Baltimore, Maryland

When we roll up to the punk rock venue the neighborhood seems ready to see us leave, but accepting of their fate.

One punk rocker waits outside for us like a herald of strange news to come. More and more people show up. As we start our circus it begins to thunderstorm. Some young brat punks try to get some middle aged woman to buy them beer.
"Make sure to get what we said. Make sure not to get the wrong stuff for us," they say, holding up some large bills.
"Alright," she says. They hand her the money.

One hour later water is pouring through and forming puddles all over. I am standing in a doorway watching the rain come down. The middle aged woman has not come back and the brats are bummed.

I take a break in the door jam to watch the rain right outside. A man walks the alley towards me holding an umbrella and a plastic bag.
"You wanna buy a pencil sharpener?" he shows me the bag.
"No, I don't need one at the moment."
"please, man."
"I'm sorry."
"Do you think someone inside would buy it?"
I turn to look at three completely drunken bro punks shouting at each other.
"I am not so sure."

In the other room a small water fall is cascading over a circuit breaker and other miscellaneous imortant-looking electrical equipment somewhat affixed to the wall. It forms a puddle immediately behind our stage curtain. This puddle might possibly electrocute anyone that steps into it.

Whenever we go out on the Baltimore street everyone we see is very friendly. The sort of kindness we received from the residents of Baltimore was unsurpassed. Tomorrow a man named Robert will lecture us in homebum sermon style. As we eat hunks of watermelon on the street he urges us to remember always: we must take care of one another.

Later we will go to Red Emma's bookstore where folks are nice and Georgios buys a sandwich with a euro bill. Tonight, though, the punks who rent this concrete garage are at least grateful for our presence. "I am so happy so many of you are staying here tonight," one of them says to us. "Maybe you all can keep the rats away."

Providence, Rhode Island

On the sidewalk beside us one million flies hover over our trash bag full of torn apart pastries. More than anything I know the lord of shit is with us wherever we go. We are smoking cigarettes on the steps of somebody's enormous Victorian house while the others get fried chicken. Two Boston University students film us attentively while we play a stupid game with some stuff on the ground.

"You are thinking of the water bottle, aren't you?" says Maxwell.
"I was thinking of the tape recorder," I say.
"Fuck!"
I am the king of the stuff. Georgios looks hard into my eyes.
"Are you ready?" he says to me.
"Yes. I am thinking of one." I try hard to send "water bottle" signals to him, but it is no use.
"You are thinking of the shoe."
"How did you know I was thinking of the shoe?"

The BU kids film the painted cardboard stuffed into our outrageously cluttered van and a deranged Maxwell eating from the bag of torn apart pasties. Two cops rolls up and park nearby. They walk to the back of the house we are sitting on.
I hold up a scrap coated with jellies at each end.
"Do you think it was initially a lemon-filled pastry that got covered in cherry jelly, or was it the other way around?"
"It looks to me it was a cherry-filled pastry that got covered in lemon goo."

"Hey you kids," the cops have come back around now and they are talking to us. "Do any of you live here?"
"No," someone says. Or possessions are scattered over the entirety of the front stoop.
"Ah, OK," they say. In a moment they are gone. Score one small victory for either chaos magic or white privilege, whichever you prefer.

Hours later the people who went to go eat fried chicken come back. We get inside the van and drive off listening to a mix tape of top 40 hip hop. The Dream croons out of the stereo speakers as we fall asleep, driving deeper into the Connecticut night.