10/21/95 - Phantasy Theatre, Lakewood/Cleveland OH.

TOO damn cold tonight, the weather's windy and mean. On the way from the car a mom-type asks us to check on her daughter Erika, who'll be wearing something black and shiny. No trouble finding little Erika, a 14-year-old vix in gloss vinyl head to toe, with blue stripes in her hair and a serious fixation on Mr. Manson. Welcome this little girl to the traveling circus - she'll be with us for the next coupla'nights. Meet up with Carrie (and later Devon) who were last seen at the EHC show in Philly, and before that at the MM show in Wilkes Barre,PA; they've been inspired by us, and decided to do as much of the tour as humanly possible. Get a brief Manson sighting - Mr. M walks quickly to the back door in black and shades, and Daisy goes to and from the bus twice, decked out in a brand new black cowboy hat (must need something to keep the bare crown of his head warm=). A VERY scary girlbrat in pajamas and makeup is wandering around doing a little-kid act, calling herself "Little Twiggy" and bidding to be the center of attention, and there's a big, loud, funny blonde guy we decide we like (Jason, we later learn). Besides these newcomers, most of the same kids online as before, just as friendly. We huddle. EVB deals out more fliers. We wait, we freeze.

Yuk.... I watch for awhile as the guys in the car dealership across the street toss a football one to another. Our reverie is interrupted by a shattering crash and a horrified "OhhhSHIT!" - when we look the car dealership has lost one of its eight-foot plateglass show windows, which is now decorating the sidewalk in a pile of shiny shards. Oops, got a bit careless with that football. We all laugh and cheer as the culprit glares bloody murder. I bet he'd love to blame the damage on us punks, but fat chance when the glass is clearly all outside the building...hee hee.

Inside, to the barricade. Wait more, get a little warmer. More fun with H&G - begin to think about getting their CD. (And their great T-shirt --"People Bad, Machines Good.") Some are disappointed that they've dropped Mushroom Head from the bill, whoever they are, but we're delighted. Tonight, however, is THE worst crowd night of this set of shows. Clutch are just as awful, even less happy to see us, and have a large cadre of fans on hand. Their fans kick the fkn' hell out of me. The Manson fans are even worse, and I don't think I have much useful to say about this show, which I spent a lot of in pain and tears. (coyote vows to teach me a few things about handling surfers.) Some bitch actually tries to haul me off the rail by the hair! I have to bite her twice and coyote has to slug her in the face before she backs off. Fun city, Cleveland. But I get a whole hell of a lot of Reverential attention this show; either he's fascinated by the amount of abuse I'm willing to take, or it's the amount of attention I'm focusing on him. We all get some, but I get more, and I absorb it. I can't get enough information, can't pull in enough grist for the mill, I'm eating the show in handfuls, and even all this goddamn smashing around I'm taking works into it somehow. Such an intense experience--

One thing I wonder about: he seems to notice that I won't sing the "burn the witches" verse in "Dogma." coyote thinks he spotted my pentagram jewelry - I wonder if that's saying too much - but in the last verse it indisputably became "burn the children." Happenstance? Making a point? Just to make myself feel better I decide it was for me.

They do "Rock'n'Roll Nigger," their version, with the Brian Warner line! We bounce and sing along, and point and grin when we get to his name. Amused, definitely. (Good joke!) "Strawberry Fields Forever" is now the intro to "My Monkey." "Smells Like Children" again too. Man, I love that one. This time I recognize it when it starts and we sing some of the chorus, which is duly noted. Cool.

More Manson/Ramirez byplay, this time including a very torchy kiss and a big wrap-around-from-behind hug. Twig's in red tonight, one of his classic waitress dresses, with typical makeup. Daisy's in much better spirits, even does some little running bounces off his slantboard. Stilts on the Rev again, too, and I'm actually pointed the right way when he comes in so I get a good long look. But there's so much I don't see, because I've got my head down or fuckheads or bouncers are in my way. It gets too miserable to stand. I fold up on the barrier and wail. It's not the pain, it's the frustration of being constantly distracted, of having to worry about being distracted, of not being able to give the show and the Reverend's wonderful eyes my full and undivided attention because some bunch of flying fuckwits think it's fun to spend the night bouncing around like beachballs. I'm so mad and exasperated and hurt I can't take any more. When it's over I start to get away - someone asks me if I'm all right and I surprise myself with the hysterical shriek that comes out of me - "No! I am FUCKING NOT ALL RIGHT!" I shove my way to the back of the club and have a wall-clawing sobbing fit, can't stop crying, don't feel any better even when coyote shows me her prize for the night - one of the Rev's water bottles. I can't stop. Damn! It is just not fuckin' fair!

(Same encore as last night, by the way.)

Cathy and I (she took nearly as bad a kicking) talk about not going down front again tomorrow night. EVB & coyote assure us that Cleveland is always a rough crowd, and besides, tomorrow is the trusty, good ol' Newport Music Hall, a good and friendly place to gig. We'll see.

Still cold and raining when we leave. Again we decide to skip hanging out at the bus.

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