9-26 Columbus: Dear Reader, full of cheers and jeers, if you are still there, here is my final notice, my– cough, cough– swan song: We left Buffalo, gased up at a reservation, and, with the windows down and a sky full of blue, listened to Desire and the air blew chilly on my anxiety-bald patch from a head full of worry that resides where I’m going next. That place is called home, and as I arrived safe and almost sound, I feel pretty good about the trip/tour. It wasn’t great every night, but we met lots of good people and saw a part of the country we hardly knew. Months from now, the bills on my table will be forgotten as will the nastiness that everyone endures when they step two feet beyond where they feel most comfortable. The unknown is the best and I would rather play to 30 strangers in a strange town and sleep on floors than to a room of friends down the street from my apartment any day. We sold a lot of CDs, played some of our best sets ever, gathered life lessons. And, it was our first tour where there were– gasp!– fans, and I’ll always remember that.

I feel pretty lucky to have had a place to sing my songs every night, even if, at times, we were at odds with our environment. Our isn’t for everyone, but I’ve never tried to be the Coug and “Dark Plums” is no “Jack and Diane”. There is a place in the world for most people’s music, you just have to go out and find it.

The drive home was quiet. The Black Swans enjoyed a 4:20 farewell, Canaan sketched some cock-n-balls in the back seat, the Taurus stole the guts from a few more butterflys on I-90. I whistled along to Roger Miller.

Sometimes you want something for so long, it is hard to admit you don’t want it anymore after you get a tiny taste. But I could have stayed out there playing shows for a while longer, and so the dream lives on. And maybe that is all it is, a dream, a dream, a dream, that no one else shares. And in our untelevised St. Elsewhere, I am Mark Harmon and Canaan and Noel are a hot, narrow nurse, standing beside me in a snow globe holding hands, as we sing songs of doubt, hard-ons, and faith.

So thanks for watching. Just don’t cuss the fiddle, or Noel might type, “Barf! You rong.”

We show up in Buffalo and end our health kick by going to Hemingway’s for the cheeseburger we all crave. Then, the Mohawk where we play our last show of the tour and heard, I hope, for the last time: “Elf Power is playing down the street tonight.” I like EP, but that’s the 5th time this tour and you’ve gotta blame someone. The show was alright and we played fine. Somebody taped it once again, so if anyone of yous are reading this, send the music my way. The Mohawk is a great bar, and Vox Humana and Tracy Morrow both played really good sets. Marty and Susan took us home and left us to our own devices. Excellent people that made the final night of feeling free- like a spirit, like an animal, like musician- all the better. Now we drive and there will be one more blog to wrap things up. 6 hours from Yes Direction Home is no-no fun.

We played a pretty good show, two more to go, but no one was there minus 7 people. Still doing different songs every night, 22 to choose from now, no set list. Drove right off to Scotty and Laura’s, 2 hour trip, to hang and sleep. I had other things to tell, I think, but just realized a Miller Lite bottle broke in my clothes bag that I stashed way way back in Richmond, VA years ago, and everything is soaked and smelly, little bits of glass everywhere. Breakfast is coming; I can smell it. Rochester tonight and maybe Uncle Joey will be there. I’m not excited to go home, but I can feel it nearing and everything that comes with it.

After the gig, we took off Black Swans style for a bar called Lux, red and warm, where we shot pool and drank whiskey with Ivy and Crystal, were recognized by several from our hype machine. Sweet talked/shit talked coffee form a local roaster below us, threw away what we bought in Vermont as tribute. Canaan wants eggs and cheese and since he finished his ninja mind control book days ago, he has nothing to read. Noel is reading up on Seamanship, inspired by our port town visits. The Black Swans aren’t going coastal, but they do need a shower. This is what touring is all about: boredom, friendship, music. Tonight is our last show. I hate coming home, so does Noel, so does the Taurus, but Canaan has a life, so I think he’s ready and I would be to if I were him. Buffalo Gold! And a happy birthday Lou.

The Radio Bean is cool with music from 7-1, and we took the 11:30 shift with the absence of our buddy Lou. We drank free Jamison and ate healthy down the street for $4, a combo the Black Swans would like to repeat as it makes us all feel good. Super small crowd as most locals left after their friends played, but had a good time, made $39 pass the bucket style and sold a few CDs. Steve just made us breakfast and has earned Black Swans Super Fan staus since he emailed us weeks ago with this invite and followed through. We’ll go to the capital city today, but not you C-bus, and I’ll dream of Providence, you know the one. Glad to be out of the big cities that never set me free. But I could use some of that butter lotion I sing about every night because my skin is drying out.

VIDEO: The Black Swans Live on WMPG Radio Portland Maine

So am I complaining still? Not really, this is just how it is. But when clubs think you’re a Black Metal band because of a silly Myspace ID you know you’re hurting (I use the internet to look at hot girls, not learn the truth!). And a couple big reviews can’t buy what label press/distro/identity can give. But I’m in a car with R2D2 and C3PO and couldn’t feel better here beside the water. It really has been great in a lot of ways. So pet my lobster and it’ll get bigger.

9-15 Rainy Night in Georgia: Not Georgia, but that’s what Canaan was singing all day and Noel was grunting along in jest of my love for Tony Joe White as we walked around in the rain, which is what it does every time The Black Swans play in New York. So we went to a bar too early where they were interviewing really hot women for future bartentder positions and now I have the first hangover of the tour. Ouch! The gig at Piano’s was good. People listened but a few missed us who wanted some since we switched set times since Lou was running late. I pulled a fast one at the club and all parties agreed to give us a bar split instead of that other negotiation.

Here’s a puzzle: 4, 67, 42, 20, 45. What are these numbers? No, not the one that drives Hurley crazy on LOST, this is the amount of money that the Black Swans can’t live on. Take X at the door, take Y off the top of that, and give us Z percent of that, and there is shit. This has been the biggest financial loss of a Black Swans tour so far, but what about the music? Pretty good I think, but Dark Plums (see track 4 of Sex Brain) don’t taste good for breakfast and some mornings that is all we got. Thankfully, our best friends in Williamsburg just woke us up with coffee and egg and bacon sandwich. We leave for New Haven now.

9-16 Waking with the Dead: The Black Swans rocked New Haven, sort of. There was a nice article in the daily paper, big and bold with quotes and stuff, but I never saw it. And Rudy’s filled up at $3 a Yale-er but not because of us, it just did. Lou looked beat down from the bar life, as he prefers the arty venues, but the Black Swans more than anything are an actor in an absurdist play I wrote in a dream. The show was mild and wild, giggles, walk-outs, and hollars. A mid-50s hispanic woman sat stage-side with her man, and she yelled things like “I love you” and “God bless” and “You are beautiful” throughout the set. I was happy to have a woman’s attention so more than once I leaned over and said “Ditto”. It felt good to pull some songs, not care so much, scat Dylan lyrics mid-song as my tribute to the Never Ending Tour history that took place at Toad’s Place right down the street. 3 shows in row without my posters appearing, which always makes me sad and mad.

We made $120, and Julian was there to witness. You Columbus-ites might remember him from Buckeye Donuts, I almost did. So he gave us a place to stay in a funeral home 30 minutes away. He picks up dead bodies; his g-friend trades their blood for chemicals. Not as creepy as it sounds, but I haven’t been downstairs since the sun rose. Last night we had a proper greek dinner in a garden so I felt human again for 5 minutes. Canaan hears that the nation’s best hotdog is down the street a few miles. It is called Super Duper Weenie. Time to be an animal. My side hurts from floors, my body aches all over. I feel older than the person I was on the glorious Northwest tour last Spring. Sunday, and headed to New London, CT. Lou-Lewis and Clarke- says the show will be great. But he’s a positive person and I’m not. I could have called this blog ‘Sunday morning Comin’ Down’ but I think I’ve used that one before.

9-17: This is blog about why I need to stop thinking, judging, and being negative, so here: The day starts out with the Super Duper Weenie post-funeral home shower. I get slaw, chili and dog times 2. Then we ride into New London. The venue looks bleak, glass front with nothing inside except white walls and a lonely Black Swans poster hanging in the window. There is dog shit on the street and thugs, old and young, shooting dice, begging, hissing and pissing, plus the rich stepping off the ferry heading home in SUVs. Sunday and sleepy, minus the bagpipe chorus outside the Irish bar, and because the whole thing smells like bust, I start to driiiink and think. I consider bagging the show. The first band is full of 15 year olds, and I watch them get dropped off by their parents. I think, I am an old man in comparison, singing songs about hard-ons and existential doom and gloom, why would they want to see this/hear this? But I get talked out of the whole thing, turn my head on right, and wise up. The Black Swans make it a hat show: Canaan is the visor that lights up, Noel is the orange fishing cap, I am the blue ball cap with “If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch” slogan blazing truth. Thick Thieves are great, for any age. The people stay, mostly high school age. I skip Sex Brain songs as a self-imposed parental advisory, we play mostly Who Will Walk… songs for the first time and lots of new ones. Everyone seems to dig it, we sell CDs, some to a sheepish young lady who tries to hide the Sex Brain in a blush, make $60 and call it the best of the tour.

Afterwards, I make a friend that shows me the beach, plays me some Jerry Garcia acoustic band cd that was my favorite record of all time when I was 17, and then I smoked some pot for the first time in years. Stayed at the Quiet Life household, super nice guys, and a good band. We saw deer in their yard last night and had a bagel for breakfast. Even my hair-bald-anxiety patch/scarlet A is growing back. Providence tonight. I changed my guitar strings this morning, and I feel prety good.

another pic after the jump…