Fat Riker

The following is a clipping from what seems to be the same publication and writer that reviewed another 2003 Fat Riker album, “Fat Riker Controls the Universe”. Judging from comments made inside the article, it was likely published only a short time after the original piece.

***

Unknown Publication

Circa late 2003

Review of “Tartar Control, Tartar Control, Tartar Control”

Sweet readers, please allow me to paint you a picture of pleasant contentment. Past challenges were close enough to bask in the satisfaction of their completion, but enough removed that memories of their more difficult moments were smoothed to a dull edge. Likewise, future entanglements were but whispers of shadows on the distant horizon: problems for other days. Within the harsh, oppressive sands of the desert that is my writer’s soul, consider this fleeting moment of happiness a cool oasis.

Foremost upon my mind was a concert I had attended the night before. Upon my arm was a nubile young journalism student. After a happenstance meeting in Hot Topic where we were both buying the same arm socks, I had offered to escort her to that night’s Nigerian Princes show.  Dazzled as she was by my professional status and five-figure salary, she quickly agreed.

The concert was a rousing success; the Princes played an enlightened show that will go down as one of the venue’s finest.  After the performance, I went to congratulate them and managed to secure an exclusive interview with the band in the parking lot. Excited as they were after the performance, it is no surprise that the Princes were very energetic. As they answered my questions, they got a bit out of hand and beat the license plate off of my car with a traditional Nigerian Coleman lantern. I am pleased to say, however, that they quickly fixed it without my even asking. They really are a stand up bunch of gentlemen.

It is upon this halcyonic mindscape that a shadow suddenly fell.

Though the shadow was merely metaphorical (as the cheap fluorescent lighting in the office casts no noticeable shade) I felt as if the sun itself had been blocked off by some malevolent giant. Glancing upward, I saw none other than my wrathful editor. He grinned from ear to ear, the thick creases of his wrinkles outlining his vengeful pleasure at what he was about to do next. He pitched something onto my desk.

The padded mailer seemed to ring out like the blade of the guillotine as it slapped down on my desk.

I stared up at him with wide eyes, crestfallen and imploring. In response he merely wiggled three fingers at me, a subtle yet malicious reminder of the publication’s rule of a mandatory three listens to every album before writing a review.

I slowly leaned back into my chair and regarded the envelope over steepled fingers, willing it to hold anything besides what I knew it must. The stare down went on for five full minutes before I gave in and ripped it open. My shoulders drooped and I exhaled the most theatrical sigh I could summon.

Fat Riker, of course.

Their latest effort, if it could be called that, is entitled “Tartar Protection, Tartar Protection, Tartar Protection”. The cover that announces this is crafted of three taped-together pieces of toothpaste boxes. Did they make a unique cover for each individual copy of the album? Or do they, as I have long suspected, make but a single copy to send to me? I assume they must be mass produced somehow. The idea that these madmen, whom I have never seen nor met in person, labor constantly for my sole torture is far too much for my beleaguered heart to bear.

Sadly, there is nothing for it but to listen.

Track 1 – “Very Hungry” – 0:56

Fat Riker is hungry. Very hungry. It seems they are still not allowed to order a pizza after stealing the previous one. There is much grumbling and a clinking is heard in the background. I don’t know if the clinking is meant to be the melody, but it might be. It might also be someone rummaging through a refrigerator. A voice, one which I recognize as a primary vocalist for the band, suggests that they try ordering from a different pizza place. He is promptly kicked out of the band.

Track 2 – “Clink-o-Tronic” – 6:42

The clinking from the first track returns, this time in as the solo instrument in an excruciatingly long experimental piece. The noise has been sampled and some monster has somehow added a vibrating, robot-like effect to it. This crashes through the otherwise blissful silence in a distinctly amelodic way. From time to time, I fear the artist is trying to cover the “Airwolf” theme song and this somehow makes everything considerably worse.

Track 3 – “Shambles the Pony” – 1:52

Someone is concerned where Shambles the Pony has gone. They ask around but no one seems to know. I hear clinking in the background. Was this recorded at the same time as Track 2?

Track 4 – “Still Hungry” – 0:34

The lead singer is invited back to the band, but only if he brings pizza with him. He reluctantly agrees, but demands promotion to “lead lead singer”.

Track 5 – “Pizza Guy Freestyles” – 2:17

The newly instated lead lead singer calls the pizza place again to order pizza. They still won’t sell to him, but he convinces the pizza guy to freestyle a bit over the phone. It is blissful compared to the rest of the contents of the album. He employed a stunning refrain about marinara sauce that would make a grown man weep.

Track 6 – “Pizza Failure” – 3:19

The lead lead singer fails to get the pizza the rest of the band has demanded from him. Someone plays a listless drum solo in the background and the rest of the group tells him how much he has hurt them. Someone weeps. He is once again removed from the band.

Track 7 – “Shambles the Pony is Found” – 0:23

Shambles the pony has been found, but in an unexpected place. The track cuts out before I discover where.

Track 8 – “The Microphone Smells Bad (Brush Your Teeth Before Using the Microphone)” – 2:02

Someone finds the microphone to be an assault upon the senses. It smells bad, they yell! The rest of Fat Riker seemingly cannot be bothered to care. This ambivalence to oral hygiene enrages the first man, and he claims he will find some way to make them brush their teeth.

The thought of this smelly microphone makes me gag as I can only imagine the horrors that lurk inside the moist recesses of the mouths of Fat Riker. I silently wish our new dental activist the best of luck.

Track 9 – “Let’s All Play Randomly and See if it Matches Up” – 10:34

Oh my God, this track. This, for some reason, was the one that nearly got me. The band is tuning up (unsuccessfully) and someone suggests that they all just start playing randomly and see if it matches up and makes an actual song. Let me assure you, it did not.

The banjo player kicked off hard and fast, playing what I assume was a blistering rendition of the extended version of “Fat Riker Controls the Universe” from their previous “album”. The bass keytarist jumped off nearly as quick, though with a slow, doom metal beat I had a hard time placing. Someone was playing the clinking instrument from earlier, happily divorced from its synthy effects, though possibly still attempting to play the “Airwolf” theme. It’s hard to say.

The lead vocalist was apparently back again, and he began absolutely screaming into the microphone. This was no song, though. No attempt to rhyme words was made. In fact, after searching on the internet for the meanings to his lyrics, I have determined that he was most likely reading from a Comesticorp promotional pamphlet. I’m a bit discouraged by this as I got addicted to Comesticorp’s Cheese-Puff Flavored Cheese Style Dip Bowls back in college. I’m not sure I could live in a world where Fat Riker was selling me my favorite chip dip.

This cacophony of sound continues unabated for over ten minutes. No attempt is made to actually sync up the songs or restart. It is as if a tense showdown has started and no one dares blink. From time to time, I hear the whinny of what I can only assume is Shambles the Pony. Sadly, this is the most listenable noise on the track.

I would like to remind our readers that during the course of writing this review, I was forced to listen to this song three times. That is over thirty minutes of my life in total. I could have watched an entire episode of Airwolf in that time. (I think. Was Airwolf an hour or half-hour show?)

Track 10 – “Shambles the Pony is a Dick” – 2:12

Shambles the Pony has been looking at a member of the band weirdly. Said member is convinced that Shambles is making fun of him for not being a pony. Same member is further convinced that this proves that Shambles the Pony is prejudiced against non-ponies. Someone tries to calm him down by humming a partial refrain from “Let’s All Play Randomly and See if it Matches Up” but he is inconsolable.

Why is Fat Riker allowed to own an animal? I am worried for the safety of Shambles the Pony.

Track 11 – “Let’s Kill Shambles the Pony!” – 4:23

The enraged member from the previous track has become so cross at Shambles the Pony that he is now considering pony murder. Everyone else is distraught by this. The band decides to play a song to get their minds off of the problem, and the angry member suggests they name their new song “Let’s Kill Shambles the Pony!”

The group disagrees and decides to play something they call “Backwards Song”. It is a terrible song and sounds a little like a high school marching band falling one-by-one off of a cliff, only in reverse. I cry and laugh a little and feel bad for doing both. I hate these men and I hate this album.

Once again, the liner notes were bereft of a track listing, so each silent moment after this final song made my heart jump with terror that the album’s assault was not yet complete.  As the last desperate notes of the track fade away, so does my torture. I have, yet again, survived a Fat Riker album. I feel I must be better versed in their “musical” stylings than anyone else. It is not a thing that I am proud of.

If I must search for at least a single nice thing to say here, I will admit that this album will at least remind you to brush your teeth.

Also, please be nice to ponies.

Rating: 0.3/10

The following are selected emails from a reporter with the Little Rock Tribune. It seems that during May of 2005 the newspaper attempted to “embed” a reporter with a local band, namely Fat Riker, to produce a gonzo piece about life on the road. These are daily letters sent back home from the reporter, Daniel Springs, updating his editor on the progress of the piece.

These letters are dated roughly a month after the emails in this entry.

—

To: “Hugh Wellington, Editor” <hwellington@littlerocktribune.com>
From: “Daniel Springs, Lifestyle Reporter” <dsprings@littlerocktribune.com>
May 18, 2005
Subject: Day 12, Embedded with Fat Riker

Good news Chief, we finally got all of the macaroni out of the alternator in the van! This means we can finally finish the last leg of the trip up to Cave City. We’ll be four days late for the gig at this point, but maybe the bar can work the guys in between some other bands or something.

These last few days in Pleasant Grove have been anything but pleasant. It’s been hell out here ever since I received that communiqué from corporate denying additional funds to make repairs to the van. I still think that was a mistake: this is a company van on company business. Yes, I realize the damage to the alternator was due to me allowing the band to cook dinner over the heat of the engine, but I still feel a bit abandoned. These guys work at Arby’s for goodness sake! I assumed they knew how to prepare a meal.

Anyway, things didn’t turn out too badly in the end because we were finally able to rope some locals into helping us tear the engine down to clean it out. The Davidson family was getting sick of the van being parked in the middle of their okra patch and sent their teenage nephew over to help us get it moving again. I think the kid’s taking shop in high school because he’s pretty good at this stuff. He was a big help when we had to flush all the cheese powder from the brake lines.

The band was thinking about adding him on as a roadie/technician/fry cook. Think the paper can foot the bill for a salary for this kid?

To: “Hugh Wellington, Editor” <hwellington@littlerocktribune.com>
From: “Daniel Springs, Lifestyle Reporter” <dsprings@littlerocktribune.com>
May 19, 2005
Subject: Day 13, Embedded with Fat Riker

As per the rather harsh emails from both the legal and accounting departments, we have decided not to hire Ricky Davidson and are pressing on without him. It may be for the best actually, the van’s speed seems to be topped off at roughly 27 miles per hour now. The band had asked the kid to try and make the engine more “cooking friendly” after the last disaster, and he seems to have retrofitted the radiator to accept vegetable oil. I think he may have assumed it would work as a deep fryer in a pinch, as it hisses and starts to smell like onion rings whenever we shift into second gear.

Anyway, the article is coming along pretty well. Will and I had a sit down this morning and I grilled him pretty hard on the show schedule and the band’s creative direction. He didn’t have a lot of hard info for me, but he’s a creative type so that doesn’t necessarily mean much. They’re pretty cagey in Fat Riker sometimes. Like when I ask them when they’re going to pay me back all the gas money they owe me. It’s always smoke and mirrors; games within games. Good stuff really. I can tell I’m dealing with professionals.

Anyway, we’re stuck just south of Batesville on the other side of the lake right now. It was a rough three hour drive with the van tooling along like it is, but I was hoping we’d make it a little farther today than we did.  Unfortunately, it turns out the band has a superstition about crossing bodies of water on Thursdays and won’t go on. We’re gonna camp out in Kennedy Park since it’s right next to the bridge and the band says the nearby trees are good for acoustics. Makes sense, I guess. I’m not a musician so I don’t really know.

To: “Hugh Wellington, Editor” <hwellington@littlerocktribune.com>
From: “Daniel Springs, Lifestyle Reporter” <dsprings@littlerocktribune.com>
May 20, 2005
Subject: Day 14, Embedded with Fat Riker

After finally getting across Lake Unico, we made a mad rush toward Cave City, with only a couple of small detours on the way. The guys tried to score some free Big Montanas from the local Arby’s (I don’t even think they make those anymore), but it didn’t work. Apparently the guys’ regional manager put the word out about them going AWOL from their shifts and put the nix on all free sandwiches for them within the state. Luckily, the sauce station guy was sympathetic to the cause and helped them sneak out a bag of frozen curly fries.

We stopped to cook them in the radiator/deep fryer and Will burned the crap out of his hand. Plus, the fries tasted weird and made me sleepy. Still, we fried them all up because there was no way they were going to stay frozen and we needed to do something with them. Careful not to get them in any vital engine components, we stashed them back in their bag and wedged them under the hood to keep them warm.

Afterward the engine kept overheating whenever we would get the van over 20 MPH. I think we probably missed a few fries and they were clogging up the coolant system here and there. The guys said that curly fries can get really gummy when they’re overcooked, so they might be stuck in there for good. I’m starting to wish we had brought Ricky along after all, this deep fryer is his baby and I feel like we’re flying blind without him along.

I was really hoping we’d make it to Cave City today, but with all the stops and the problems with the band, we only made it north of Batesville before having to pull over for the night. I was hoping we’d press on, but the van now constantly emanates a savory, deep fried smell and the band was worried we’d attract coyotes if we were outside of city limits at night.

We’re currently stopped outside the Western Sizzlin’ Steak House near the industrial park. I keep seeing signs for the University of Arkansas so I think that’s pretty close. I was hoping the guys might try and make it over there and try to rustle up a show for some college kids, but they don’t seem too interested. The double-stuffed loaded baked potatoes at the Western Sizzlin’ have their entire attention at the moment.

To: “Hugh Wellington, Editor” <hwellington@littlerocktribune.com>
From: “Daniel Springs, Lifestyle Reporter” <dsprings@littlerocktribune.com>
May 21, 2005
Subject: Day 15, Embedded with Fat Riker

It seems the concerns about the van attracting coyotes were not far off from the truth. During the middle of the night, we were awakened by the sounds of growling and chewing. It seems a pack of stray dogs had been attracted to the scent of our fryer and were attacking the engine viciously to get at its innards. Unfortunately, we had left the hood open to let the coolant system air out, which left us vulnerable to animals.

The pack seemed a wild and unruly bunch and we stayed safely hidden inside the van until they dispersed at sunup. When we got out to inspect the damage, it looked pretty bad. The radiator had been ripped out and dragged halfway across the parking lot. Various hoses and tubes hung out of the engine, each leaking rancid vegetable oil. Needless to say, the van would not crank.

I tried again to get the guys to try their luck at the university, but none were willing to carry their instruments the nearly one and a half miles to campus. So I don’t think they’ll be able to chip in for repairs.

I am including a requisition form for funds to repair the van. Surely a wild animal attack falls under our insurance’s “Act of God” clause. Apart from the deep fryer thing, I believe it was totally unavoidable.

Ask Fat Riker

Hey folks, it’s Dan-O from Fat Riker back to field some more of your questions. I hope to God you people managed to ask a question or two worth answering this time. I’d hate to have a repeat of last month’s column where I reposted the liner notes from our last album four times in a row rather than answer a single one of your inept inquiries.

“Dan-O, what are your inspirations?”

“Dan-O, what is the future of rock music?”

“Dan-O, can I bear your child?”

I get these same questions over and over as if I haven’t answered them all a hundred times before in a thousand different places. Just to satisfy your myopic question-asking urges, and hopefully prompt some streak of new inquisitive creativity, I will restate their answers again here: funnel cakes, funnel cakes and no sir.

Now, as you may imagine, the editor here at the Wichita Music Connection was less than pleased with last month’s column. I received a number of what I can only imagine were incendiary emails from him in the days that followed, which I promptly deleted without reading. I did this for two reasons:

Reason the first was that my obligations with Fat Riker keep me far too busy to read any emails not from Nigerian Princes. (The band Nigerian Princes, which we have an upcoming tour through Northern Oklahoma with. Real good guys. Helped me change the tire on my Range Rover once after they accidentally shot it out with a traditional Nigerian bow and arrow during a particularly intense set in Ponca City one night. Still, good guys.)

Reason the second is that he’s the editor of the Wichita Music Connection, which, as you must surely know if you are reading this, is distributed as a once-monthly insert in the Wichita Grocery Connection coupon flyer. There’s a sale on celery at Food Village! Also, Fat Riker is playing at Bella Luna Pita, where the editor of the Wichita Music Connection works part time.

My disdain for the readers, editor and this entire publication beside, I’m just pleased as punch to be able to answer the following questions.

(Note: I set aside exactly 20 minutes each month to write this column and, as always, I merely answer the first few questions to arrive in my inbox without attempting to edit for quality or substance. That’s a tough break for you, but it’s the only way I’m going to do this thing. Want to cry about it? There’s a coupon for tissues on page 3.)

Dear Dan-O,

I’m an aspiring musician and don’t have enough talented friends to start a band. How can I meet other likeminded people?

-Eric

Eric, your plight is tragic but not unique. Many young men and women hunger for a spotlight in which to warble their soulful tunes about breaking up with that one girl, or perhaps getting back together with that one girl only to break up with her again.

Well, it turns out no one wants to hear those sort of songs anyway. We already have songs like the one you’re going to perform and they’re plenty good. My advice is to give up, as meeting people is nigh impossible anyway. Sorry to shatter your dream kid-o, but I do have some good news for you.

If you haven’t cut out that coupon for tissues on page 3, it’s still there.

Dan-O,

Can we harness the gentle rhythm of the ocean to use as a bass track for a song? Do we have that kind of technology?

-Emily

Dear Emily, do you live in Wichita? I know you do, or else you wouldn’t be writing to me. Emily, sweet Emily, while the gentle rhythm of the ocean is easily harnessed by a number of consumer-level electronics, should you attempt to make music with it while living in Wichita? Dear, precious Emily, you should not. For you see, darling, squishy, salubrious Emily, you must make music for the area in which you live. And sadly, none here would appreciate your salty ocean songs.

Emily, my languid, ductile, gelatinous, yielding Emily, you must focus on making songs unique to Wichita. Capture the peaceful hiss of the fryer at Spangles Restaurant for your melody. The soft footfalls of the waitress at Bella Luna Pita, as they she tries to deliver delicious Greek wraps quietly so as to avoid catching the attention of the lecherous editor of the Wichita Music Connection as he lurks in the back room. Is that tzatziki sauce on his apron? We may only hope.

As an example, you may recall Fat Riker’s second most recent album, “Wichita is Still Terrible and I Wish We Could Leave but We Have Two More Months of Probation Left”, which as you may be aware is the much-anticipated follow-up to our third most recent album, “Wichita is Terrible and I Wish We Could Leave but We Got Three Months Probation for Vandalizing Bella Luna Pita and Trying to Blame it On the Editor of the Wichita Music Connection.”

Both albums perfectly encapsulate the very heart of Wichita, I believe. Corn rustles. A man screams. Stray dogs howl in the distance. Dreams shatter in crushing slow motion.

It is the purest of music.

Dan-O,

Can I be back in the band?

-Robert-O

Oh, Robert, you never quite manage to quit, do you? Robert, there are reasons you are no longer with Fat Riker. I was content to let those reasons remain private, buried in the storied past of this historical musical group. But you’ve played my hand, Robert. Now the whole world will know what caused your ejection from the most influential post-MIDIcore/Ghettotech hybrid band the greater Wichita era has seen in six months!
Robert, do you recall that one night in Bella Luna Pita? Do you recall it Robert? We were enjoying another complimentary bucket of pitas provided by none other than the editor of the struggling Wichita Music Connection.

Said editor, a sallow-faced young man in a stained Slayer shirt and reeking of Frebreeze (it was my professional opinion he used the stuff as a shower substitute) was petitioning our hallowed group yet again to provide an interview for his rag of a publication. As always, we were enjoying the pitas, but had no intentions of sullying the good name of Fat Riker by allowing ourselves to be featured between Grocery Warehouse coupons. I admit, I was perhaps light headed from the egregious amount of spiced lamb I had consumed that evening, or else I may have stopped you before you could make such a mess of things.

I can still see the cruelty shining in your eyes, Robert, as you announced that you would make the editor a bet. I cannot say I did not laugh along as you laid out your terms: a monthly column from us, for as long as we remained in town, if the editor could consume three of Bella Luna’s largest buckets of pitas.

It was an impossible task, and we all knew it. We laughed and chided, beholding the skinny man in front of us. We should have been trembling.

His eyes? Hard as diamonds.

These were the eyes of the hungry. The eyes of a man who knows he can rise up above his status if the right break would come along. This, dear Robert, was his chance.

The first bucket was empty in a breath. Impressed, we leaned back. Surely he would not finish another.

The second bucket took some amount of time longer. He began to hesitate as he bit into the third pita of the tub, shredded lettuce hanging from his chin. And yet he swallowed. And again. And again. Before long he was scraping the bottom of the bucket. Impossibly, he was now two thirds of the way there.

I have never heard Bella Luna so quiet as that night.

Now the manager was interested. I think someone was filming. Customers were watching. Did someone start playing the Rocky themesong in the background? I think they may have.

The third bucket landed in front of him, clanging against the table and sounding like the dropped scythe of the grim reaper. Slowly, mechanically, the first pita was grasped and brought to his mouth. Each bite was painful to watch. I dare not imagine being the one taking them.

Halfway through the bucket, he was reeling. He pitched this way and that in his seat, calling for death, calling for water and reciting his favorite, hallucinated Smurfs episodes.

The tzatziki sauce was surely invading his spinal column by now. When the bucket dropped to the floor, empty, so did he. The crowd had long since gone, driven away by the mad thoughts of a surfboarding Gargamel that he forced into their brains during his rantings. Laying there, curled around his chair, I briefly envied him. This was his moment. This was our defeat.

As I am certain you remember, Robert, you were immediately and forcibly ejected from Fat Riker. You were stripped of all titles and holdings and cast shivering into the uncaring world. Being a man of my word, when he emerged from his pita-coma three days later, I told the editor I would write the very column you now read. Of course, the burden fell on me as Hans speaks only German and Swahili and Greg speaks no language at all.

And that is why you cannot come back to Fat Riker.

Well, that and because you stole the “-O” affectation I put at the end of my name. You miserable little bastard.

Nov. 26, 1991

I got all of those tapes distributed! Those copies of “Signals” came in useful after all; I just taped up the write protect tabs and recorded over that Canadian nonsense. Of course, our recording session didn’t quite fill up the whole tape, so there’s probably still some of the original album left on the end. I was thinking about filling in that time by looping “Backwards Song” in reverse to see if it sounded like anything intelligible like that. I couldn’t figure out how to make my boombox play in reverse and record at the same time, so I abandoned the plan.

Of course, missing another day’s work combined with Carlos demanding I rent a carpet steamer for him to use now meant that I was going to be running a bit thin on my finances this month. Not to mention the van was running on fumes and I had hopes of making it down to White Water to stir up some support at the University of Wisconsin. The fuel mileage on the van hasn’t been the same since I had to get it dredged up out of Gilbert Bay last summer after that incident at the dairy farm. Those 10 miles down US Highway 12 were looking pretty daunting, believe me.

I even called up Keith to see if he wanted to cut school and ride down there with me and maybe lend me a few bucks for gas, but his mom picked up the phone and yelled at me. I think he probably would have wanted to go if I had been able to get him on the horn, but it didn’t look like that was happening. I thought about riding down to the high school and hanging around out front until I spotted Keith but that seemed like it might take all day. No, I had to figure out something else.

Eventually I had a great idea – I took some of the Orange Julius signs down from in front of my apartment and used the last of my duct tape to stick them to the side of the van. I mixed up some of my knock off drinks in the kitchen, poured them into a big thermos jug and took a short drive down the road to the 7-11. I threw open the back door of the van and opened shop.

Even with it being cold, I was still able to move some Juliuses. I was doing pretty brisk business with some Canadian motorists that had pulled over to load up on gas and Funyuns but I saw a cop car pull by really slowly a couple of times and decided to close up shop. I cleared a little over fifteen bucks, not counting expenses, which was more than enough to get the van down to White Water. Plus, I still had like half a thermos full of Julius to drink on the way.

I gunned it down Highway 12, hoping to catch the record shop before the lunch rush, but I got turned around once I got into town and ended up circling some old empty K-Mart building for two hours before I found the right road.

Once I found the place, I was finally able to unload some of the tapes. The guy said they had a section for local bands, but seemed a little confused by the “Signals” cover art. I asked the guy to borrow a marker and I scratched out the old band name and title and wrote in our own.

After I had them all marked out, I realized I didn’t have an album name yet. I was feeling a little light headed from all the Orange Juliuses I drank on the way in and couldn’t think of a good name, so I just rewrote “Signals” back in.

The guy at the store said I could leave five copies with him and they’d “try to keep track of how many they sold”. The store gets an 80% cut on the merchandise sales, which I thought was pretty fair. We set the price for five dollars a tape so the band will basically get one dollar per sale. Carlos wrangled me into giving him a 50% cut up front on all merchandise sold, plus his regular share on the back end.

Still, not too shabby.

I went and tried to pass out a few copies on the college campus, but no one was particularly interested. I dumped the lion’s share of what I had left in the library’s return slot, so I hope they’ll just reshelf them with the rest of the audio/visual stuff and we’ll get some listens that way.

I coasted back into Fort Atkinson with the needle on “E” and the van actually ran out of gas about eight blocks from my house. I managed to roll the van into a fire lane before it stopped completely; it should be pretty safe there until I can come back for it in a couple of days when I get paid. For a little advertising, I threw a copy of the album into the tape deck and cranked it up as loud as it would go. It should loop until the battery dies. I left the remaining copies in a pile on the hood so people can take one if they like what they hear. Besides, I had to lug my Orange Julius signs and the thermos back by hand. I did not want to have to deal with carrying those tapes too.

Nov. 27, 1991

I called Keith over to tell him the good news about all the tapes being distributed. I also hoped we could practice a bit without Carlos since I couldn’t afford to pay him to come over this week.

I guess Carlos got to Keith, though, and Keith said he wanted to get paid too. This was bad, because I was broke after buying gas and that case of Funyuns. I probably shouldn’t have bought the chips, but after seeing those Canadians chowing down the other day, I had a wicked craving for them. Anyway, I didn’t have the money to pay Keith so I reimbursed him with some buy one get one free Orange Julius coupons I printed up on the old dot matrix printer at work.

This seemed to satisfy him, especially after I told him he could use the coupons at the actual Orange Julius at the mall. He really can’t, but by the time he figures that out, I hope we’ll have a new album close to being done and be pulling in some profits from “Signals” as well. Then I expect he’ll change his tune.

The practice session went pretty well, but Keith had to stop playing after two songs because he said he stomach was hurting. I’m a little worried that the Sunny D I’ve been using for the Orange Juliuses has went bad, but I’m hoping that’s not what made him sick. To save cash I usually buy a whole bunch of Sunny D when it’s on sale and pour all the jugs into this big ten gallon bucket I have to save space in the fridge. It works pretty well most of the time but I accidently left the bucket sitting out when I went driving around and it may have spoiled. That would be bad – I’ve probably got like 3 gallons of D left in there. I’m not sure I can absorb that kind of financial loss at this point.

Nov. 29, 1991

Carlos showed up today, completely unannounced. I hadn’t called for him, but he shouldered his way in and started cleaning the floors. When I asked him to stop because I couldn’t pay him, he just pretended like he couldn’t hear me over the vacuum.

I acted like I needed to use the bathroom and slipped out through the window in there. I thought I’d just stay gone for the rest of the day, and hope he would get bored of waiting on me to come back and pay him.

I decided to use the time to walk down the road and check how the freebies on the van hood were doing. It was a bit of a hike, but it was worth it – I think somebody had taken one! The van was gone too, probably towed, but they left the tapes in a pile on the sidewalk. I counted through them and I’m pretty sure one was missing. I didn’t remember how many I had left really, but I’m pretty sure the pile looked a tiny bit smaller. That’s a big win in my book!

Anyway, I waited a while and went back to the apartment. I was hoping Carlos was gone but it looked like he was still there and sounded like he had invited more people over. I listened outside the door for a while and heard voices and music, so I went back downstairs. It didn’t seem like he was going anywhere soon, so I went to a payphone and called the cops and told him that the guy in my apartment was running an unlicensed Orange Julius joint with rotten Sunny D.

The cops and the health department showed up fast and busted the party up. They took my Orange Julius signs when they left, and when I finally got back into the apartment I found that someone had re-kicked in my drums. I’ll probably have to go back to work if I’m going to afford more duct tape to patch them up.

We’re probably going to have to find a new lead singer since I bet Carlos is pretty mad at me now. I’ve kind of gotten used to having a really clean floor though so I may call up some of the maid services in town tomorrow and see if they have anybody that can pull double duty. It’ll just be easier that way.