thank god for days off.

Seeing as we had no show in Manchester last night, i got to let my proverbial hair down for the first time since the tour started. We arrived at the hotel at around 6:30pm after suffering through a pretty tough bout of traffic on the M6, Manchester's version of the BQE. Our hotel is perfect, located in the heart of the Manchester downtown area, and for the first time i have the room completely to myself. I felt like a bit of a child once i got settled, jumping on the bed, having a pillow fight with myself, and even taking some silly pictures in the mirror. I dilly dallied (sp?) for a good three hours in my room before heading out into the great beyond known as Manchester City. The rain had let up by the time i left the hotel, although it was still bitter cold and a bit damp. I tried to mark a couple of initial landmarks right off the bat: the Manchester Public Library, Town Hall, and of course the address of my hotel on Lower Moseley Street. I chose a direction and went with it, initially looking for Peter street because of a recommendation from the zoftig red-haired lady at the reception desk. I didn't end up finding Peter Street, and instead found myself following the meandering drunks all walking in pairs and groups towards their Friday evening destinations. After a good twenty minutes on foot i became restless. When i saw a neon green sign for a place with the familiar title of "copa cabana," i aborted my walk and went inside. As i went down the flight of steps into the entrance of the club, i heard the all too familiar sounds of Tito Puente and his latin jazz orchestra. Not live, of course, but blaring over the PA. It actually could have been one of a million different other latin jazz artists, but the stereotype serves to prove my point here. Picture bongos and cowbell and trumpets blaring. This place was god-awful lame. Luckily I got to do my best fly-on-the-wall impression and stand at the bar ordering jack daniel's neat and pints of Carlsberg until i was tipsy enough to tolerate the ridiculousness of my environment. I stood at the far end of the bar, nearest the exit and the coatcheck, sipping gingerly and watching latin music videos on silent with a smirk on my face. I was conscious of a certain scientific attitude which overtook me, almost as if I was conducting field research for some experiment on the nature of a foreign world. Manchester is certainly that, above all else. The conclusions i came to in this ridiculous place, decked wall to wall with macro-sized neon Corona bottles and half-priced mojitos, did not bode well for a first impression of not-so-jolly Manchester: the people at the cabana dressed like idiots, danced like morons, and could be thought of as being generally attractive. For example, i saw a dude wearing a pink collared shirt with a picture of Che over his left breast, with the word "rebellious" written in arc from shoulder to shoulder on the back; i saw a man with a funny nose and what looked to be jerry curls, even though he was white; i saw a lot of tight, short, nylon dresses, a lot of gratuitous and tasteless makeup, and a lot of super-faux hipster hairdos. And, of course, a fair share of really bad dancing reminiscent of Elaine Bennis. PIcture me at the end of the bar, watching this scene unfold with a grin on my face and a drink in my hand. QUITE the scene. I can also say without a trace of trepidation that the music videos playing on silent on the monitors were the most ridiculous and comical pieces of entertainment - if you can call it that - that i've ever seen. The one that i first noticed upon entering depicted a ballet class. Between the shots of the ballet moves was footage of a bearded latino dude singing passionately behind a piano. The footage of the dancing class was ridiculous enough on its own, but the dancers soon began to sing along to the song of the man behind the piano. Before i knew it, the dancers and the singer were together in the dance studio, dancing like idiots and singing together. The second video one was even more vapid and uninteresting. It started out with a closeup of the volume knobs on a fender guitar amp being ever-so-carefully turned up, and then zoomed out to show the flaming troubadour and star of the video inside a subway station with his mustang guitar. I couldn't help but picture the process of filming this piece of trash, with the director in the background shouting directions and encouragement, and the singer trying his best to look his most creative, emotional, and enveloped in his rocking. R I D I C U L O U S. As he played, a train pulled up. Passengers disembarked, and there were closeups of the passengers' reactions to the song and to the deutschbag singing it. Some looked confused, some looked interested, and some looked like they didn't know what on earth was happening. The video progressed, sadly, to other scenes of public performance. The guy set his amp up in a cafe and began to sing. Then he moved into a library and began to sing. You can imagine my facial expression while watching all of this nonsense unfold. The other video i care enough to describe involved a lady singer in a chef's outfit chopping vegetables and preparing a meal in a domesticated kitchen setting. Her makeup was running to illustrate her tears and whatever emotional strain was contained within the lyrics of the song. The video then cut to a man tied up in the bedroom, struggling to free himself with a look of terror on his face. Keep in mind, however, that these fucking stupid videos were played on mute, and Tito-Puente-esque crap was playing in the background. The video ended with the man freeing his hands, but not his legs, hopping to the balcony of the apartment, and jumping off the balcony. After that, it cut again back to the singer chopping vegetables and crying (and lip-synching in spanish....). I guess i blame American culture for creating this pseudo-artistic medium which so blatantly bastardizes the essence and conceit of music, and turns it into this superficial mockery of coherent creative expression. FUCK M T V!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. After a few more drinks and a few more terrible Latin Music videos by artists like Paulina Rubio and Shakira, I happily left the copa cabana without having muttered a word to anyone except the bartenders. I gathered myself, and picked a new direction to explore. Soon i came to a late night eatery selling pizza, fried chicken, "kebabs", and hamburgers. Happily, I paid 4 pounds for 1 piece of friend chicken and a chicken shwarma. I had to shout my order to be heard over the massive thumping of the subwoofers from the club next door, bumping what sounded like a combination of hip-hop and British grime rap. I ate quickly and happily, still thinking of bogus music videos and how they have ruined the music industry en masse. Since this eatery was actually NEXT DOOR to a club, i figured i would minimize my foot traffic and check it out. I've never really been a club type, as any one of my friends will confirm, but as i said before i was on a mission of scientific observation. I was determined. I don't remember the name of this next place, although it must have had something to do with roller skates because you could rent them out for a small price at the coat check. Maybe it's just me, but i'm of the opinion that combining alcohol consumption and being on wheels is a terrible idea. I mean, if drunk driving and drunk bicycling are illegal, shouldn't drunken rollerskating be illegal as well? They're not even rollerblades, which require a good deal less balance and physical coordination. They're rollerskates............which are really fucking hard to successfully operate without incident. My worries were confirmed when a hefty chick with blonde hair ran into me, cracked my shin, and fell to the floor giggling with jiggling, inebriated delight. Needless to say, I was not pleased. I had a couple drinks at the bar, snapped a couple of pictures of the club, bought a 1 pound shot of blue alcohol from a rollerskating shot-girl wearing bunny ears lined with blinking lights, smoked my first cigarette in 2.5 years, got my coat, and moved on not a moment too soon (the cigarette came out of my pure confusion and restlessness.... don't worry, mom and dad). As i departed, i aimed for the landmarks i had established on my way. I stopped at one last place near our hotel, the Obsidian Bar (don't ask me why i remember the name of this one and not the rollerskate club with the bunny eared shot girls). Here I drank one glass of Maker's Mark, because it was the first time i'd seen it over here in the UK. It reminded me of home, and warmed my soul. Speaking of home, i've found myself relatively homesick these past days. Perhaps it's the dreary grey of the Manchester sky, or the long drives, or the 3 hour sound checks with a drummer we'd only just met, but i'm lonely here. I miss home, i miss my friends, i miss the green sour patch kids, and i miss the firehouse. This all hit me like a ton of bricks as i left the Obsidian bar and limped back to the hotel thinking of NY. I went to bed texting my love across the pond and sulking about bad timing and postcards.