Snoop Bloggy Blog

It begins here, at this table in the beer garden behind The Picador in Iowa City, IA. Vision Qwest 2007.

 

Jeff, me, McTubbins and ETC have decided that being stuck in the Deuce Cities all the time is gay. So we fight the gayness by taking a road trip down to Iowa City to see our bros The Shadow Government, everyone's favorite vaguely-political-noise-doom combo. Our brilliant plan is to drink a ton of beers, watch the show and see what sorts of things materialize.

 

Floor level before the show, hanging with Tall Bikes and catching up with old-school Midwestern friends. This is also serving as a final goodbye to Tall Bikes before he heads up to his farming internship (yes, believe that) in western Minnesota. He is down here in the IC visiting his folks before he leaves. Brews are crushed.

 

ShadGov, kicking out the double-drummer-noise-machine jams.

 

McTubbins, stoned, drunk, like SEEING the music, man, for real.

 

Smoke machinage.

 

Is there a band even playing behind all this?

 

After the show, 20 people pile a few blocks over to an afterparty at a girl's house who is carrying an air-rifle all night. She has this crazy-ass robot dog. Look at that dog, just chillin'.

 

Outdoor backyard stoop smokes. Cans of Budweiser. Post-show delicate rain mists. It is at this point that we decide, in a moment of drunken epiphany, that "dude let's go to Chicago tomorrow!" We put our hands all in and everyone agrees. Vision Qwest 2007 will begin NOW.

 

Every single one of the people in this picture, independently, without collusion, has chosen to point to something or emphasize the existence of something with hand signals. It's hard to tell what I should focus on -- Tall Bikes shoe? Molly's head? Clarity is needed, brosephs.

 

Tall Bikes shows off his new tat, freshly inked, with some crazy dudes playing piano and dancing on his shoulder blades.

 

Everyone is kicked out of the air-rifle party on a suspect claim that "the cops are coming dude" or some shit. So we pile over to Tall Bikes' childhood home a few blocks away. His parents are sleeping soundly upstairs, so we quietly rage through whispers and quieted proclamations in the kitchen. 5:30 AM bedtime roll call. Beds made of hardwood and carpet, or if you're lucky, Tall Bikes brosephs bed.

 

The next morning, the weary and hungover crew enjoy coffee, cigarettes and sliced fruit on the front porch. Thanks to Tall Bikes dad for the amazing homemade rolls, they were delicious.

 

In the dining room a shrine made to Tall Bikes. This is his senior picture. His eyes are peering into your soul.

 

After a farewell to Tall Bikes' parents, we head back over to the Picador to link up with the Shadow Government bros and grab some breakfast. Behind the club, there is some amazing graffiti. Alright, full disclosure, we were the ones who wrote this, and by us, I mean Jeff.

 

The weekend title is officially set in stone. Or wood. Whatever.

 

Breakfast, family sit-down Iowa diner styles. I have a malt for revitalization efforts.

 

Well-fed, satisfied, proud of our fuck-the-world adventure continuation, we pull into Chicago ready for more awesomeness.

 

Gargoyle crests, for reals. Only in Chicago.

 

Tubs and ETC had never been to Millennium Park before because they are ignorant of the world. Time to disabuse them of their naiveté.

 

Portals to new worlds are opening before us.

 

 

Self-portrait. Medium: the reflection of a huge silver bean.

 

 

This dude is crazy-looking.

 

Crazy-dude reflections. Totes poignant.

 

Sometimes moving to Chicago sounds pretty doable. Pictures like this help.

 

After our millennial adventure, we cruise over to the Beat Kitchen where Shadow Government are playing tonight. We are totally like Deadheads, following a band around the country. Except our band is slightly less popular and actually uses their two drummers effectively. Oh SNAP. Jerry Garcia's corpse just got totally burned.

As ETC is sitting at the bar an older fellow next to him writes a note to the waitress, it says "To Kim, with Love." ETC makes his own version of this note and gets a free beer. Way to go dude.

 

While sitting at the bar and crushing brews before the show, we start a long-exposure lighter art project.

 

ETC.

 

Pot leaves, dude.

 

Pentagrams.

 

Upside down burning cross will light your cigarette.

 

Deuce Cities.

 

Vision Qwest (broadband service).

 

 

Now is when McTubbins takes over as guest blogger for awhile. You can tell his pictures because they are so totally "ephemeral" (his words, not mine). This is me and Jeff watching the band.

 

This shit is crazy ephemeral, son.

 

Bar art projects continue. Can you tell that 3/4ths of us have B.F.A's?

 

Underwater Blowjobs. The newest craze sweeping the sexual deviant subcultures. Tubbs has come up with away to create a device to make these BJ's totally portable. It involves a bucket, a chicks head and dudes dong.

 

It should be noted that I have taken to saying "Wazaaap!" like the old Budweiser commercials this entire weekend. It is hilarious to me, for some reason.

 

Continued ephemerality.

 

McTubbins is in charge of the photo machine again, his mission, to take photos of hot girls and their asses.

 

After the show we head over to Joel's house (aka Andy Koufax) for yet another after-rager. Here, we are introduced to the Chicago concept of "Beer Sabres." Everytime you finish a can of beer, you stack it and tape it to the other ones you've finished. By the end of the night, you should have a) some awesome evidence of how drunk you probably are and b) a sword, you know, like, for fighting.

 

Luke Tweedy gets knifey, and then he gets hyphey.

 

Old-school bros.

Pete Biasi is the master of the Beer Sabre, and includes Red Bull in his sword as well. Interesting approach.

 

Continued partying, continued beer stacking. So real, so many ways.

 

You know your party is top-notch when people tag your junk mail.

 

Sabrelicious. As you can see, the night is getting interesting.

 

Yes.

 

Oh no, I've grown a beer sabre out of my head, these are risks we all have to take when partying in Chicago. A Mike Lust sighting is made.

 

This is the part of the night where everybody at the whole part starts counting down in a shout "5-4-3-2-1....YEAH!" and lifting their beer sabres in the air. No one is sure why this started or what it all means. Regardless, it is a powerful group proclamation that continues over and over again.

 

Bring it in close

 

Brosephs Broing Down.

 

Sombrero? Yes. Sombrero.

 

Joelgurt and Bobadams.

 

Photos lose focus when drinkers get hopeless.

 

4am, Tubbz and I find Jeff alone sleeping in the street, we take him upstairs and find a nice bit of carpet for him to dream on. Endgame.