Bad Adventures chapter four - the Boathouse, Norfolk VA, 11/8/96.



Thursday (11/7) was our day off. Sort of. coyote and I picked our way through and past the slumbering masses (Hotel Planetcom was booked solid) and caught the bus to meet Tina - a/k/a renowned listsibling Sara Lee - at National Airport. Though afraid to fly, Sarachan made the trip in good spirits and was safely delivered to our door, where coyote made her a terrific lemon birthday cake (decorated with the shock symbol in red glaze icing, it was soon dubbed the Anti-Cake and shared by all).


But Friday was another matter. We should've taken a hint from the weather. The continuing un-Novemberlike warmth, which had fooled us into leaving long-sleeved shirts and jackets at home, abruptly broke while we were standing in line, drenching hundreds of unhappy spooks with cold windy rain and even a quick flurry of snow. (--Oh, that was a moment: I was looking across the bay admiring how pretty the harbor lights looked in what I took to be a haze of fog...then the haze blotted out the lights...then it blotted out things nearer than the lights...and it suddenly dawned on me that what I was watching was a squall line heading for us at the approximate speed of a bullet train. Then it hit.) Elegant Goths in their best nocturnal finery were especially glum. Sara's brand new emerald-green feather boa, however, an impromptu gift from Boathouse staff, survived without more than a slight bedraggling. --All were miserably chilly by the time we finally got inside, actually looking forward to the crush of the pit - at least it's warm!


Well, let's make this one short. I wouldn't go to another show in this cuntfucking pighole for anything. Crowd was brutally rough. Got the living daylights crushed out of me, surfers landing on my neck, arms and hands jammed around and over my head, guys trying to muscle me off the barricade; couldn't see, couldn't breathe, could hardly even stand. Set was trimmed way back. Stage was too low and small for the special effects so no "Cryptorchid" or "ACS"; "Sweet Dreams" was blown away with another "FUCKIT!"; "Reflecting God" was just plain not played. An abbreviated "Misery Machine" and no "Man That You Fear." All in all, only two-thirds of the usual set. coyote suspected Manson could see how violent the crowd was getting and decided to bail before people actually got hurt. No idea if that's so. Either he remembered what a mean dive this is, though, (its reputation was just as bad last year) or someone told him, because his makeup tonight was weird: the blue contact in the right, not left, eye, and a jagged red streak running from right temple through the eye to his jaw like a stripe of half-dried blood.


Crawled out like a kicked dog and cried my eyes out on the railing outside. I was so goddamned wretchedly unhappy. I hate Norfolk. Hate hate hate it.