The Dirtbag Vernacular [Original Novel]

Once I get settled in at the Masonic Street place, I contact Michael Ashland and he’s able, through some friends, to find a practice space down on Third Street out in the direction of Hunter’s Point. The place is a dumpy little spot that was once some sort of a two story office building. All of the offices have been transformed into rooms for practicing music and the spaces are dark dank holes with beer stains on the carpet. Our room is dimly lit with foam egg crating clinging to and falling off the wall. We share it with the bands Sugar Beet, Pee, and Maximum Tampon.

Although the place is a dump we’re glad to get things going with the band again as it’s been close to three months since playing in New Orleans. We practice a couple of times a week hoping to be able to get a gig somewhere, but are a bit daunted by our lack of connections in this town.

In New Orleans getting gigs had been really easy. Kurt Schlegel had worked at one of the popular underground clubs, ‘The R.C. Bridge Lounge.’ Doug, the bass player, was part of a so-called production company entitled ‘Alcoholic Sluts Productions.’ They regularly brought folks like G.G. Allin, Bobby Steele, and Tesco V. to town and we opened for most of those acts.

Since moving to S.F., Wes had been to the Purple Onion, which had been a famous jazz club back in the day. Now it’s an underground garage-punk venue run by a lunatic named Tom Guido. Wes had become acquainted with the guy and bugs him about shows whenever he goes there. Also, Michael has some friends who know Karen Spaeth, a speed freak who runs a little dive called the Chameleon where we might be able to get a show sometime.


Photo by Hoffacurse