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Turn The Page and You'll See A Day In The Life
(Part 2 of 6)

EXCERPT TUMBLING DICE MAGAZINE, JUNE 5:

HEADLINE: Holy War Strikes Comex Summer Tour

Bad blood backstage between the frontmen for G.O.D. and the Particle Board for World Recovery has apparently ignited a holy war behind the scenes of the Comex Cleanser Summer Tour that is pitting band against band.

Sources, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said most of the 22 artists and groups booked for the entire six week tour have split into two distinct factions. One is led by G.O.D. singer Brad Anderson and the other by Shane Glory, singer for the Particle Board. At least one outbreak of violence has been linked to the factionalism.

"It's like the believers versus the non-believers," one source said. "It's Jerusalem, dude. It's totally out of control."

About the relationship between Glory and Anderson, the source said, "Oh yeah, they hate each other, no question."

Glory refused to address the situation directly, saying he'd been threatened with legal action if he even mentioned Anderson's name. But Glory, who is never one to stay quiet, didn't.

"Here's the real issue — God and rock and roll don't mix," he said. "Nothing pisses me off more than when some shithead whines and moans about the Lord in a pop song. don't we get enough of that shit from the President? And when the music is so bad — like it is with (G.O.D.), It's especially offensive. "It's a form of brainwashing — like Britney Spears and Good Charlotte."

Anderson — through the band's publicist — refused to comment about Glory or the Particle Board or the situation on the Comex tour or "the situation in Philadelphia," citing legal reasons.

The Philadelphia situation was apparently when things came to a boiling point between the two rock stars. Although no one would officially confirm it, Anderson and three others were treated at a local hospital for minor injuries.

Anderson again refused to comment, saying only," God's love works in mysterious ways."

Glory said he couldn't talk about what happened in Philly.

"But I will say that if someone is dumb enough to throw on me, they get what they deserve," he said. Another source, who was present for the altercation but wished to remain anonymous, said, "Brad was pissed that Shane was walking around backstage in his underwear — which was kind of weird, though not that weird for Shane — and when he said something to him, all hell broke loose." Anderson definitely threw the first punch, the source said, "but it wasn't like he had committed to it, you know? He may as well have, though, cuz Shane was looking for an excuse." Glory ducked the limp punch and "fucked him up good," the source said.

"There was no contest, really. Shane was so fast you barely saw it happen. I heard the dude's former special forces but I don't know. All I know is he looked like Van Dam in Kickboxer. I felt sorry for the dude (Anderson).

"Shane didn't have a scratch on him in the end." Asked which side he was on, the source, a member of one of the touring bands, said, "Neither, really. I mean, G.O.D. and the couple other bands who really identify with them are cheesy no doubt about it. But Shane and those guys, they're just plain dangerous." The skirmish is the latest in a long list of problems for the Particle Board. Each member of the band, except bassist Renner Tylo, has been busted for drugs in the last year, with guitarist John Largo getting popped three times for heroin possession in the last nine months. Glory has also been charged with assault four times in the last three years for punching photographers and, in one case, a fan. He was also recently stopped at London's Heathrow Airport for attempting to carry nearly an ounce of marijuana hidden in his crotch into the country . Add to that the fact that the band's last two records have failed to generate any interest — among fans or critics — and, though we hate to admit it, we may be witnessing the final gasps from a band that once seemed so promising.

Shane Glory wakes with a start. His body shakes violently and his stomach is busy churning his guts into butter. He still wears clothes from the night before, and they are soaked through with sweat. His boots remain on his feet.

He is splayed on top of a crinkly hotel bedspread he knows is obliquely foul with hidden emanations from hundreds, perhaps thousands, of greasy humans who have come before him, and being cheek to cheek with it is suddenly too much to bear. He sits up to clear his head and the stained beast makes a crunchy, starched sound. He looks at the red LCD readout on the $5 alarm clock next to the bed. 3:43 a.m. Fuck me, he thinks He's had "The Dream" again. He was back on the streets of Mogadishu, spraying more bullets per second than any man has a right. The acrid smell of burning garbage, dust and gunpowder sears the insides of his sinus cavity even now.

She sits like a billboard in his mind's eye. The girl — as she runs toward him — can't be more than 20, all dark brown skin and stratospheric cheekbones. She carries a baby in one arm and an AK-47 in the other. The baby can't be more than a year old. She squeezes off a few wild shots that ricochet off the brown stucco buildings lining the dirt street. Shane raises his rife and pumps 10 rounds into her before his brain has a chance to catch up to what his body is doing. The other members of his team unload as well. In five seconds, the mother and baby are reduced to a splattered, pulpy mound to be eaten by street dogs later when the firefight dies down.

Shane shakes off the torturous apparition. Well, he knows what needs to happen now, or else he'll never get any sleep. They now have another appointment with Ronald and Co., and this time there will be no bullshit amateur mistakes. He exhales a cloud of blue marijuana smoke toward the bedside lamp and watches it dissipate. No use in waiting to tell Renner, he thinks.

Shane changes clothes and steps into the dimly lit hallway. Minutes later the half-asleep girl behind the reception desk hands him the key to Renner's room, which he has just claimed is his room. She's no longer half-asleep and Shane knows she recognizes him as a rock star, a deity to be worshipped and obeyed.

Minutes after that, Shane pauses outside Renner's door. He thinks he hears something — something low and guttural — but his hand is already on its way to slide the door key into the slot and it is too late to stop the trajectory.

"Renner It's me," he says, stepping inside and flipping on the light switch "wake up."

Shane freezes; he thinks he might puke. Another unwanted image has just been burned irrevocably into his brain's primordial hard-wiring — right alongside the pulverized mother and child — never to be erased, never to be forgotten.

Renner tries to speak but his throat is closed up and only tiny squeaks emerge.

Jake — lead singer for the Frieghttrain Suckers and favorite pin-up boy for junior high school girls everywhere — leans back against the headboard, clasps his hands behind his head and stares at Shane, a vague smirk on his face.

John sits on the couch holding the guitar he's had since he was 12. His presence in the room is physical only. Otherwise, he is elsewhere. The song he absently strums is melodic, familiar, haunting.

Wammo paces around the, generic, particle board hotel room like a man possessed. His nervous energy permeates and magnifies the tension in the room.

Renner sits in a chair in the corner of the room. No one has bothered to open the curtains so he is buried in shadow. On the table next to him is a copy of the latest Tumbling Dice magazine. Renner appears to be having staring contest with the floor.

Shane sits on the edge of the bed, where he occupies the exact geographic center of the room. He is bent forward with his head in his hands as if suffering from a migraine.

Whitey has just left the room. He has told them, in no particular order, that (A) they are off the tour, (B) that, as of Monday, their record company is dropping them, and © that he believes they don't care anymore either, so he quits.

The following is an excerpt of that meeting:

"Now, just hold on Whitey," Wammo begins.

"Let's not bullshit each other anymore, James," White says, using Wammo's real name. "You and Renner haven't been on the same page since the first show in New York. John's so fucked up most nights he can't keep up and sometimes he can't even stand up. And Shane, are you even singing in English anymore? You sound like you're speaking some Dylan dialect from the early-to-mid-80s."

Here's another:

"This isn't all on me," Shane says. "There's something else."

"No, that is it," Whitey says and they can all tell that he is now angry. "These guys have church groups protesting outside the venues — of a summer rock tour for fuck's sake! This Holy War thing is out of control. It's bad for business."

"Wrong," says Shane. "It's free publicity. It sells more tickets and all these fuckers care about is money anyway so they should be happy. Did anyone find out what advance ticket sales have done since this shit went down?"

Here's the last one:

"Maybe the decision was personal. At this point who cares? They're not just kicking you off because of this religion thing."

Whitey lets the statement hang in the air for few seconds before continuing.

"They're kicking you off because, with the exception of a song here and there, your shows have sucked, frankly. Look I'm sorry, but It's better you hear it from me. It's obvious to everyone but the four of you that the four of you don't give a shit anymore. And that, more than any schoolboy crap going on between you and G.O.D., is the real reason you're being dumped from this tour."

The room has suddenly become too small for the four of them together. John somehow gets to his feet, finds his equilibrium, picks up his guitar, says "Okay, see you in L.A.," and walks out the door.

"You guys," says Wammo, a pleading tone in his coked out voice, "what are we gonna do?" He looks at Renner. "Renner, why the hell are you so quiet? What do you think?"

"Since Shane messed this all up, maybe we should ask him," Renner says.

"Fuck you faggot," Shane says quietly.

Renner gets up and walks out the door.

"What the fuck was that?" Wammo says. "Shane?"

Shane rises from the bed and walks out the door.

Wammo, as is his wont, is left confused, a tad bewildered and wide awake.