get fucked up and you can take some pictchas brah”, says Bennie tryin to hold up the bar. What’s in it for me im thinking? Travelling to NY for a weekend, wasting my money gettin fucked up w/ the same cats i get fucked up w/ here and trying to use Auto Focus as my cripple crutch…in New York? Fuck that. I’ll stay put. And one hour later, fell on off the front steps, busted the fuck out of my face and forgot about the whole night…Until i agreed to go on tour with these freaks in Europe.

Its one day before i do the airport shuffle and start smelling myself for weird aiport smells. Something about em, i just start to reek right when i get start my checking in. The only communication i have w/ the roaming crew is myspace messages written in broken, hurried english with emoticons and “hell yess’s” and lov, whoever. New plan is, as i said, gonna be stinker: i get into Amsterdam at 8:30 am on Wed. after over 12 hrs of flying. Right now i am supposed to meet a friend who’s book i am working on and have work featured in. The book is a photography book featuring 10 New Orleans photographers and their transitions and evolution before/during/after Katrina kicked our asses. It’s an iteresting idea. So, upone arriving in AMST we’re supposed to take my unshowered peanut stinkin ass over to some gallery’s and a museum to shop the book. “A real live New Orleanian!, smells and all!” they may think that she’s bringing me to the fucking museum to install my Post-Katrina sweat.

After that im supposed to hop on the train to Paris, then hop on another one to Bordeaux. Where almost 20 hours of travelling later, smelling like shit, and hungry as hell, call a guy named DJ URINE for my ride to the show at LE PETROLIER. Wish me luck.