Hi all,

This is Dudley Cunnybrook, tour manager for Blood Orphans, who, I am most sorry to report, have over the past few weeks disintegrated like a Chinook at the end of its run. Pressures of personality created a cauldron of emotional nothingness which conspired to rip apart the fabric of their affections. After a particularly bad show in Portland in which Bobby kicked Shane’s crutches out from under him, and Shane punched out a few more of Booby’s teeth, and Darlo and Joey broke up, and Adam received a call asking to be a session man on the new Dylan record, the unspoken and undiscussed agreement was that they should part. They left me with three hundred Euros (Joey, after a bad acid trip in Crescent City, believes that dollars are “cursed”) and the Rust Rocket, which is working surprisingly well as I tool along the Pacific Coast Highway looking for a place to fish. The California gaming laws are most complex however, so I quandarified. Anyways, let us all repair to our copies of Rocket Heart (splendid album), and remember the goodness of a late lamented group. Huzzah and shine on, Blood Orphans!

Yo, it’s Darlo! We met the most awesome dude last night in Lincoln City, a totally beautiful town on the Oregon Coast. His name was Gerard and his dad owns the body shop next to the bar we were playing in. He makes his own unique Vodkas and they’re just slamming good! He has Chocolate Vodka and Cotton Candy Vodka and Maple Vodka. Can you believe how inventive he is? He and I did a bunch of French Vanilla Vodka shots and then I took a picture of him, along with his AA sponsor, Jackson:

I love this guy! He wears a tie and a tiara to a rock show. Later on we met some college girls (sweet Lincoln City Community College!) and here he is with one of them!

Yes Joey I did hit on that girl but she totally had a boyfriend and wouldn’t budge. So now you can start talking to me again! Next stop: somewhere else!!!!!

Joey here, writing to tell you all that Redding, California is the place to be. Jesus Christ Mary and Joseph these fuckers live hard! We played last night at the Towel and Growl, a combination go-kart racing/performance venue, and can say with much certainty that I’ve never met such a bunch of Rat Fink drinking hot-rod fools. Can’t remember the last time I lost a Tequila-drinking contest to a girl, and a teenager at that. Her name was Desigirl and she keeps making comments on the board so here’s a pic:

 Yeah that’s right she looks all mild-mannered but then she takes out the shot glasses and it’s like, whoa dude, just step back, and she must have put down twenty shots and could still recite the Frech alphabet backwards! Anyway, she and her boyfriend, who goes by the name of Rick Shank, own Towel and Growl and they’re just awesome folks. In fact at the end of the night they gave me some speed that they’d made in their basement bathtub, and everyoen’s laughing at me because I can’t stop talking like ten hours later but whatever it’s cool they;re all so cool don;t I cound Coolllll? Oh man I am flying and everyone else is still asleep. This shit must have been halff maid of Draino but it feels pretty good I could just FLY!!!!

While we’ve been patiently waiting for the Rust Rocket to get a new engine here in Arcata (reports of its demise we’re sorely overstated!) we, Blood Orphans and I, Dudley Cunnybrook of Cunnybrook Farm, Kentucky, have availed ourselves of some most delicious activities of the gustatorial type. Oh perhaps you cannot imagine my visage and need relief for your mind’s eye. To which I provide this picture of my handsome profile:  Oh wait that is most unflattering, I shall download another:

Both of these pics were taken upon the banks of the mighty Humboldt Bay, where I and the band did done fish, in a quiet inlet off of succulent State Route 255. I was successful in catching a grouper and a Walleye, while Darlo grabbed three catfish in his meaty paws. Sadly, Bobby cut his already tragic hands quite badly, reaching into a bag he thought contained cheeseburgers, but instead housed my carefully tied flies, and all hooks attached therein. No stitches were needed but the poor young man was most displeased. Here’s another picture of my catch:  Such fun times with the mighty band; to think that only a month ago I was wasting away as the Spaceland handy-man. Now I travel this sacred American land and am pleased to take in all its bounty! Tomorrow we again ride into the rock and roll sunrise!

Yo it’s DARLO!  First of all, new tour dates announced!: http://www.bloodorphans.com/tours. I was supposed to do something called a link there but I’m still working on the cut and paste!

You’ll notice that the tour dates mention something about a new van. Indeed, mes amis, the Rust Rocket has sung it’s last song. It gave out on the side of sweet I-5 after our show at the Probation Jazz Bar, a hoity-toisty jazz-fag place where we cleared the room befor ethe end of the first song, the sweet “Double Mocha Lattay.” Turns out we didn’t, uh, have any motor oil in the engine and so the damn thing locked up faster than San Quentin at lights out. So now we’re holed up here in Arcata - Bobby’s new-age mumu wearing aunt lives here ina sweet pad by the ocean that looks like a gingerbread house. Check it out:

It’s all pink and shit! Anyway, there’s a community college here, so I’m gonna jet and see if I can find some tail (NOTE TO JOEY: Just gonna talk to some girls!!!!) and we’ll be back tomorrow with townie highjinks! Maybe I can get in a fight! I’ll bring Bobby, he loves to mix it up, that little mummy-handed fool!

Yo yo yo it’s Darlo! First blog post unda my cyba-pen!

The Iron Hand, the Hook & Crook, The Piggly Wiggler . . . can you see a pattern here? Yeah, that’s right, they’re all gay theme bars, and we’ve had the “pleasure” of rocking every one. Now, I’m not saying that I have a problema with the gays, oh my God I’ve kissed plenty of guys on ecstasy, but seriously, Abraxas, why have you forsake us so? Herewith is a rundown of those three shows. I’d include pics but I can’t figure out how to do that technological shit. Probably that’s why they don’t want me to blog. 

The Iron Hand is on the outskirts of Monterey, which is, yes, I know, the place with that 60s rock festival where Hendrix burned his guitar, well, so what, things have gotten a lot sleepier since then. Oh wait I just figured out how to attach pics so here’s a pic of the place we stayed:

 Days Inn in totally under-rated. They had great coffee!

Before the show we went to the street festival. RAD burgers!

 Bobby got an Elephant Ear and I smeared it all over his face!!!!

Ok so The Iron Hand was this Chain-Mail mediavel Fetish bar. All the bartenders were dressed up like they were going to rush into battle against the fucking Vikings. And they were all gay! One of them hit on me, and I was like, Dude, keep those shots coming tonight and we can totally get down! (NOTE TO JOEY: See how I’m not being gross and freaking people out??) Anyway, I felt bad for Bobby because no one was hitting on him, but dude’s just got that creepy skutch-vibe. And all the armored-up boys were totally digging Shane’s cast, stroking on it and shit. Joey showed people her lack of a gag reflex by putting an entire banana down her throat after a bunch of Alabama Slammers (NOTE TO JOEY: I can tell people that right?) and though the sound system sucked and the crowd was just a bunch of old salty gay sea admirals, we had a pretty good time. Got to give Shane props for shimmying so good on stage even though he’s sitting down the whole tyme. Soon I’m gonna get that bitch up on those crutches!

Rock on, MONSTAS!!!!!

Hey, it’s Joey. DUDES the past few days have been crazy on my liver and my nose, and I can barely think straight. So today’s blog is simply to say happy day or rest and check out this video. It’s everything I love about rock and roll. Back tomorrow full-on!

Sabbath Right Here!

Hey, it’s Adam, writing on the way to The Iron Hand in Monterey after spending the whole day waiting for Darlo to get out of jail. Yes, that’s right, jail . . . to be more exact, the Big Sur police station. I thought I should be the one to write about it since everyone else has gone so crazy. I mean, we’re not even a week in and already two guys have broken bones. What do I have to do to civilize these freaks?

So as you read yesterday, we’re all pretty upset with Abraxas. She’s got to be the most irresponsible tour manager in the universe. So Darlo and Joey got so upset that they decided they would visit her at Esalen, where she’s spending a squillion bucks to go hang out with a bunch of her fellow rich hippies, “eating free-range Salmon and organic buckwheat and taking ten-hour yoga classes” (I am quoting from her blog). We had a show at the Iron Hand, but Darlo managed to reschedule it for tonight, which is not a good sign for demand for Blood Orphans in Monterey. When the club doesn’t care that you want to take a rain check . . . . well anyway, after a tasty meal at Tommy’s Fish Fry in Pacific Grove, we headed over to Esalen to extract penance from Abraxas. “I want a piece of that hundred-dollar Salmon anyway, and get me a clinic in Ass-tunga yoga!” Darlo said. Not surprising, upon entering the grounds — which is like a bunch of million-dollar huts, we got a lot of looks. I mean, the Rust Rocket makes Ken Kesey’s Magic Bus look like a Rolls. Just imagine this rolling down the driveway of your Champagne Socialist estate:

Now imagine a bunch of dirty louts and one white chicken-hawked manager peering out from those windows. We messed up a lot of rich hippie flow, let me tell you. After getting out walking around and enduring Darlo and Bobby taking a piss against a tree right near some short haired James Franco wannabe doing his Downward Dog — boy was that guy weirded out — we found Abraxas eating tofu and smoking cigarettes talking to a girl that I’m pretty sure was a dwarf, or just really short, but who didn’t appreciate it when Darlo said, “Man, you are one short little girl.” Abraxas choked on her Marlboro right there; it was like she had made us up in her dippy head and we had come back to haunt her for being such an a-hole. While this was going on, Shane was hobbling around on his crutches, and Bobby and Joey were busy racing up a tree to see who could climb it faster — always so competitive, and Abraxas was whining about how we couldn’t just barge into her life, and anyway, she was just doing us a big favor and that Joey owed her $500 and she was pissed about it. The dwarf was looking smarmy and got even more upset when Darlo said, “What the fuck are you looking at, you fucking pygmy bitch?” Of course, no richy-rich resort is complete without their own security force, and Darlo soon found himself on the rough end of some long-haired, granola eating toughs, but Darlo hassled them enough that they called the police — I thought hippies hate the cops? — who showed awfully fast (must have been a slow crime day in Monterey) and hauled his ass into the clink. Of course, Darlo loves being in the clink, and spent the night comparing tats with some guy named “Old Rick” who seems to have been living there since 1978, until Esalen Central decided they wouldn’t press charges. And off we go! I wonder if we still have a booking agent!

You are all no doubt familiar with Staples, the fine paper/computer establishment:

Pretty, isn’t it?

Anyway, when I first saw the Tour routing I called up Abraxas and was like, uh, Staples? Is this a joke? Don’t  you love me anymore? Did I steal your drugs and am now doing penance? She replied that, Oh, no, man, this is a new proto-type of Staples, the first one is in Santa Barbara, and it’s a, uh, Staples with a back room where bands perform. Now I know you are laughing and thinking, How stupid are you, Joey? And you’d be right to make that claim, but it’s just that Abraxas and I go way back, and we’ve had so many great times together, if you know of what I speak, and . . . how could she have done this to me? Do you know how humiliating it is to drive into a shopping center with your band and realize you’ve been the victim of a cruel practical joke? Bobby and Adam went into the Staples to inquire and they were laughed out of the place. We had to restrain Darlo from going in and kicking their red-and-tan uniformed asses. And Shane won’t stop complaining about his cast; so annoying!

Now the band think I’m back to my old incompetent ways, which they detailed in great detail at the Chilis we went and ate at which was in the same shopping center. Darlo called Abraxas to give her a piece of his mind and her message let us know she was at Eselen up in Big Sur on a meditation retreat. Have you ever been to Eselen? NOT CHEAP. Well she’s got in coming to her. Tomorrow, on the way to the show in Sacramento, we’re make a diversion and bust in on her meditating ass. Get ready, bitch!

Hey, it’s Shane. Praise Buddah! Thanks for all your kind words regarding the broken leg, which Bobby neglected to mention is his fault, because he pushed into me too hard trying to do some kind of big rock star move and through me off the very small stage at The Twisted Vine, which, uh, I don;t really think was a gay bar, and even if it was, Bobby, you don’t have to go and point it out. We live in a multi-cultural society, man. Everyone gets the same shake and pointing out what other cultures like to do like it’s all exotic is just lame and un-tolerant. But my leg is up in a cast now, all plastered, and Darlo already wrote a skull and crossbones on it when I was asleep, which makes me look like a real asshole onstage - when there is a stage. And Joey keeps calling me “her gimp bro,” but hello, unlike you, Joey, I don’t have a permanent limp, so don’t think we’re in the same boat. I thought that time might mellow Joey but she’s still the same mean secular hipster. And now that she and Darlo are fucking, they’re like a two-headed hydra of meanness. Except to Adam. They leave him alone. It’s getting on my spiritual nerves!

Anyway, I might get up on crutches for the show tonight at something called the Staples Back Room, but will probably stick with a chair for at least a night. We’re all wondering why someone would name a club after a Staples store. Darlo says “it better be good or Abraxas is going to get something nasty in the mail.” I have a bad feeling about this . . .