Here at the End Hits HQ, we don't do tour diaries. We leave that to the other blog in town.

No, not this one.

Anyway, we stood firm on our no tour journal policy until the local party-pop synthsters in Hockey approached us and paid us generously asked if they can post the online documentation from their current month-long tour. Our response: Only if your tour journal includes details on your vegetable-oil fueled van and lots of references to drugs baked into deserts.

They wisely agreed. So, that said, we are proud to bring you entry number one from Hockey's "Asparaga Across America" tour:

We are exactly two weeks into the "Asparaga Across America Tour" and we are doing a couple things right and a couple things wrong. Let's start with the wrong: Our van doesn't have insurance, registration, or a title. Before we left we put the plates from our old van on "Asparaga," our new van.

If we get pulled over, we're fucked.
Tours over.


We named our new van Asparaga because she's green. Actually she's white but before we left, we had her converted by Lovecraft Biofuels in Portland to run on vegetable oil. Since then, we haven't spent a dime in support of oil companies, we haven't polluted, and we certainly haven't been short on cash for touring. It's what I imagine touring was like back in the "good ol' days." We are off the grid and independent in every sense of the word. It's a guerrilla operation of sorts. In our trailer, we have a 55-gallon drum, a crank siphon, two funnels, and twelve 5-gallon "cubes" for acquiring, separating, and filtering the oil. We've been getting the WVO (waste vegetable oil) from the back of grocery stores, sushi joints, and mom and pop's style restaurants. Most people are more than willing to help.

I'm writing this from San Diego. It's the 11th city of the tour and we've barely made a dent in the schedule. There has been some bad shows and some good shows.


Let's start with the bad:
Eureka: Within moments of showing up to the venue, we were given a large cheese pizza (half of us are vegan) and a bag of weed cookies, baked by the promoter, with what had to of been a couple ounces of Humbolt county bud. Without thinking, Jerm popped a cookie the size of a half-dollar and spent the rest of the night falling all over the bar and trying to remedy hallucinations with a bottle of Sailor Jerry's. The show was bad and the night ended with the four of us in a tent pitched in the yard of the promoter. Ground Zero ain't pretty but, then again, neither are we.


Las Vegas was among the best shows yet. We met up with our friends Rocko and his girlfriend Saree. Rocko, who's in the band we played with in Hollywood a couple days prior, is from Vegas. So they sang our last song with us on stage and spent the remaining hours of the night taking us up and down the strip. Brian and I somehow made our way to the slot machines of the Queen's Casino where they happen to sell $13 drinks the size of my torso. Did you know you can drink on the streets of Vegas? Well you can. Unfortunately for us, you can sleep on the streets of Vegas too.

God bless America.

(more to come soon)