Canadian Music Week or: Invasion of the Beardos

When I told the band that I would write something about our trip to Toronto, it hadn’t really occurred to me until now that I would, you know, actually have to sit here and write about the trip to Toronto. Not after my 5am cab driver said “It’s going to be a great day!” as I stepped out of the car; not after realizing that I had ingested over 37 drinks in a 10 hour span without passing out, throwing up, attempting to make out with a fire hydrant or even waking up with a hangover; not after realizing that I still have one more night to spend in a dorm size hotel room sleeping next to our bass player in a full sized bed, where the possibility of beard-to-beard contact is less of a possibility and more of a foregone conclusion.

Not after all of that.

“Not after all of that.” What utter nonsense. It’s not as if I foiled a bank robbery or staved off an alien invasion. I’m a stupid and lazy musician. Anyway. Keith and I took the red-eye flight out of L.A. on Thursday night. We had a brief layover in Cleveland, and since I had carried my cymbal bag on the plane with me, an airport worker recognized my kind and shouted.


“Yes sir!”

“You any good?”


“Well, alllllright!”

Time spent in the Cleveland airport turned out to be much like that exchange: short and unexpectedly pleasant. The only conveniently located place to eat anywhere near our gate was called “The Great American Bagel Company.” Keith and I took advantage of the Great and American bagel sandwich called the “Cleveland Sunrise,” a name I would have sworn was a joke had I not seen it spelled out on the menu. Anything made to put in your mouth should avoid the Cleveland S_____ moniker.

From Cleveland we flew out on a puddle skipper into Buffalo. I don’t really have any thing to say about that except that it was a flight from Cleveland to Buffalo. Really, that’s it.

We rented a car in Buffalo and drove to the Canadian border. We had to speak to some nice Canadian immigration officials about what we were going to be doing in Toronto, and when we mentioned Canadian Music Week, the goatee wearing officer looking at our documentation sparked up.

“Hey, we had Papa Roach in here earlier and Buckcherry is here now!”

Next post: Our futile attempt to hear a Rush song on Canadian radio, a drunken truck driver and his cocksucker of a brother-in-law, cheeseburgers with the Russian mob, and why Dub the Magic Dragon is the greatest “live, sitar, reggae, drumnbass, groove” band in the world.



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