The Coke Dares are an American rock and roll band. They recently wrapped up a tour of part of America. They were kind enough to document their journey for Postcard Elba. Just as time outside of time to rock has no meaning on tour, the diary entries are starting to come in out of order. Embrace the chaos and lose yourself with the Coke Dares.
Thurs. July 15th: Columbus, OH – The Treehouse
By John Bottom
Awakenating. Completely sprawled on the floor. I had woken up several times previously to feed my head with delicious life-giving water. Looking down at what passed for a “bed” created by the inebriated version of myself, John Smashfield, it looked to be the setting of a pillow fight between two hounds. A glance over to the left delivers the image of a satisfied and tenderly slumbering Beach Dog, Jason Groth, on a long decedent leather couch. Knowing that JahGrah had gone to bed slightly after me, leads me wondering to myself, “Why did I sleep on the floor? How did I miss that comfortable sleeping opportunity?” I’m definitely loosing my edge. I like to think that my momentum from the party careened me into the spot of my slumber: a humble little spot on the living room floor up against the treadmill.
Adhering a dark pair of ladies sunglasses to my skull and popping some extra strength “lil’ ovals” made my headache resemble only one of the more outer rings of hell.
Surveying the scene of Rob’s house, Rob being the owner of Roburrittos (York, PA.get here!), I saw candy, gummi worms, some sort of half-finished fingers, I assume to be chicken, and much more, all of this criss-crossed with a blurring matrix of super bright raking sun light whose soul purpose was to enter my head through my eyes and destroy my brain.
But we aren’t gonna let that happen, are we? Let’s moped!
Rob had told us before that he had a collection of mopeds. We had joked in the van that we hoped he had four of them so we might all ride together. Holy living fuck, the joke was on us. Old boy had a fleet.
We assembled a rag tag group to ride to the gas station. I purchased a delicious juice to provide a healthy blast to my unforgiving body, a drip of teasing bait to trick my corpus into thinking the junk food binge was taking a sabbatical, or at least situationally subsiding enough for a deep breath, or maybe even a shower. How wrong that was.
Back to the house. We assembled more dudes and rode out for burritos and ICE CREAM! At Roburritos, there was a weird plain-clothes state cop attempting to eat three “toddlers.” This is a REALLY BIG BURRITO. He was starting his third when he finally hit the road. I couldn’t eat that much food in a day.
It’s a gorgeous feeling, the hangover burning off while letting your eyes casually canvas the surrounding hills, fields, cows, barns, and Oreo-flavored hurricanes. We all got weird tan lines to prove it.
Into the van! W talk about how we either all want mopeds or different/better mopeds, we start to long drive to Columbus.
Why did we eat Big Macs? Why do bad jokes always turn into horrible reality? A horrible idea and an equally, if not more horrible, after math.
We arrive in Columbus. We play with Velcro Jones and Mount Caramel. It was a bluesy bluesy night.
After the whirlwind of sweat, wet industrial carpet, and people complaining about how the bathrooms smells like horse piss, we are back in the van and off the Crowne Plaza. 40 Bucks! Thank you, Beach Dog. We bask in the all-together brisk aura of the over powered AC unit that we have come to expect from the CROWNE PLAZA. We power down with the King. Ug. My poor little body.
The burgers don’t sit well (natch) and I decide to watch Star Trek: First Contact under the desk that provides the only Internet connection in the room. My camp is set up. Opening credits roll, Data cracks a lame joke and I am off to simmer in the proud waters of the Slumbering Swamps.