This is the ninth in a series of true stories about an anonymous punk rock guy
Land of the Mouse
[a follow up to this story.]
Disneyland. Anaheim California. That is the town of Mighty Ducks, Del Taco, and misinterpretations of "UNITY" tattoos. Somewhere you only go if you want to ride the Matterhorn and have visual sex with Minnie Mouse.
A place that was as flat as the desert and just as god damn boring.
This is where our recording time was. This is where we had to spend what seemed like a lifetime.
We spent all our days in bars with no money waiting for a transfer from the label. We walked from bar to bar. That's what we did. Find happy hours. Move around and not talk to each other. Waitress walks up, we walk away, shoving back the free chili dogs or whatever the fuck they had.
Fuck, I think I was on a popcorn diet ‘til "Nacho Thursday" one week. We moved when they asked us what we wanted to drink. Water only can push you so far until they figure out you are a bunch of freeloaders and toss you out. That’s what we did. And I don't make any apologies or excuses. ‘Cause nachos rule, dude. Two words. "Free" and "Nachos." Hey dude, if this a dream don't fucking wake me up cause this is the best I ate in days.
We always did get thrown out. It was just a matter of time . Ticking away. Like a fucking time bomb. Shove that shit back like you are in the fucking Kentucky Derby. Get as much back cause the race is on and it only lasts a few minutes before the wreath is on the winner and you have to leave.