It didn’t take long for Boggs to start blasting us on social media.
We were barely back on the road before the narrative became that we stole his money and quit the tour for no reason. For all the Damn Rascals knew, we had called it quits because we couldn’t handle life on the road. It’s funny to be starving, sunburned and exhausted, sweating to death in a van with no air conditioning in the desert, and have strangers in comment sections accuse you of being pampered. I was writing about all of it in the pages of AMP Magazine, but for all anyone knew, I could have been acting as a mouthpiece for the band. I wasn’t, of course, but the chronically online are rarely hungry for truth.
The first all-night drive back led us to Lawrence, Kanas. Al from KTP—a friend of the band—assured us that his door was always open to weary travelers. There was an unmistakable spiritual serenity found in Lawrence that I’ve been chasing ever since. Al volunteered to buy us all dinner and a round of drinks, and just that simple act made him seem like the greatest human on the planet. His house felt so warm and safe that I wound up getting some of the best couch sleep of my entire life in his living room.
I can remember how bonded I felt to everyone as we were traveling back to California. We were all within a stone’s throw of the same age, which meant our chemistry held the same mixture of ‘90s nostalgia and 21st century cynicism. All of us shared a dark sense of humor, the same whimsical belief in doing the impossible. We would have lost our minds on the road if not for each other.
Chi Chi and Justin drove the next 600 miles into Amarillo, Texas. The only tangible benefit to driving all night is seeing the sunrise over a new city. As such, we were first in line at Cadillac Ranch that morning. It’s difficult to resist the charm of something so kitschy and uniquely American, especially when it finally resulted in a story for the folks back home that wasn’t so god damn depressing. Before we left, we went on an Indiana Jones style quest to find Chi Chi the perfect belt buckle because, you know, when in Rome …
When we stopped the next morning in Santa Rosa, New Mexico to let the van rest, I noticed on the map that we were about halfway between Hannibal and home. The tour was broken down in shambles behind us, and ahead of us lay a giant question mark, if we were lucky enough to even make it that far. Feeling they owed their fans an explanation, the band sat down to write a letter that they would post on their socials. Lucky for us, I found it:
Dear Fans and Friends (To Whom It May Concern),
If you are reading this, congratulations, you can read! We were very excited to rock your nips off, but due to several hundreds of thousands of dozens of dollars being lost, we had to reassess our predicament when we reached the Mississippi River. Since our van was very sick, we had to take it to a local van doctor. Apparently, our van was possessed by the evil Icelandic hockey team from D2: The Mighty Ducks.
Having no more dozens of dollars left, no access to pieces of eight, no pirate treasures, and discovering our promised tour support money was nothing more than a handful of Chuck E. Cheese tokens and a pile of ski-ball tickets (and although we had an abundance of nick-nacks and slappy hands) we discovered we had no acceptable currency for auto repairs.
Stuck in a pickle, we were left with no choice but to sell Tyler Evans from AMP Magazine to a dirt farm in Edmond, OK (home of the spotted milk bison, “Where You Want to be Free”). We came up with enough pesos to limp our way back to Los Angeles (“City of Fallen Angels and Constant Danger,” where we winter as superheroes) at a brisk pace of 35 mph. Unfortunately, we will not be able to rock your nips off on this particular tour, but on the other hand, now you get to keep them.
Luckily, the full harrowing tale will be told by Tyler Evans on ampmagazine.com. Fair warning though, his final article may be a little bitter towards us as he is currently being used as a plow on the aforementioned dirt farm. The whole ordeal has left him red in the face.
Love (and always nasty),
Chi Chi
P.S.- We know all three dozen of our fans are as bummed as we are that we can’t make the tour, but we have surprises in store for you later in the year.
Living Fast and Dying Poor,
The Scarred
After posting the letter, we eased out of the parking lot and back onto the interstate towards Los Angeles. Questions still loomed, of course. There were still shows from the tour booked for California that we could jump on, probably. None of that mattered tonight. I rode copilot for Justin and kept him awake by talking Roswell conspiracy theories and telling ghost stories. We wouldn’t be home in the morning, but we would be one night closer.
That was enough.
The cash left over from the lockbox wasn’t enough to get us all the way back to California. We made it over the state line the same way we had made it through the whole trip, by sticking together and combining our resources. We had nothing left when we finally made it: no food, no water, no money. We couldn’t have made it another day; it would have been impossible.
Chi Chi and I were the only ones still awake when we saw the lights of Los Angeles.
By the time we got to Justin’s front yard, we were already blasting “The Boys Are Back in Town” by Thin Lizzy. It was as corny as it was necessary. I remember that when I climbed out of the van, I kissed the ground. We had gone through the storm, weathered it, and made it to the other side all still together. That tour had been our Vietnam, and we were in the shit. Our time had been served, no risk of being redeployed.
Total Tour Debt: $1,250.01
Tour: Cancelled
There was already a flight booked for me from LAX back to Atlanta in a month, so I stayed for the rest of the summer. It didn’t feel right leaving the guys behind after everything we had been through together, and truth be told, it was the best summer of my life. I crashed with Justin, and we saw Chi Chi, Coolo, and Monkey almost every day. We went swimming at Coolo’s parent’s house, made silly videos with Chi Chi, and had gut truck tacos at Monkey’s place. At the end of the summer, shortly before I left, we all went to Anaheim for matching tattoos to commemorate the experience. What did we get? The Mark Twain stencil, of course.
Believe it or not, we also finally made it to a show.
…
We were hurling towards Pomona, California to play a dive called Friar Tuck’s. This was a warmup gig for the proper tour closer next week in San Diego, where we would finally meet the Damn Rascals. I sat on the back bench of the van, passing a bottle back and forth with Chi Chi. Nothing was on the line, not this time. All we had to do was show up and play, and if we broke down, we could practically walk home.
Coolo had told us that the venue was made to look like a castle, and I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the case. Through the doors was a whiskey-stained pool hall and a small stage that almost felt like an afterthought. It might as well have been Budokan, though, for how happy we were to have finally made it somewhere.
The opening band—some hip hop fusion experimental business that wasn’t really my scene—rocked a little too hard and blew the PA. The night could have ended right then and there, but none of us were worried. We had worried enough for one summer. Besides, even if the gig were cancelled, at least we didn’t have to figure out our next move from a parking lot in Missouri.
The Scarred need only perform a short set. Due to the technical delays, there was only going to be about a half hour between curtain and curfew. I remember that we ran so quickly back and forth from the van to the stage that it felt like a basic training exercise. When the last of the gear was tossed haphazardly onstage and the final string was barely in tune, they launched into “Restless,” the opening track from Live Fast Die Poor.
I doubt anyone in the crowd had ever heard of them before, and by the looks on their faces, they weren’t sure what to do with them now. We weren’t witnessing a bar band belting out karaoke standards. This was a band who had just travelled back from the pits of hell—still covered in ash—to deliver one final sermon to the congregation. By the time they finished “Gone Even Higher,” half the audience was converted. After “Roll Over Beethoven,” there wasn’t a non-believer in the house.
It had been everything I wanted for them on the Mark Twain Tour.
Here we were, in a strange place on a random night, spreading a gospel in which we could truly believe. The Scarred were having fun again, playing songs with a passion they could feel in their bones, and people were responding. It wasn’t going to be a career-making comeback; all the promises were still broken, but at least we could have tonight. In a little club in front of two dozen people, the band proved they had what it took all along.
We all piled back into the van after the show, arms around necks, singing along to the stereo. When “Stay Free” by the Clash came on, we yelled every word until our lungs ached. We continued that way, united in our glorious chaos, as the van screamed down the highway towards home.
…
The Aftermath
Boggs died a few years ago.
I wish I could tell you that we called each other up and talked everything out, but we didn’t. We never spoke again after I saw him walk towards the entrance of that impossibly tiny airport in Quincy, Illinois. As time went on, my perspective on him changed, and I wished for him nothing but peace. I genuinely and sincerely hope he had found it by the end.
Justin told me he had spoken to him on at least one occasion, and that he had apologized to all of us by proxy. Honestly, that’s good enough for me. Wherever he is now, out there in the great wide open, I hope he knows that all is forgiven. I don’t think Boggs was an evil guy, just a person who stumbled into some mistakes. He may have risked my life for no real reason, but he also gave me one of my best stories. When I look at my Mark Twain tattoo these days, I think of him along with the rest of the guys. I’ll never forget his cartoonish voice, his giant t-shirts, or his toe-curling stories. If nothing else, he was larger than life.
As for the rest of the Twain Bros, I’m happy to report that we still mostly keep in touch.
The Scarred broke up about a year after we came back from Missouri. They never toured again, but they did release an EP with a couple songs that would have been on the next record. As the story always goes with bands after they break up, they’re bigger now than ever. A new generation of fans discovered them, and who knows, maybe one day the demand will be so high that they’re forced into a reunion show.
Coolo went on to be in a band with a former Power Ranger, touring constantly and playing conventions. In the middle of all that, he met the love of his life and got married. They even had a couple of kids! Last we spoke, he had changed careers a couple times and ended up the president of an insurance company. My kind and free-spirited tour buddy—who got legitimately grouchy when underfed—is now a respected businessman with a tie and everything. Life’s funny that way.
Coolo: “I’ve been building and focusing on my family, deepening my faith, and growing my business that stands for more than just insurance. I’ve focused on creating a legacy rooted in hard work, compassion, and impact by donating my time and efforts helping people in our community.”
Chi Chi is still a wild man out there living a life of adventure. We have regrettably lost touch a bit in the years since I left California, but every time we talk, we pick up right where we left off. He’s still the same warm, hilarious human being he has always been. Chi Chi is one of the funniest guys I’ve ever met, and if he’s reading this today, I want him to know that I miss him and think of him often. I hope that crazy diamond shines on forever.
Chi Chi: “Tell them I’ve been gainfully unemployed, pursuing the noble art of doing absolutely everything except what I set out to do. I’ve spent the last decade lifting heavy objects in the name of personal growth, yelling at mirrors for character development, and wrestling under the name ‘The Muscular Misfit of Missouri.’ Half man, half luchador, all confusion. Like Twain said, ‘I was born modest, but it didn’t last.'”
Monkey is also a husband and father these days. When I caught up with him while preparing for this column, I learned that he works in the insurance industry as well while still moonlighting as the most passionate person in rock ‘n’ roll for a new band called Cheeseball. He stepped up to the mic and became a frontman, which delights my heart to no end. I met Monkey when I was 16, and I still find him endlessly entertaining.
Monkey: “Just say I’m still playing shitty bars and all-ages pizza venues; I don’t know. I’m a director of operations at a health insurance company. I’m the lead singer for a ‘90s gutter punk band; I have a wife and kid, and I live in the same neighborhood Bradley Nowell grew up in. I can eat a whole regular-sized burrito in one sitting, and I’ve mastered the art of making Mexican rice. I turn 40 in October, and I’ve never shot a bottle rocket at an innocent cow, only the guilty ones. And make sure to say ‘He never toured again … probably.'”
Justin had a difficult couple of years after the Scarred disbanded. He suffered through divorce, illness and displacement, but managed to turn it all around. He started a second career as a YouTuber and became immensely successful, helping originate the genre of theme park filmmaking. I’m so proud of him for finding his way out of the box and into something so much better. When he wrote a book a couple of years ago, he asked me to edit it. There was a chapter about the Mark Twain Tour, which lead me to start thinking about it again and ultimately tell this story. His book sold out of multiple prints, and he too has found his forever person. He insisted for years that I start writing again after a long hiatus, and now here we are. I hope I made him proud too.
As for me, after the tour, I came back home and finished journalism school. The article series I wrote about the band was nominated for a Hearst Award but lost out to a beautifully written piece about a homeless kid who changed their fortune and went to college. After graduation, I moved to California and tried my hand at a real writing career. I lived with Justin and spent all my free time with the rest of the guys, to the point that we ended up calling ourselves the Twain Bros.
I didn’t want to write about this when I started. Like our friend Jud Crandall warned in Pet Sematary, I believe that sometimes dead is better. Putting this together taught me that it’s OK to hold onto the good times that came from the bad times. The Mark Twain Tour was harrowing—Chi Chi calls it the “Worst best tour ever”—but it also taught me so much about myself that it’s hard to call it a total loss. I’ll always be bonded in blood with those guys, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
Take a hardworking band giving it one last shot. Take away the safety nets, guarantees, sold-out shows, screaming fans, and all the triumphs. What’s left?
A story of life on the road.
