Those of you who have crossed my path virtually or in real time since the tour have probably heard me speak of gnomes. I know, wtf right? Gnomes? As I now have time to properly recap everything, come snuggle up to your LCD and let me tell you a tale.
We were in Bolton, U.K. for our third show, our first of three festivals. We had just come from Glasgow, where a motley gang of Scots from this outskirts town called Dundee invited us to crash on their floor and then let us do anything but crash (though we did get to see the matching pair of "W" tattoos on Ricky's ass cheeks. What does that spell, we wondered . . . "WIW?"). I was the first to crawl out of the van and check out the venue while everyone tried to curl up in their sleeping bags and catch up on rest. It was an all-day event with bands at a big brick warehouse worthy of anything in LA's fashion district. As the first one with any actual energy (overnight work has prepped me to run on very little sleep) I was elected as the body at the merch table that day. So I sat huddled in green scarf and bright orange hat, bracing the breeze coming in from the door carrying the end of England's winter, and broke away to get changed in the van. I repeat, big shows with lots of bands = less to give to each band in terms of changing room, food, anything. But no biggie.
I went to the van to throw on my clothes, where Caroline was setting up her gear to film. I started prattling on about I don't know what -- probably how I was tired and not up to playing that day and how bad the weather was -- and once my outfit was assembled I threw my orange hat back on and said something along the lines of, "Look at me, I look like some sort of dominatrix gnome." And thus it all began. And then Caroline and I ended up running back to the venue taking gleeful pictures.
I don't remember how the gnoming spread, but somehow it just kind of stuck (probably didn't help that I started prancing around and running through fields). But the thing that really became odd was from that point on, we started seeing these gnomes everywhere -- in store window displays, as the sole item of graffiti on a wooden plank near a cafe we liked in The Hague, in rural gas stations in Croatia, sticking their middle finger up at us in bars . . .
It got really absurd.
The idea of being followed by magical little creatures was comforting though -- the gnome spirit came in really handy when times were rough and we had to weather fighting. It always felt good to see them around and know that they had our backs. So when the subject of tattoos inevitably came up (evidently it's a tour thing) it didn't take me long to figure out who I wanted to bring home with me. So whenever I need a gnome, I never have to look too far . . .
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