By Sunday I believe I was ready for a total physical
collapse. Days of poor sleep in creepy
Detroit hotel rooms had finally taken their toll. Even when I did manage to sleep, unsettling
dreams shook me awake in total darkness.
What can be more unfair than to be stressed out of your mind, unable to
fall asleep, and then have a dream fuck you up when you do? Our schedule this week was insane. Studio, studio, studio and then a straight drive to a gig in Akron. I finally got home at 3:30 am. The three and a half hours of sleep Saturday
night gave me just enough energy to wake up and go to the grocery store where
shoppers floated by me giving me the same wary look you give an inner city pan
handler. It probably didn’t help that I
was quietly singing a new song I was working on in my mind slightly under my
breath like a mental patient. Yet, I had
been here before…
When The Cowslingers were at their best, in my opinion
1998-2000, we toured like motherfuckers.
Playing 125 shows a year is a pretty heavy schedule. Playing 125 shows a year while continuing to
be a full time white collar employee or college students is insane. We had a touring circle that went from New
York to Atlanta over to St Louis. We
would play anywhere at anytime and were receiving great show offers all over
the place. Our philosophy was always “we
can make that work” and then figured out how to make it work on the fly. Next thing you know you were chock full of
mini thins driving the van at 4:30 on a Thursday morning trying to figure out
if you should stay on 75 South or take 280 to get home.
I remember we had run out of vacation time and had a series
of shows. I was working at a radio
station in sales, and needed to show up every morning by 8:30 in a suit looking
like I was doing important things in advertising. My douchebag boss would climb up my ass if I
was even five minutes late, despite the fact that I was paid on 100%
commission. My mindset was you are only
paying me for what I sell, so who cares if I show up at 8:30 or at 2:00? Or even at all? As long as I was hitting my goals, which I
was, leave me the fuck alone. This
philosophy was not shared by management.
We played Chicago at Schuba’s on a Wednesday night with
Robbie Fulks. We played first, hastily
loaded out, and hopped in the van to drive back to Cleveland. I walked into my house at about 5 a.m. to try
and get a little sleep. I made it
through Thursday at work on adrenalin. I
recall being pretty with it and all jacked up on coffee. As I slunk out of the office at 4:30pm, I
hoped nothing would blow up. This is all
pre-cell phone, so when you left the office you would have to call in to make
sure nothing was wildly out of control. Leo
would be serenely chomping on a corn dog at a Speedway while I nervously
checked my messages on the payphone outside.
I prayed that a client hadn’t called my manager with an issue. If all was OK, you hopped back into the van
for a few hours and hoped crisis was still being averted.
We got to Kalamazoo to play Small Planet that Thursday night
with Robbie Fulks and the Volebeats. We
played second that night, and even hung out a little bit to watch Robbie
play. That guy is so talented, he had to
be wondering how his life had taken such a turn to be playing a string of dates
with shaggy dogs like us. On any given
night, we could be really really good, but Robbie is an actual talent. He knows what the hell he is doing up there
with his band of ringers. It was a drag
to have to climb into the van to drive home, but no matter what I had to be at that fucking cubicle Friday morning
at 8:30. I got home around 5:00 am.
That Friday morning was tough. I literally dragged myself into my car to
drive in. I felt wrung out. It was one of those commutes when you have no
recollection of the drive, even moments after shutting off the car. I spent a lot of time at work walking around
with folders and documents, making a public show of this alleged sales
activity. “Just a guy involved in
monster deals here. Nothing to look at. Turn your attention elsewhere.” I tried to sleep in my car for an hour, but
was so pumped full of caffeine to stay awake, sleep was impossible. I left the station around 4:30, leaving my
desk as if I had only walked away for a moment, and went to get things in order
for a gig at The Grog.
We had some sort of equipment issue so I had to drive across
town to pick up some gear. Traffic kept
me at a stop and go pace. By the time I
got home, I had to change into my cowboy suit to hump it over to the club. There was no nap. Another bonus? We were playing last on the bill, so that meant
a few hours of time to kill. This is the
dangerous time for a man with no sleep.
If you are standing in the Grog Shop at 9pm waiting to play at 12:30,
there is one thing to do: drink
beer. And that is what I did. When all was said and done, I’m sure I got home
about 3:30am. Sleep should have come
easily…
Having a rental property is great. The additional income was huge for me in my
twenties. The call from downstairs of the
duplex about the broken toilet at 8:30 am Saturday morning was not so great… The upstairs and downstairs units were the
same. One bathroom and two
bedrooms. There would be no way to delay
this repair. I had to deal with it. I was out of bed. I was awake.
The van left Cleveland for Cincinnati at 4:00…
I don’t remember that Saturday gig at all. I think it was at Top Cats and we played
last. I think it was us, Robbie Fulks,
and the Volebeats again. It might have
been Bengals Stadium with The Who. I
honestly can’t recall. I’m sure we
stayed at a friend’s place, as during these Early Days of Bitter Struggle we
never coughed up for a hotel. That meant
I slept on a couch or maybe a floor at about 3:45 am. The issue when you stayed at someone’s house
was that you would have to stay awake with the host. They always wanted to have a few beers and
hang out, and I always want to go to sleep.
The good news is that Leo will always stay up with anyone that wants to
party, and there can often be an opportunity to slink off. I didn’t really perfect that slink off move
until years later, so I am sure I politely sipped a beer until late (or early
morning depending on your vantage point).
I had probably slept 14 hours from Wednesday to Sunday
morning as we climbed in the van to drive back to Cleveland. This is not what most physicians would recommend
as a regular health regime. I had become
so overtired that sleep became elusive.
I had every intention of spending Sunday sleeping all day. It just didn’t happen. I went to bed around my normal time and set
my alarm to go to work Monday. It was
almost impossible to get out of bed and into the shower. My head was achy. I couldn’t concentrate. I was not what you would refer to as “sharp”.
At lunch that day I went to a tavern near the office with
two co-workers. It was a popular lunch place and we had to take one of those
high top tables. I remember a woman I
worked with talking to me when things got fuzzy. I got a warm flush feeling in my head and
then something shut off. The next thing
I remember was being very confused as to why a large group of people were
staring down at me from above. I had
passed out cold and fallen onto the tile floor.
People were understandably curious as to why this man in a suit was
unconscious at Noon on a Monday. “Dude…
you should cut the partying.” I heard someone say. I was taken to the Cleveland Clinic, given a
battery of tests that were inconclusive, and then later released. They told me to come back if I kept passing
out. It seemed reasonable advice.
I can honestly say that is the last time I have felt similar
to how I felt yesterday. I feel like I
am missing a key vitamin in my diet. Is
this how you feel before you develop scurvy?
Is this ache in your side normal? My advice to you is as follows.
Avoid being in the area if you see me behind the wheel of a powerful
automobile. Do not allow me to handle
any power tools. While this is always a
good policy, it is especially so today. Don’t
hold me to anything I say today. I have
no idea what I am talking about. I may
speak in tongues if I don’t get at least seven hours of sleep tonight. How the hell did Leo do that 84 hours?
