Davey MacManus from The Crimea says howdy....
Hey JT, Thought you might want to see this post from the band's myspace page.
Seventh Whore of a Seventh Whore july 25
----------over the rockies, through the canadian prairies, strip off for customs, and the traitor sniffer dog. man's best friend my arse. forced to swallow my weed, then down around the great lakes, pop through timezones like they're sheets of paper. our e.p's gone balsa in the states. we are making a small but significant indent. heading towards new york once more and the chance to prove ourselves. pass so many crashes. young men with their heads in their hands at the side of the road, their fratmobile snubnosed against the central reservation. cars upended like some macabre modern art sculptor. it's like ethiopia in our van. There are more flies than you'd care to imagine. landing on our faces when we are sleeping, too straight for our own good. on a tinderstick, a misplaced rice crispie could literally start the third world war. seventh whore of a seventh whore. pent up insanity. Me running around the perimiter of the truckstops, trying to use up some energy before I castrate some fat trucker. I haven't been able to see truckstops in a normal light since I read j.t leroy's "sarah", and "the heart is deceitful above all things". I actually bought his book in missisipi, a rare thing for me to do, but I was hooked. the bookshop in missisipi was humongous, square books, I ate homemade icecream there every night for three tenuous months and looked through the books, but I only bought one. J.t was basically whored out by his own mom all his young life at truckstops, first as a pretend girl, then as a boy, a lot lizard. I have seen the men who drive these trucks across america and they are not a happy bunch. I felt the wrath of trucker speed and it is not a happy drug. j.t came to see us in san francisco, I dedicated "wierd" to him, but he couldn't hang around because some idiot recognised him and started shouting his name. probably the same goofball who was shouting at me onstage. schmuck. Us pale artist types cannot be doing with shoutage. jt is my hero, and I wish him all the best whatever he does.
--------driving along the spinal chord of america. through amish country, back into the heat. savour it, for england will be brassic compared. keep reminding myself that people back home would give there left leg to tour the states, not to have to work a shitty job, rain belting off our roof ( the raindrops are bigger over here). anyone with an ounce of cop on, would know that I am lucky, the thing that makes me happy is kindness, giving, and caring for others, just going around promoting ourselves leaves a hollow feeling. sweating for Ireland, and maybe I'm just hungry, and thats the hollow feeling. I have the sweetest tooth. watch c.n.n in the truckstop, brown and grotty shithole, stained with the breath of a zillion transients. have my first shower since vancouver, quick in case some trucker takes a shine to my scrawny ass. Us pale artist types don't like showering, the layers of dirt keep the impure thoughts at bay -
-----get attacked by a horsefly when we stop at mosquito lake. fishing with the most rudimentary tools, huckleberry fin stylee. a bamboo, 10 foot of line, a hook, a float, fat juicy worms, fighting as you pierce them many times. a tiny fish. the size of my hand. comes at me like godzilla with suicide belt attached. hit it's head off a rock five times before it has time to blow us into the middle of next year. feel fear. these fish aren't cannibals, I know for in our increasing desperation we cut up said tiddler and tried. yet still the big ones allude us .in the end we have to buy some fish to barbecue. a crime when we are next to a lake full of the fockers. wishing I had lime or a hand grenade. I always wondered why when the potato famine hit ireland. people didn't live off fishes as they were so plentiful back then, I suppose only fishermen knew how to catch fish. Your average potato farmer wouldn't have a barney. now most of the fish in the atlantic have vanished onto our plates . eaten then regurgitated and dumped back in the very ocean they came from as sewerage. where they are promptly eaten by their fast diminishing relatives. fish are cannibals after all.
------ once in Dingle, I was there at the harbour at dusk when a trawler came in laden with tuna, reputedly ireland's first haul, due to global warming the tuna were getting closer, back after two weeks at sea, 400 miles out in the atlantic, just the captain and his three sons on board. holding up these huge foreign fish to the delight of the small crowd on the quay .as they docked, half the town got wind of it, and came to see. I was so jealous of those three tousle haired boys and the heroes welcome they had. I would have thrown in my lot and been a fisherman from that day on, if it wasn't for my mum advising me against going to the fishing college in greencastle, donegal. I was about fifteen at the time, and two more years of school were equivalant to having my stomach cut open and my guts pulled out like a firehose.
Seventh Whore of a Seventh Whore july 25
----------over the rockies, through the canadian prairies, strip off for customs, and the traitor sniffer dog. man's best friend my arse. forced to swallow my weed, then down around the great lakes, pop through timezones like they're sheets of paper. our e.p's gone balsa in the states. we are making a small but significant indent. heading towards new york once more and the chance to prove ourselves. pass so many crashes. young men with their heads in their hands at the side of the road, their fratmobile snubnosed against the central reservation. cars upended like some macabre modern art sculptor. it's like ethiopia in our van. There are more flies than you'd care to imagine. landing on our faces when we are sleeping, too straight for our own good. on a tinderstick, a misplaced rice crispie could literally start the third world war. seventh whore of a seventh whore. pent up insanity. Me running around the perimiter of the truckstops, trying to use up some energy before I castrate some fat trucker. I haven't been able to see truckstops in a normal light since I read j.t leroy's "sarah", and "the heart is deceitful above all things". I actually bought his book in missisipi, a rare thing for me to do, but I was hooked. the bookshop in missisipi was humongous, square books, I ate homemade icecream there every night for three tenuous months and looked through the books, but I only bought one. J.t was basically whored out by his own mom all his young life at truckstops, first as a pretend girl, then as a boy, a lot lizard. I have seen the men who drive these trucks across america and they are not a happy bunch. I felt the wrath of trucker speed and it is not a happy drug. j.t came to see us in san francisco, I dedicated "wierd" to him, but he couldn't hang around because some idiot recognised him and started shouting his name. probably the same goofball who was shouting at me onstage. schmuck. Us pale artist types cannot be doing with shoutage. jt is my hero, and I wish him all the best whatever he does.
--------driving along the spinal chord of america. through amish country, back into the heat. savour it, for england will be brassic compared. keep reminding myself that people back home would give there left leg to tour the states, not to have to work a shitty job, rain belting off our roof ( the raindrops are bigger over here). anyone with an ounce of cop on, would know that I am lucky, the thing that makes me happy is kindness, giving, and caring for others, just going around promoting ourselves leaves a hollow feeling. sweating for Ireland, and maybe I'm just hungry, and thats the hollow feeling. I have the sweetest tooth. watch c.n.n in the truckstop, brown and grotty shithole, stained with the breath of a zillion transients. have my first shower since vancouver, quick in case some trucker takes a shine to my scrawny ass. Us pale artist types don't like showering, the layers of dirt keep the impure thoughts at bay -
-----get attacked by a horsefly when we stop at mosquito lake. fishing with the most rudimentary tools, huckleberry fin stylee. a bamboo, 10 foot of line, a hook, a float, fat juicy worms, fighting as you pierce them many times. a tiny fish. the size of my hand. comes at me like godzilla with suicide belt attached. hit it's head off a rock five times before it has time to blow us into the middle of next year. feel fear. these fish aren't cannibals, I know for in our increasing desperation we cut up said tiddler and tried. yet still the big ones allude us .in the end we have to buy some fish to barbecue. a crime when we are next to a lake full of the fockers. wishing I had lime or a hand grenade. I always wondered why when the potato famine hit ireland. people didn't live off fishes as they were so plentiful back then, I suppose only fishermen knew how to catch fish. Your average potato farmer wouldn't have a barney. now most of the fish in the atlantic have vanished onto our plates . eaten then regurgitated and dumped back in the very ocean they came from as sewerage. where they are promptly eaten by their fast diminishing relatives. fish are cannibals after all.
------ once in Dingle, I was there at the harbour at dusk when a trawler came in laden with tuna, reputedly ireland's first haul, due to global warming the tuna were getting closer, back after two weeks at sea, 400 miles out in the atlantic, just the captain and his three sons on board. holding up these huge foreign fish to the delight of the small crowd on the quay .as they docked, half the town got wind of it, and came to see. I was so jealous of those three tousle haired boys and the heroes welcome they had. I would have thrown in my lot and been a fisherman from that day on, if it wasn't for my mum advising me against going to the fishing college in greencastle, donegal. I was about fifteen at the time, and two more years of school were equivalant to having my stomach cut open and my guts pulled out like a firehose.
posted by JT LeRoy at 8:55 AM
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