Santa Cruz and Capistrano Beach - Gooooood Times

We were in beautiful Santa Cruz, California on Friday.  Sergio the Lost Boys saxophone player was a no-show, but there were plenty of other swarthy folks in attendance at the bowling alley we played at.  So, here is the flier for the show.  I found this one sitting crumpled up on a table and I'm not quite sure what it means, but that's what I'm here for, right?  To find strange artifacts and tell you about them.  Or lie to you about them.  Or whatever it is I do when my brain is polluted with liquor.

Someone took the time to circle the band names and then, promptly, cross a couple out for some reason.  Maybe they were keeping a tally of who they liked and didn't like.  We, apparently, were not a big hit with this person, and were debased in the fashion of a "no smoking" sign.  But let me defend myself.  The rumors are untrue.  We don't cause cancer.  Reports of the hazards of exposure to the Sawyer Family are greatly exaggerated and unfounded.  The studies done on the subject have not been rigorously peer reviewed and rumors abound about scientists interpreting their results in a biased way to lend unfavorable impressions about us.  There is no reliable evidence supporting the claim our music is addictive in any way, or harmful to the public health.  This is all I am willing to say in the matter, as my lawyer has advised me.  For more information, contact the law firm of Strickland, Strickland, and Lowenstein, Crow, Oregon.

In related news, we played Coconuts in Capistrano Beach last night.  We were introduced to many of Kyle's old friends and some unsavory folks I would rather not mention.  But I'm gonna anyway, so take that, myself!

Immediately upon arrival, we were greeted by a man who very adamantly, and repeatedly, informed us of his history of guitar playing.  38 years.  38 years he's been playing guitar.  With UFO, and Montrose.  He didn't even take off his golf spikes, see?  38 years.  He's played with UFO.  He's been playing for 38 years.  He didn't even take off his golf spikes.  Well, you see how the conversation went.  ALL NIGHT LONG.  Yes, sir, I remember what you told me twenty minutes ago.  38 years, golf spikes.  Got it.  No, please do not try to help us load our gear.  It is painfully obvious that you have had approximately 36 beers tonight, and I don't really have the money to replace an amp shattered on the concrete like a fumbled pint glass.

Thanks to Coconuts Bar, Zombie Cartel, Victoria, and everyone else who came out.  We had fun, except for the 38 years guy, and that other drunk hippie who tried to sell us wool hats.  Do I look like the kind of guy who'd wear a wool hippie beanie?