Moist Newsletter 14: 1998


Good evening and welcome to the 14th Moist newsletter. THERE IS NO #13 as there are no thirteenth floors in any of the hotels we've stayed in over the past few years which leads us to believe that the number 13 does not truly exist and should therefore be stricken from all things, everywhere, IMMEDIATELY. This should include, but not be limited to: digital thermostats, all increments of time, any piece of paper containing the words inspected, or packaged by, all grades of sandpaper and pencils, serial numbers, model numbers, etc. This will of courseinvolve a few adjustments. There will no longer be any 13th page in magazines, books, or newspapers, a baker's dozen will contain two extra rolls, donuts or croissant, instead of the previously mandatory one and of course, ALL OF YOUR AGES WILL HAVE TO BE CHANGED. In order to avoid confusion we suggest the following... For those of you who were previously thirteen, congratulations, you are now fourteen. HAPPY BIRTHDAY. This makes it possible for those of you who were previously 15 to drive legally as in my opinion you are now 16. Watch out for cyclists. All those of you who were 17 congratulations you can now vote, give the bastards hell. And finally for those of you who were 29 and are now 30, my condolences. I feel your pain. Any one who DISAGREES with an immediate and TOTAL ban on the number 13 may feel free to write to us. The MOST COMPELLING response will be printed in the next newsletter. Strictly speaking, what follows was never destined for the newsletter at all, but was written at the behest of individuals who are, sadly, long past having any interest in it at all. It's not the most current news of our world, but nonetheless we hope you'll find it entertaining. For those of you already familiar with our exploits during the early fall of 1997 your perusal of the following collection of outright lies, wildly irresponsible exaggeration andthe odd lonely kernel of truth, as always held together by innuendo and the often less than comprehensible grammatical stylings of our erstwhile keyboard player, may not result in an epiphany of the same variety that reading the World Weekly NewsSoil And Compost Weekly might. Just so you know... wouldn't want you to get overly excited an pop a hear valve or something. For those of you who are not quite so intimately acquainted with our activities during the aforementioned period of time... you probably shouldn't get your hopes up toohigh either. ANYWAY, HERE WE GO Sept 1/97 MOIST IS... Five musicians with swiftly and violently diverging points of view, AN EVER INCREASING SUPLY OF MIND HUMBING PHARMACEUTICALS, four completely different and undiagnosed medical conditions, two brand spanking new crew members with not even the lightest inkling of the degree of misery the band intends to inflict on them over the next year and a half, SEVERAL BOTTLES OF TEQUILA, a correspondingly wicked thirst, 5000 pounds of unreliable gear held together by duct tape and the sheer force of will exerted by one perpetually irate Scotsman, his still unused set of bagpipes, every episode of Battlestar Galactica in existence, and a sound man with all the patience and flexibility of a broken rubber band that's been lying in irect sunlight for threee days, half submerged in melted aspahlt.. ALL HURTLING THROUGH THE NIGHT at dangerously high speeds IN SEARCH OF fame, reasonably secure investmet opportunities, a really kicking roadside breakfast buffet, the perfect martini, and YET ANOTHER TRUMPED-UP REASON TO KEEP DRINKING. While we can rattle off weveral hundreds compelling and perfectly logical arguments IN FAVOR OF prolonged and TOTALLY IRRESPONSIBLE bingeing at the slightest provocation, some of our more, shall we say, lucrative goals have sadly eluded us. We're not biter mind you, just far more likely to fly off the handle and gripe vehemently for days on end about circumstances that hover annoyingly just beyond our control than your average radio call-in show listener. Over the past four and a half years MOIST have toured pretty much endlesssly through the US, Canada, Europe, and Britain and have even taken one or two brief side trips to Thailand for powerful over the counter sadatives and matching cases of PARALYSING DYSENTERY thrown in for good measure. Our current tour began on September first in Buffalo and concludes in Cleveland on September nineteenth. Sept 1/97 12:00 NOON. OK. Let's get this straight. THIS IS NOT A TOUR. A tour involves the crossing of many time zones at high speeds with no idea of what day it is, where you are, and why you're there in the first place--it takes three to eighteen months and ends only when people are so sick of you that the bus is met at the city limits of any given municipatlity by an armed mob, or when each member of the band inexplicably finds his hands locked in a death grip around one or another of the other members' deserving necks. It's long, it's tiring, and it usually calls for hand to hand combat with one of the many nasty, life threatening varieties of weather system that lurk behind seemingly glorious sunny afternoons looking for unsuspecting musicians to play with. OK? Once, while on tour in Britain, one of the acts touring with us whined pathetically and at length about the insurmountable distance between London and Cornwall, and how "Frightfully awful indeed" the next day's travel would be... Yeah, well try driving from New York City, to Albuquerque, New Mexico to play for 25 barely conscious people, and then north from Albuquerque to Thunder Bay, Ontario, in the dead of winter. For those of you unfamiliar with Canada, anything more than four hours north of Toronto and east of Vancouver in January looks pretty much like hell would/should it ever decide to freeze over. (hey it's home and it's beautiful after a light snow, but who wants to drive through it in the middle of a nasty snowstorm with nothing left in the gas tank but fumes?) So, a little over two weeks spent hopping between southern Ontario and the northern staes during a surprisingly warm autumn, coupled with the opportunity to open for David Bowie is, essentially, summer camp. I MEAN, WHAT COULD GO WRONG? Sept 1/97 EVENING What couldn't go wrong. We should have know better. Misfortune and nasty coincidence cling to some places like an overly tight Speedo to a hairy old lecher at the beach. Nothing against Buffalo. It's just that our relationship with the city and any even that has even a remote connection with it could use a wee bit of tweaking considereing that the last time we came to Buffalo, we lost our sometimes cello player, Lynn Selwood, to an overzealous customs agaent and managed to shorten our bus by a full two inces by way of a chance meeting with the rear of a slow moving semi at sixty miles per hour before playing even a single note. This time we arrived safely in Buffalo, but hadn't eve nmade it through sound check before frying one Marshall amp beyond repair and blowing the only fuse without a replacement in the backup head that we optimistically carry with us due to a firm and completely mistaken belief that lightning would never strike twice in the same place, let alone in the same place within twenty minutes. Nevertheless, we made it through the show with no further mishaps and, like an unsuspecting old horse on its way to the glue factory, merrily boarded the bus and headed back to Canada. I SUPPOSE MOST OF YOU ARE FAMILIAR WITH THE MUCH PUBLICISED AND EVER SO BITTER FISHING WAR TAKING PLACE BETWEEN OUR TWO NATIONS ON THE WEST COAST WHICH HAS TOTALLY OVERSHADOWED THE LESS NOTORIOUS BUT IN OUR HUMBLE OPINION, MORE SPECIFICALLY ANNOYING BUS WAR. While the particulars of this new cross border brouhaha escape us for the most part, we do know it has something to do with the nocturnal activities of roving bands of sixty-something gamblers. So, when Moist arrive at Canada customs at the ungodly hour of six thirty a.m. they are informed that all the sleeping occupants of the coach must present themselves posthaste to the friendly and suitably paranoid Customs official on duty, so that Customs may, in their infinite wisdom and well known gentle manner, see for themselves that we are indded a rock and roll band and not a slavering pack of dangerous blue haired cross border gamblers looking to play fast and loose with our life savings in an effort to lose everything and spend the remainder of our golden years in abject poverty. Once this is established, the band are informed that, due to the climate of tension that exists between our two nations and some pretty tyrant's bloody minded determination to enforce a law so insane no one even knew it exsited until three weeks ago, Moist must either pay thirty thousand dollars in tribute to the current big man around the playground, or leave their bus and driver at the border and wheel five tons of gear back to Montreal by hand. Much begging and pleading follows. The band waits. The band begins to FUME. The band watches as two bus loads of geriatric high rollers are waved throught the border with nary a second look by the ever watchful eye of the Canadian border patrol. FINALLY, after newarly TWO HOURS of prostrate pleading on our part and a proportionate amount of adistic glee on the part of the always polite Customs official in charge of our detention, wew are finally allowed to pass on the understanding that the bus is to drop us off at home in Montreal and return to the border immediately or we, our dependents, and anyone remotely associated with us, will be hunted down like dogs in our own country. Sept 3/97 The following an uneventful twelve hours at home in Montreal, Moist begin the meat of their annual fall tour at Carleton Universtity in Ottawa in possession of a new bus, new driver and a freshly revitalised sense of lathing for petty bureaucrats. The only DRAWBACCK to university orientation week shows is the fact that they're usually governed by the same two prinicples that guide the most successful fishing trips: you don't actually want to catch anything because if you do you might accidentally drop your beer, and if you find yourself momentarily spiritually overwhelmed by the amount of liquor you're consumed you can always hang your head over the side of the boat and spend a few minutes in Technicolor prayer. This works out fine on the lake with, "you and the boys and your 50," but in a frothing crush of people with BODIES FLYING OVERHEAD AT UNPREDICTABLE ANGLES WEARING STEEL TOED BOOTS, it often results in broken bones, treacherous patches of silppery blood on a already dicey surface, and yes, even the odd spilt beer. And just so you know, there is no "over the side" in a smothering crush of bouncing bodies, just you and the several rather large strangers who are guaranteed to be more than passing upset when your body elects to hold an impromptu fire drill during which all your bodily fluids run screaming for the nearest exit. Neddles to say the cavalier swilling of vast quantities of alcohol in inadvisably short periods of time and the subsequent dramatic enhancement of the drinker's already ample charm become immediately and shockinly unimportant when you find yourself in possession of nasty skull fracture. All sarcasm aside, Ottawa was as always, a boatload of fun but unfortunately, also the beginning of a particularly vicious run of unforeseeable gear breakdowns beginning with the mid set discombobulation of guitarist Mark Makowy's pedals, followed by the unhappy marriage of 1.5 litres of water to the fragile guts of keyboardist Kevin Young's Roland D70. Sept 4/97Queen's University at Kingston, Ontario 2:00 pm: Production Manager/Homme de Guerre, Graeme MacDonald, arrives at outdoor parking lot/venue amid squealing tires and nearly runs down fearful student concert director. GRAEME: (icy silence.) Student CD: Uh.. hello. GRAEME: (continued icy silence. Icier maybe.) Student CD: Well...er... GRAEME: I don't want these streetlights on during the show. Student CD: Well...yes...uh... campus engineering think they may be albe to do something about that, but... GRAEME: Think? Student CD: Well...er...I mean...uh, yes. GRAEME: Well they better or I'll get my rifle and do the job myself. 8:50 pm: no street lights in evidence 9:40 pm: Wurlitzer fixed, Marshall working, bass guitar fixed. 9:45 pm: traditional playing of Battlestar Galactica theme music as Moist takes the stage. 10:35 pm: Wurlitzer dead, guitar pedals fussed, bass player broken, drummer suffers momentary loss of memory during arragement heavy closingsong and opts for improvised three minute drum fill. 11:05 pm: the crowd abandons previous fave cheer of "drop your pants: for rousing chant aimed at calling Moist's harp playing Tour Manager, Stan "hey you kids" Wardle, back to the stage figuring that if someone's going to do an encore here, it may as well be someone who remembers how to play their instrument. 11:55 pm: band, crew, and opening act Powderfinger hit favourite local bar, The Toucan, for a few more than a few too many. 3:35 am: confused and largely unsuccessful game of "find the hotel." 8:30 am: welcome to hell. Sept 5/97 RULE #1 If something goes wrong; obviously someone is to blame. RULE #2 Therefore, someone must be punished. RULE #3 It doesn’t really matter who it is. RULE #4 Punishing or otherwise pestering a sleeping individual is STRICTLY FORBIDDEN unless the need for rest on the part of the slumberer is outweighed by the amount of amusement the act of punishment affords the punishers. Our new Monitor Engineer, Mr. Crane, manages to get to sleep sometime around 6:30 am having partaken in the previous evening’s festivities. Two hours later he wakes up, curses the same spirit of merriment and bliss he'd been toasting happily the night before and boards the bus. Shortly thereafter he decides that consciousness is vastly overrated, puts a pair of ear plugs in, and retires to his bunk for a mid- morning snooze. Typically the band and remaining crew, now FULLY JUICED UP on multiple coffees and more than a little bored, smell blood in the water and spend 45 minutes applying 3 entire rolls of duct tape to the entrance to Mr. Crane’s bunk. We wait Waiting is boring. Resident Homme De Guerre begins to play his previously unused bagpipes next to the victim’s head. NOTHING HAPPENS. The band and crew join in by yelling and pounding the area surrounding the bunk mercilessly. STILL NOTHING. A short discussion regarding the decision not to provide air holes for our prisoner ensues after which Homme De Guerre takes charge of the situation once again and makes a small incision in the shockingly formidable wall of duct tape, inserts his bagpipe chanter, and begins to play Amazing Grace loudly and inaccurately. The resulting sound is absolutely guaranteed to make animal screams. It has pretty much the same effect on over hung techies. It takes fifteen minutes for Mr. Crane to claw himself free during which his frantic efforts cause lighting engineer Duncan Mactavish to laugh so hard he swallows a red ear plug that had unfortunately been sharing his pocket with small bit of licorice. So far, this has been a very good day. However we are headed for McMaster University at Hamilton, Ontario, a place that, like Buffalo, we have a slight history of misadventure with. The last time we were here a security guard mistook singer, David usher (who was, admittedly, dragging our guitarist around the stage by his teeth at the time), for an out of control fan and attempted to eject him from the show, causing our ever so patient drummer to climb off his stool and remedy the error with a well placed right cross. Apparently Paul will suffer fools gladly, but only if they are unconscious at the time. Tonight there are no such complications and Paul and Kevin celebrate the breaking of yet another local curse with a giddy victory ride in a stolen golf cart. Sept 6/97 DAY OFF IN TORONTO. Moist consider the possibility of emergency liver transplants. For some reason we have yet another tour bus, probably because the television in the last one caught on fire. Hmm. Sept 7/97 BROCK UNIVERSITY AT ST.CATHERINES. SELECTIVE MEMORY LOSS. Sept 8/97 LONDON, ONTARIO. Moist vs. Fate (round three) In summer of ’94 we played an outdoor show at the London Balloon Fest and had to cut the show short halfway through our set when the feeble snow fence that had been provided as an ill conceived barricade to keep 2,000 or so expected concert goers under control, collapsed under the weight of the 18, 000 people who showed up, resulting in minor injuries and soiled knickers for the unfortunate souls who happened to be working security at the front of the stage. In summer ’96 at the London Fair a running gravel fight in the pit spilled onto the stage an caused a number of unfortunate accidents. And now, here we are again watching the grandstand empty out as several thousand people decide that now is as good a time as any to join the frothing crush of bodies on the floor with predicable results; four songs into the set, a security guard suffers what appears to be a massive coronary but ends up being a dislocated knee cap. Unpleasant but better than a hear attack. A number of minor injuries follow, culminating in an unscheduled intermission when police inform the band that somewhere in the pit someone is hurt but on one seems to know where this person is. After a brief search she is passed forward and fortunately turns out to be not permanently damaged THANKS to those of you who helped with her extrication. Luckily, the rest of the show went off without any serious injuries and, while we always appreciate the enthusiasm, mayhem and energy generated by a raging crowd of several thousand people packed into a space designed for several hundred, bear in mind that if you feel something odd underneath you feet it may very well be another human being. Look around, the only people who can help you if you get dropped, kicked, exhausted, sick or otherwise messed up by a flying combat boot, are those around you. TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER. Sept 11/97 GUELPH UNIVERSITY At the crowd’s frenzied urging, bassist Jeff Pearce, by now fully recovered from an earlier incident in the crowd during which some well meaning but overeager fan attempted to abscond with his arm, unveils the subtle new touches he’s lovingly applied to his own peculiar style of modern dance during the past two days off in Montreal. Jeff’s routine now looks far less like the outrage of a quiet, gentle man caught frozen to the spot in the unkind glare of his own embarrassment and indignation, and more like the repeated electrocution of an already dead hand puppet with dysentery under the operation of a one armed monkey fresh from the lobotomist’s table. Way to go Jeff. Get down. Sept 18/97 As a general rule the more you have to celebrate at the MMVA’s the worse you’re likely to feel the next day. Once again, the folks at Much Music outdid themselves in terms of sounds, lights, the variety of performers and venues in which to see them as the show winds its way through the Much Environment, and most importantly, in the artful service and sheer quantity of that particular variety of miniature food item that prompts you to scarf down 30 or 40 of them before you actually know what you’re eating and several dozen more just to show your appreciation to your hosts. Predictably these are then washed down with copious amounts of your current poison of choice and you propelled down a dangerous, yet well worn path of gleeful overindulgence that ends only when voluntary freedom of movement is no longer an option. While this is OBVIOUSLY a boatload of FUN, there is always the DANGER that a stray camera might pick you up in extreme close up, swaying stupidly, one hand wrapped in a death grip around your sixth "Keg-Sized" glass of white wine with bits of half chewed crab puff dribbling down your chin and your mouth open and working like a broken vacuum cleaner sucking up glass. This is GUARANTEED to be A) the first image you see the next day when the awards are rebroadcast for the fist of three times during which several million completely new viewers will get a chance to chuckle nastily at your obvious humiliation, B) the image that your family, friends and fellow band members will taunt you with for the rest of your natural life, and C) the image that (even if you, everyone who knows you, and anyone who might tell them about it miss seeing it on live TV) will be first to burn itself onto your brain when you regain consciousness and will make you feel as if you spent the entire night totally oblivious to the fact that YOU FORGOT TO PUT ON PANTS PRIOR TO LEAVING THE HOTEL. 10:30 am: Moist arrive at bus for scheduled 10:00 am leave. 10:45 am: Bassist Jeff Pearce arrives setting startling new speed record for getting to the bus on time and looking worried. This is not unusual. Jeff often looks worried. I’d look worried too if every time I stepped onto a tour bus I was immediately stricken with a debilitating flu that turned me inside out violently every half and hour or so and had to entrust the responsibility for my well being during my weakened state of illness to a leering pack of untrustworthy vultures (read band mates) that knew my every weakness and had no compunctions regarding the pitiless exploitation of those at every opportunity. Today Jeff’s concern has little to do with a fear of being PESTERED MERCILESSLY by his closest friends for six hours and quite a lot to do with the fact that with five nominations, two birthdays and a surprising amount of room on the bus due to the absence of our crew we have an awful lot to celebrate. This, coupled with our tendency to carve a wide swath of bloody minded gluttony across any and all nationally televised events may result in the five of us ending up once again in an insensible heap in some well appointed gutter, sodden and dazed wearing clothes that will now require a graduate degree in chemistry to launder properly with our pants around our ankles, no memory of the last twelve hours and an overwhelming desire to cut our own heads off, only to find that during our slumber someone has mysteriously absconded with whopping great chunks of our self respect and dignity as well as every drop of moisture in our bodies. 8PM: Moist enter the MMVA’s feeling unbearably thirsty and, even though we should know better totally indestructible ; always a tragic combination. While the exact events of the nights are at best, unclear and at worst, unmentionable we do know that following David and Paul’s first scheduled on stage appearance and in between accepting three awards for the Tangerine video each of the band members trip off to gleefully follow their own special paths of self destruction with predictable results. Paul Wilcox, fancying himself somewhat of a prophet and still smarting slightly from an unfortunate incident on a British television show during which he hauled off and belted an unsuspecting muppet that had the gall to try and upstage him, runs off screaming through the Much environment hell bent on sticking his face into each and every camera he sees in a continuing effort to spread the love around as thickly as possible, as only he can. Paul surfaces sometimes later just long enough to catch a piece of cake, thrown by a giggling key board player, with his forehead and retaliate by beating a surprised Kevin Young over the head with his own birthday cake before vanishing in a puff of evil laughter and angry mutterings. Kevin who up until that point had been spending the evening trying to avoid just this sort of activity and would have succeeded had it not been for the David "the instigator" Usher’s surprise gift of 4 or 6 birthday shots, greatly appreciates the cake and the thoughtfulness of those who provided it and became even happier now that Paul’s brilliant improvisation had solved the problem of how to eat the cake with no utensils. Meanwhile our guitarist, also celebrating a recent birthday, had spent the evening transforming himself from a reasonably normal and tolerable human being who, after several trips to the bar, might go as far as muttering "I love you guys" before recovering his senses and tottering off to bed, into the kind of sloppy, rampaging, happy machine so embarrassingly forthright and vocal about his love for himself and every one and every thing in his path that no decent person possessed of even an ounce of cynicism would hesitate for even the barest instant to throttle him on sight. Jeff Pearce, painfully aware of the level of annoyance this kind of gushing results in, escaped relatively unscathed, no doubt due in part t the fact that he was driven into hiding by the shy-making torrent of affection that issued profusely from Mark "I love YOU. I love ME. I love EVERYBODY." Makowy. Sept 19/97 Moist spend the morning exploring the innermost reaches of extreme fragility and traveling to Cleveland, Ohio for a festival show presented by The End at Nautica Stage. At this point any sound above that of a carefully drawn breath is, at the very least, unwelcome and at most, grounds for summary execution. This is unfortunate as some of the more easily brainwashed members of the band seem to have sustained damage to that part of their brain that controls the act of bursting spontaneously into song and someone or other insist on sharing their favorite moments from some of the greatest musicals of our time in an annoyingly loud voice that sounds not unlike a rusty chain saw attempting to cut through a wrought iron fence. Following sound check and a sort set we’re back on our way to Montreal for a week off. Oct 18/97 Whether it’s the fact that we tend to get back to our bills and laundry far more regularly than at nay time in the past or our collective and fervent belief that reality will, if yelled at long and hard enough, piss right off rather conveniently in moments of crisis or social discomfort, THE ADJUSTEMENT BETWEEN HOTEL/BUS/GUTTER AND HOME SEEMS TO BE GETTING EASIER AS TIME GOES BY. Still, after a certain amount of touring, home becomes a relative concept in that any place with plumbing in which the band spends more than twelve hours will do. This results in no small amount of confusion; home being, in some ways, not all that different than being on the road and while it’s unlikely that you’ll have to deal with border guards, petty municipal bureaucrats with decibel meters and drunken morons who for no good reason at all suddenly decide that you’re their new best friend in the comfort of your own living room there is still the phone company, the lunatic who lives next door, and of course, your family. Similarities notwithstanding , there is a bit of a road hangover that takes any time from two days to three weeks to shake off, and manifests itself in several insidious ways, any one of which is guaranteed to drive any one who must, by virtue of choice, marriage indentured servitude, or sheer bad luck, spend a fair bit of time near you, to the point of beating you about the face and neck with some appropriately blunt object and then strangling you with your own tongue. The important thing to bear in mind when returning home is simply that you are no longer in a hotel and no matter how benign your intentions, any attempt to maintain your "on tour" life style once back in your apartment will fail dismally and will most likely result in your partner, spouse, or roommate sticking a fork in your eye. To avoid this and other sundry expressions of discontent a few elementary rules must apply. UPON RETURNING HOME 1. Do not dial nine before every outgoing call. Eventually you’ll find yourself staring at a phone shaped hole in the wall, with a bundle of useless wires in one hand and largish clumps of your own hair in the other. 2. If you choose to ignore rule #1 at least try to withstand the temptation to run screaming down to the front of the desk, full of piss and vinegar, muttering incoherently about shoddy service and ancient technology, hell bent on teaching someone or other a swift lesson to learn in hotel management. There is no hotel. There is no front desk. There is no lesson to learn save that brain cells, once destroyed do not come back. There is just you, your own stupidity and your downstairs neighbour who in all likelihood (see rule 4) isn’t all that fond of you anyway. 3. There’s nothing worse than coming home in mid January to a lightless deep freeze, except maybe coming home on a stinking hot day in August to find that the small quantity of fresh vegetables you left in the fridge two months ago have become a festering soup of furry green slime and that your apartment smells only slightly better than a fresh mass grave at high noon in a heat wave. Whatever the season, pay your bills. 4. Laugh at your own stupidity. If you take a two and a half hot shower with the shower curtain open, use every towel in the house, flood not only your apartment but everyone below it and then leave the whole mess to rot and mildew along with the leftovers from three consecutive days of take out and then react with shock and venomous cruses when you discover that housekeeping is nowhere to be seen and that you’re still living in your own filth well 5. Be prepared for the eventuality of extremely light technical support coupled with increased personal responsibility . Say for instance your television blows up. Dialing zero and screaming blue bloody murder at the disembodied voice of an innocent operator for 45 minutes will do nothing to solve your problem nor will impassioned cries of I’ll never stay here again. No ONE CARES. YOU’RE A MORON. GET HELP. Shortly after this small bout of fall touring Moist decide that it’s high time we started work on writing their next album and that aside from some touring in America, we are resolved to doing absolutely no more Canadian tours until such time as we have some new material so, It’s really no surprise that we ended up in Mexico filming a new video and back on the road in November for the Gasoline tour. More on this in the next newsletter. Until then, thanks to all those of you who came out to our shows in November belated merry hoho, happy new year and Nauselbaum. MOIST

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