There were all–night practices in the basement of Regeneration for three seasons. Four hour bus rides to practice, and a low quality tape to listen to on the way home, straight to work on bus sleep. A van we ditched in Richmond and reported stolen. A night spent re–arranging the signs of Grand Rapids. A van crash on a mountain top outside of Seattle, after which we all went our separate ways to spend time in motels, jail cells and hospitals, respectively.

Sharing the newspaper in diners. Another call to AAA. Steve–O put out a record for us, and wired us money to get off the mountain. We got strip searched at the Canadian border. They asked us if we were wearing our "little sister's jeans." We crashed into a taxi cab outside the show. We got towed to the show. The show got canceled. Ross got an open container ticket at midnight on New Year's Eve. We wrote a song in Brooklyn. We wrote a song in Maine. The basement was flooded. The basement was thick with fresh spray paint fumes. The basement was a dust storm. The basement was empty.There were three epic shows in Eliza's living room. We stalled a set in Pedro to wait for Ren to bring a replacement amp in from the van, while he was spent forever nervously approaching Mike Watt. Mental health issues appeared. Beards were grown. We played acoustic covers all night, annoying everyone. A notebook filled with catastrophic revelations.

Massive debts, failed relationships. Institutionalization. Incarceration. Devil's advocate debates. Long drives with the best of Northern Soul collection. Long drives with the same records we listened to at 15, still sounding pretty good. We called in sick. We bounced checks. We played one more song. Practices in the basement of a warehouse in South Boston. We covered "Living with Unemployment," while we were all employed, mostly serving food. Another record was recorded with Will, and we even got him add a "hey!" on a song. Jobs were quit. We delivered pizza, worked in a silk–screen factory, sold blood, made lattes, moved couches, shook martinis. Started a business. Had a talk on a roof in Milwaukee. And before that on the shore in San Diego. Three years of long distance phone calls, and plans gone horribly wrong.

But a few nights that were flawless in their own skewed glory. Meeting a few people you respect. Hearing a few bands that actually make you remember why you make these decisions that defy common sense and age expectations. In three years you could count these nights, and people, and bands on maybe two hands, but it's enough to keep you going. And the nights far from anyone, broken and walking home down deserted streets after a day of work at a job that you hate– It's enough to keep you writing.
Witches with Dicks

Witches with Dicks

Worriers

Worriers