On April the Sixth, we returned. Our port of call was San Francisco, the homeland. We were to play the fabulous Regency Ballroom, where I’d seen GWAR a number of times before. Now, I was gonna share the stage with them for the best audience of all: family.
Yes, that’s Ma, Bro, and Sister Sewage in attendance and doused with a tidbit of blood. Pa couldn’t make it, he was watching over the littlest Sewage, my niece. I seriously have the best family ever.
Sadly, my poor girlfriend was eaten by the World Maggot. She will be missed, until I can sift her outta the pile of maggot poo I collected. Here’s the tragic video. Try to guess which one she is! (hint: it’s not the dude)
It was hard to leave the next day, sleeping for just one night in my own bed. Alas, Reno waited! Reno, the biggest little shitty in the world. Reno is what Las Vegas would look like if it retired, lost its pension because its former employer declared bankruptcy, and then had to work as a Wal-Mart greeter so it could afford arthritis medication.
I was starting to feel under the weather AGAIN this night, maybe that affected my ‘tude. Still, we had a fun show and hung out afterwards in the casinos. I didn’t win anything, but I was gifted some much needed new socks for the rest of tour! Viva la différence.
We charged out of Reno into the Nevada desert towards Las Vegas. There were ghost towns galore, run down Indian reservations, and so many crumbled buildings with no one left to tell their stories. It’s no wonder the Air Force could hide something so well in plain sight out here. When I entered it into Google Maps on my phone, though, it just pops up. Area 51.
At least I think we saw Area 51. Or one of the gates to it. Who the hell knows, really? It was a long drive out of our way, dodging free range cows that sat in the middle of a darkened highway. Down a dirt road for twenty minutes, and we found an ominous fence. A door was slammed as we approached. I guess this was it.
And that was that. We headed out but not before stopping by the Little Áléinn for some souvenirs and completely average grub from one of the most foul mouthed line cooks I’ve ever encountered. Dino: “$7? That’s a lot for a cheese sandwich.” Cook: “It’s a fucking good god damn cheese sandwich.” Etc. A scene from the movie “Paul” was also shot here, but that’s hardly interesting because that movie wasn’t good.
We made it to Vegas that same night and met up with a small faction of the GWAR camp at the Double Down, Vegas’ filthiest bung hole punk dive. I highly recommend the “Ass Juice.” It’ll fuck your shit up good, as it did me, exacerbating my sickness further.
The next day I holed up in our hotel room. My throat felt like I’d gargled razor blades. Writing this days later, it still feels rough. This tour, though so amazing and maybe the best I’ve ever been on, has been a petri dish of communicable diseases from the get go. I wasn’t too sad to miss Vegas in the day, though. This town is full tourist douche bags. It’s built on artifice and vice. I don’t like to gamble, I can’t afford the shows, and so the whole artificial oasis sucking up so much energy and water in the desert is entirely lost on me. That said, we had a great show, though my personal worst due to feeling like I got mauled by a tiger in a magic act. Too soon?
Sadly, we would become bereft of Cartel Brownbuzzardepicbeard. He was doing sound for us and Municipal Waste, as well as tour managing for the Waste. He was leaving the tour this night, the first casualty of the Waste’s limited time on this tour. This was dose of reality that the magic would inevitably come to a close.
Tuesday reared its ugly head and our drunk asses had to be woken up for a drive to Salt Lake City. We were playing at the Great Saltair, which we thought was the location of filming for the classic flick Carnival of Souls. Unfortunately, it was not. The original location burnt down. Still, the place is cool, located on the Great Salt Lake itself. It smells like shit walking towards it, with scores of dead birds who’ve apparently tried to drink the over-salinated water. Stupid birds. According to those who swam in it (I did not) it was refreshing… until the salt starts to tingle and then burn your skin. It’s quite a sight to watch people walk for hundreds of yards in the shallow yet enormous lake and still only stay waist deep.
Thursday was the final day for Municipal Waste on the tour as we headed into Fort Collins, Colorado. The club was tiny tiny, and the security barrier was gone. Ruh roh! To add to the chaos, Mr. Tony Foresta was suffering more of the illness that was besetting the whole tour. Unfortunately for him, a sore throat seriously impinged his raison d’être. As a consequence, the night before in SLC, he’d made a sign up sheet for Municipal Waste karaoke. Lots of folks on the tour joined in, included a couple hooded menaces.
At the end, we all jumped up and let the Waste know they fucked us up… real good. Sayonara, fellas. Touring with these old friends was the amazing fun experience I imagined it would be. It’s weird when your expectations are actually met. In celebration of the tour, spew tech Germ doled out some final matching tattoo work to the Waste folks and a few of our own.
That blurry finger on the lens wasn’t a mistake… seriously, I’m not that bad a photographer. I’m blocking shit. You’d thank me.
From Colorado to… San Antonio, Texas. Fuck, that’s a long drive. We had to have a day off and drive all night to make the 20 hour trek. Plus, we added one hour for a little tourist diversion before the show that awaits us tonight. We had to see… who would survive and what would be left of them!
If you don’t recognize that building from a massacre that happened round these parts years past, then the saw is probably not part of your family.
If I have any more fun today, I don’t think I can take it!
Doktor Ross Sewage