A Peek Behind the Memoir Curtain

I'm knee-deep in my road trip memoir. Sometimes I feel a bit schizophrenic, living in The Now Times with my wife and kids; in 1988, when I traveled from New England to the Southwest with three buddies; and in the future, when I can revisit some of the places we hit along the way.

I like the way the book is coming together, but I still have plenty of work to do on it. I have no idea if it's a viable product for a traditional publisher. I plan to push it in that direction, but will go the print on-demand route if I have to, as I did with my first book, (C)rock Stories: Million Dollar Tales of Music, Mayhem and Immaturity.

Over the past 11 months of working on the book, I've done a lot of research online. I've looked into campgrounds and motels where we stayed, checked out maps of our route, discovered tourist attractions that I wish we'd visited, and scoped out bars and clubs where we hung out.

So I figured I'd share some of what I found in the latter category, as that's the stuff that I find most interesting.

Unfortunately, some of the places we went to have been lost in the mists of time. Either I forget them, or they simply don't exist 25 years after the fact.

There was the Goal Post Cafe near Bucknell University, for instance. There, on the first night of our trip, we saw a band called The Plague. Sounds like a punk band, no? Well, it wasn't. The bar may still be there, but I can't find any trace of it online.

In Philly, we spent a great night at a place that I remember as being called Frank's. But my good friend Jay Breitling, who knows a thing or twelve about boozing it up in the City of Brotherly Love, wonders whether we were at Dirty Frank's, which is a legendary watering hole. I have no idea where we were, but we had a blast drinking and watching three of the funniest guys in the world pump quarters into one of those "claw" games where you try to win stupid prizes like stuffed bears and different stuffed bears.

In Myrtle Beach, we hung out at the Rock Burger. Owned by one of the guys from lame-o band Firehouse (not to be confused with awesome band fIREHOSE), the bar had hot, friendly waitresses who kept trying to sell t-shirts to my buddies (Andy, Pete, John) and me. The place closed in '95, but someone opened it up about 10 years later in a new spot.

We also spent time at a placed called Pier 14, which I have no memory of, and Buddy's Place, where we heard a redneck singer in the band use the "N-word" after the lone black guy left the bar. The band then proceeded to play "(Sittin' On) the Dock of the Bay," which of course was written and performed by one of the most amazing performers of all time, Otis Redding -- who's black.

Continuing south, we hit Athens, Georgia, home of R.E.M. There, we hit the legendary 40 Watt Club, which R.E.M. guitarist Peter Buck used to co-own. We saw a few bands there, neither of which I liked. I sorta, kinda tried to hit on a chick from a band called Ray Ugly, and because I was so drunk, I thought she was sorta, kinda good looking. Pete assured me she wasn't, but she was nice enough to take us to a party, but I passed out in the van soon after we got there.

Andy struck out with the bartender.

Our home base while in Athens was a great Mexican restaurant/bar called Gus Garcia's. The bartenders there took a shine to us, and even gave us some free shots. One of them told us, as he was coming on to his shift, that there was a Klan rally about 10 miles outside of town. I don't know if he was jerking our chains, but we decided to stay put.

The place doesn't seem to be in business anymore, unfortunately.

Naturally, when we hit New Orleans, the pace of drinking and insanity picked up a bit. We hit a bunch of bars, the most memorable of which was a strip club called Big Daddy's.

Compared to the pathetic joints I'd been to in Connecticut, Big Daddy's was ornate, and the dancers were almost attractive. We were drawn to the place by the mannequin swinging out over the sidewalk from a window of the bar. There was also a swing inside the bar where live girls did rotating shifts.

We didn't spend much time there, but we sure did spend too much money on drinks, that's for sure.

Read all about Big Daddy's sordid past here. This place is also deadzo.

The Rum Boogie Cafe in Memphis holds the distinction of being the place where I spent the most time drinking in one location, in my life. John and I spent eight hours there drinking beer and Jagermeister, whooping it up for Mojo Buford, who, unbeknownst to us at the time, had been Muddy Waters' harp player at one time.

Here's a taste of Mr. Mojo:

Andy and Pete started at the Rum Boogie with us around 3:30 but left four hours later for a professional wrestling event.

We parted ways (temporarily) with Andy in Memphis. The next bars that John, Pete and I hung out in were in Albuquerque.

There were two bars we frequented during out three-month hitch in the Land of Enchantment.

El Madrid was right around the corner from the house we rented. It looked like this, and still does.

We shot pool there, drank cheap beer and saw some mostly unmemorable bands and even a performance poet. The mural is killer, isn't it?

We also spent time at the Fat Chance Bar & Grill. There, we saw local bands including Cracks In the Sidewalk, whose bass player was incredibly hot, and A Murder of Crows, who kicked a large amount of ass.

Here's a 1986 video from public access TV of Cracks In the Sidewalk. They start playing around the 1:15 mark, and when they finish, another band comes on. The bass player doesn't look hot in this video, but trust me, she was.

Alas, the Fat Chance closed in 1997.

So there's a little taste of what I'm brewing up in my memoir.

Selective Memory

I've long thought that I have a poor memory, but in working on a memoir about a road trip I took nearly 25 years ago, I've come around a bit to give myself some credit, and feel as though I've learned a bit about how my memory works.

First, let me state that there are times when my memory isn't all that great. My wife will tell me something about an upcoming plan for the weekend, and later that day I'll ask her, "What are we doing Saturday?" She just looks at me and says, "Weren't you listening to me earlier?"

I was listening, but I wasn't concentrating on what she said. Sometimes I truly didn't register the information, and can't summon it. Other times, I'm too lazy to think about the conversation and ask her to repeat what she told me. Occasionally, I'll burn a few brain cells and recall the information.

Unlike a lot of people, I can't blame my distraction on smart phone usage. As of this writing, I'm still living in Luddite Land, with a dumb phone. Rather, I have a hard time focusing on what other people are saying sometimes, instead letting my mind wander to thinking about some random shiny object or song running through my head.

Sometimes I distract myself during a conversation by telling myself, "Hey, pay attention to this!" which of course guarantees that I'm not paying attention. Weird, I know. Maybe it's ADD.

Still, in writing my memoir (working title: "My Four-Month Tour of Duty on the Battleship Patchouli") I've raised more details in my mind than I would've thought possible before I started writing the book.

My primary resources are a short journal and an audiotape that I kept during the trip, as well as two articles I wrote for my hometown newspaper (R.I.P., Farmington Valley Herald) to spark my memory. Still, those resources leave a lot of gaps, especially during our travels across Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas and New Mexico, and our time spent living in Albuquerque.

I've reached out to my road trip buddies -- Andy, Pete and John. As I and listen to and read (via email) their memories of the trip, and as I spend more time writing and researching and thinking about the trip, memories pop up and fill in important spaces in the manuscript.

What valuable nuggets have emerged? Going to the stock car races in Albuquerque, and seeing a Powder Puff competition. Visiting a strip club in New Orleans featuring a girl on a swing. Getting chili-and-cheese hot dogs way too often at 7-Eleven. Riveting stuff? Perhaps not, but all these tidbits help paint a larger picture.

As I've asked questions of my road-mates, I realized they remember some of what I recall, but by no means have better memories than I do. Perhaps it's just because I've spent so much time on this in recent months, or maybe my memory isn't as bad as I thought it was.

I'm having a great time working on the memoir, primarily because it's a fun challenge to put together my history and to analyze who I was in 1988 and who I've become. And secondarily, I find it enjoyable because I've learned to give myself a break when it comes to my historical recall.

Now, please to enjoy Giant Sand covering Johnny Thunders: