Apalm and Goobers: from the Van to the Grave/Work or: Where da Weed At? or: When I got Home from Tour I Slept for 17 Hours: A Beagle Club Tale by Andrew Fox

If somebody asked me two weeks ago if I’d like some Apalm or a Goober I’d probably give them the same look that you’re giving me as you read this. Did I spell napalm incorrectly? Why have I favored the word goober over peanut? Is this some kind of yinzer slang?I didn’t. And I’m not referring to a peanut. More of a peanut byproduct with a little something extra mixed into it. Something slathered between two slices of bread.

A Goober is constructed as follows: Hand Mike Miller the bread. Hand him the jar of sugary greatness filled with premixed peanut butter and jelly. Hand Mike a pocket knife or plastic wrapped gas station butter knife. All the butter knives look identical, but they are not. There is only one true knife worthy of slathering some goob on bread. Once you’ve handed Mike Miller, and only Mike Miller, all of the above, close your eyes and the Goober will appear in all it’s glory from over your shoulder or beneath the seat and between your legs. For the pocket knife user, it is now time to wonder just how you’ll get the goob from the crevices of the stainless steel hinges. You might cry a little, but sacrifices must be made to ensure the nourishment of the collective…

I bet you’re probably wondering about Apalm. Aren’t you? So there’s this drink right? Take this in slowly, it’s kind of hard to grasp. It is half lemonade and half iced tea…I know. It’s an amazing concept. It’s kind of like the internet. A series of tombs that’s half pornography and half spam–not emails you don’t want–it’s literally just porn and canned ham. Check it out some time. Anyway, so you can buy premixed Apalm at a store, or you can sit on the floor of a Richmond hookah bar and talk about mixing your lemonade with your friend’s ice tea. The Apalm making process isn’t as easy as it sounds. You will need one gallon of 100% lemonade and one gallon of 100% iced tea. Dump half of that out. Mix what’s left. Forget about what you dumped out. It was useless on it’s own.

So maybe you know what I’m talking about, or maybe you just think I’m crazy. And if I’m crazy then so are seven other people because these are not simply my ideas in any way. I’m just writing them. When you’re in a rental van with seven other people that you can’t chainsmoke in you’ve got to amuse yourself otherwise morale will be at an all time low no matter how many times you listen to “Two out of Three Aint Bad” by Meatloaf.

I embarked on a seven day tour–my first tour ever–with some of my most cherished friends on July 1st. Okay. July 2nd. On the eve of July 1st I cursed the van by not showing up with my sacrificial dread to be tied to the antenna. Nameless Van–momentarily known as Big Caesar II–decided that it did not want to embark on a magical seven day journey up and down the east coast. It stayed at home with a mechanic that goes by the name Sparky. If Sparky can fix the van, then maybe the van formerly known as Nameless Van can be named Sparky as tribute.

If somebody said tour would involve spiral staircases that lead to a room full of beds and a private beach I would have said something along the lines of this not being the Mötley Crüe/Alice Cooper Summer Tour. But our first night we stayed with some of the Beagle Club’s old friends from Crafty Records, Dan and Raina and their little set of twins. At five thirty in the morning we admired the locked private beach down the street with the sun rising slowly behind us. Then we climbed the spiral staircase to the room of beds and slept.

I met Dan and Raina that day as Dan was making epic waffles for us to eat. We hit up the private beach–legally I might add–and headed for Rhode Island where we played our first show of the tour. After convincing the sound guy to lower the lights for Mike to reveal the hand crafted stained glass lightbright looking beagle (as crafted by Laci Hess) to the crowd to be met with a choir of beautifully dirty and smelly angels, we opened up with a gospel song off of the new album, one that I still only know parts of. Mike tried to explain it to me right before he held the beagle up in an Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade kind of way. Ramshackle Glory killed it in one of the hottest shows of the tour. I mean hot as in a hundred kids’ breath and sweat are floating in the air, not hot as in hip or whatever people think hot means. We sent Davis away to New York City in the Ramshackle van and we made our way back to City Island (Dan’s place) to climb the spiral staircase and spend another night with some lovely people. On the way back we learned about the internet by the help of Bane from the Christopher Nolan Batman Trilogy. This would be just the beginning of the game do-your-best-Bane-impression. John won.

I guess that I had forgotten to mention this. If someone said to me during the first Ramshackle Glory tour that I’d be touring with them two years later, I’d of said they were out of their fucking mind. They are one of my favorite bands and they are ALL beautiful and intelligent people and I loved the week that we shared with them.

On the 3rd we headed to Brooklyn to another rad show. To play on a stage that we would all complain about being cramped and hot, but in reality that’s the best way to be and we all know it. Being close enough to strum each other’s guitars is annoyingly beautiful. The show was back-lined. I played a Fender tube amp…that went to 11. Some of us learned not to drink on the side walk in New York City. Also, don’t talk to strangers. Also, some people watch too much Sons of Anarchy or something…We thought we were getting drawn and quartered because someone (not any of us, sincerely) pissed on an MC’s mural and someone (one of us) said that the guy in the mural looked like Dick Nixon. Hence why the police said they were there. “You can’t call strangers Dick Nixon” they said. At least I wish they did. Long story short. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t drink in public. We stayed with a Beagle Club friend named Sam, who from what I gathered, draws beautiful comics.

We spent the 4th of the July at the LAVA space in Philly. Mike and I ordered Chinese food from a place that also sold cigarettes one at a time through a plexi-glass contraption. I saw some old friends that I had been missing. I got kind of drunk (legally in doors). We had a great show and Davis played Queen songs on piano as John, Erik Petersen and I sang along. It was great. We stayed with our friend Kendra and she took us to a dance club called the Dolphin. This adventure was full of firsts. That was my first dance club trip. It was great. I finished Emmy’s gin and woke up saying “Do you wanna stop at the rest stop, or do you wanna get smacked?” It’s no secret that I talk and sometimes yell in my sleep. Usually only profanities, but something must have been weighing on my mind.

On the 5th, Mike bet Matt all the money in the world that Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey was first a novel by Arthur C. Clarke before it was a film. With the help of the internet, you know that series of tombs, Davis and I proved that the film was first and Mike paid up. I sided with Matt, so I got to keep my money in my pocket for the time being, but it was still Matt’s in the end. I ate breakfast at Miss Lilia’s (?) a place beneath Kendra’s apartment that is run by the sweetest and nicest little Latino man. The drive to Baltimore is hazy for me. I was a little hung over. I’m sure long stops were made at various rest stops for smoke breaks. In Baltimore I finally met my pen pal, Lo, who I haven’t written in over a year. Speaker for the Dead played with their countless ensemble of members. Human Kitten played. We played in the largest area of the tour and it felt awkward to not be breathing on each other. Matt lost all the money in the world when Mike bet him that he could balance a cymbal on his head while playing piano. We played in this beautiful old church. You will see pictures of it on here eventually. Ramshackle Glory played. We found this place that I thought we were calling the Secret Bar, but it turns out, that is it’s given name…I’d tell you where it was, but it’s a secret. Or you can look it up. We finally got to hang out with our friends from Ramshackle Glory that night when we stayed at this pretty cool house that is home to the Baltimore’s chapter of Food Not Bombs from what I understand. I called it an early night at 3?

Rising fast and early on the 6th at the crack of noon, Davis and I went to a knock off 7-11 and we shut down the street light grid by pushing the cross walk button too many times. It may have been a coincidence. Maybe not. On a previous day it was suggested that I ask the people in the van some trivia questions due to my love of absolutely useless knowledge. I couldn’t think of many questions so we resorted to technology. In the end, as a way to get all the money in the world from Mike we created the game eponymously called All the Money in the World. Rules were made as we went along. Rounds go as follows: Anarchy. Sabotage. Helper. John’s Out. The last person standing gets all the money in the world. Mike shouted out random answers even before hearing the options as a way to keep his money. In the end, the money went to Emmy. It was all of our mission to get it back. What would you do with all the money in the world? As we headed to Richmond we sought out cheaply priced smokes and more supplies for Goobers. Some emotional rifts were involved, but in the end a man took a picture of us all at a rest stop next to a sign that read “Virginia is for Lovers”. The old man didn’t know how to work the old 35mm film camera. What an age we live in. We kissed each other’s asses as we walked on the stage and by the end of the set we were back to giving each other shit and laughing about Apalms and Bane. Davis and I bonded over some BBQ food. Matt, Laci, John, Davis and I went to a Hookah Bar. Matt and I considered dumping out half of our drinks (iced tea and lemonade) to make an Apalm, but it didn’t happen. My card was declined. We rented some motel rooms and partied until the sun came up. We introduced All the Money in the World to Dotti and Wyndham of Ramshackle Glory. We gritted our teeth and hoped that our very dear friends wouldn’t be taking all the money in the world back to Arizona or the New England. It’d be a lot harder to get it back through emails and letters and phone calls. Matt ended up with All the Money in the World and he still fucking has it. The one night to sleep in a bed with air conditioning and showers, Matt and I stayed awake until we’d only get a couple hours of sleep. I passed out on the floor before getting and shower and woke up right before check out. No bed. Almost no shower.

On the final day of tour, we started it out with some food from the Waffle House. Wydham from Ramshackle Glory had already been causing mischief with our server and she harassed us in a very home-feeling funny kind of way. Using something called an application on this contraption called an iPhone that I’ve gathered is also a series of tombs filled with porn and canned ham, Davis took video of us to make movie trailers. It was an eventful experience and led to such films as the first I’ve forgotten, the second Boog and Something About Pirates, thirdly Where da Weed At: A film by Mike Miller and finally Laci’s romance featuring John and Emmy as the stars. I can’t remember it’s name either, most likely because I wanted it to be called Hot Durham Nights. Maybe some other time. We reached Durham, NC and good ole CeeDub (Cody Wallat) hit up Whole Foods while the rest of us went on an adventure which involved Matt, Davis and I pushing an older woman’s car down the street, through a red light, to catch it in gear. I’m not sure it was even a manual transmission. Her car rolled away far down the street to come to a stop for the next stranger to help her. I searched a bookstore for some meaningful, yet cheap literature and came up empty handed. I walked into the adjacent record store to sift through old 45’s to find not one, but two copies of Meatloaf’s “Two Out of Three Aint Bad” singles. I also found a narration of the moon landing that I think will be most interesting when I finally get some 45 adapters. “Hey what’s that thing tattooed on your arm?” people ask. “It’s a 45 adapter” I reply. “It’s the symbol on ancient civilization who believed in analog sounds and freedom and cheap cigarettes” I might also say. I have a 45 adapter tattoo if you didn’t guess. We played our last show of the tour at a pretty rad space. The wonderful Alyssa and Dotti joined us in some songs with the clarinet and trombone. A lot of strings on too many guitars got broken and we did our best to keep that together. Since there was limited space and we wanted to return the favor of playing with Ramshackle as Dotti and Alyssa did with us. What we secretly and magically hoped would be a Queen cover. I opted that we play shakers on one of their songs and we ended up playing the entire time. I had a blast and I was glad to be covered in other peoples’ sweat and tears. We packed and had to make our way back to Western Pennsylvania for Davis to be at work in the morning. We bid our farewells with hugs and a bit of sadness. We also got all 17 or 18 of us on and inside of Ramshackle’s van for a farewell photo. I’m going to miss them all very dearly. As I’m sitting here writing this recap of the last week, I already miss my friends that live less than an hour away. When I got home from tour I slept for 17 hours.

I learned a lot during this experience. Arnold Palmer is from Latrobe (pronounced lay-trobe if you’re from that area). Arnold Palmer also has this drink that you may or may not have heard of. I hope you were paying attention because it will change or ruin your life. The internet is full of porn and canned ham. It is also a series of tombs. Anything you say in Bane’s voice is hilarious. You can subsist on mostly Apalm and Goobers for a week. Pennsylvania needs to get out of the past with their inconvenient hold on liquor. Smokes need to be cheaper in the north. Virginia is for lovers. I like showers. All the Money in the World belongs to Matt. Finally, tour is this beautiful, yet sometimes stressful, but joyous time to be had with your best friends. So. Get a van, preferably one with a name and one that works when you want it to. Gather your best friends and start a band. Or in my case, stumble into a group of best friends and become best friends and join their band. And hit the fucking road. Hit it hard and hit it fast. This was the greatest experience of my life. Seven days and 1694 miles later. I’d do it all over again in a fucking heartbeat.

One thing I did not learn during this experience: Where da weed at?

It was great to meet all of the beautiful people that I did and it was great to see others that I had previously met. Here’s to Dan and Raina and their wonderful twins. Sound guy in Rhode Island. Ramshackle Glory crew: Pat, Nick, Dane, Dotti, Wyndham, Alyssa, Danni, Eric, Luke and Gary. Brook Pridemore. To the cops in the precinct in New York: thanks for printing those forms you couldn’t find. To the cops on the street: fuck off. Thanks to Sam in NYC. The Davis siblings. Kendra. Laura Lane. Ryan “Shady Deals” Heston. Lo. People at the house in Baltimore. Little Latino man at the corner store in Philly. Mickey Rourke looking dude running the door at the Philly dance club. Speaker for the Dead crowd. Nice security guard at the motel in Richmond. Everyone who went to every show. Ever cool promoter and sound people. Most importantly thanks to Mike, Matt, Davis, Cody, Laci, John, and Emmy. You’re all beautiful and I’m glad that I met you and became a part of this. I love you all. Before this trip, I was kind of like “this band I play in” now I’m happy and comfortable enough to say “my band” just as any of you would. Thank you. Also, if any of you know where da weed at?

#endlessmikeandtgebeagleclub #ramshackle glory #essay #tour #arnold palmer #my idea of fun #executive ashtray

Endless Mike and the Beagle Club

"Side B" released today!

Apalm and Goobers: from the Van to the Grave/Work or: Where da Weed At? or: When I got Home from Tour I Slept for 17 Hours: A Beagle Club Tale by Andrew Fox

The last time I got home from tour...