UPSTAGED BY SATAN?

another photo-less post, i'm afraid. the camera adapter is still being held hostage by the winning new orleans postal system.

your humble scribe sits here in san diego, salt-stained and taco-fuelled in the house of mythical dan the pilot man. we're on the cusp of the last stage of this trip, three weekend shows on the west coast, and ready to put our las vegas show behind us for good.

one of the things we've discovered is that all sorts of unpredictable events must line up in unison to make that 'perfect gig'. not like we've been even close to perfect, but it seemed like our show at the DOUBLE DOWN SALOON in las vegas was going to go pretty far in that direction. we rested up nicely in luxury after the epic three-state trucker-haul; we were well-fed by jessica-the-generous with yet again another amazing barbeque spread; the venue was a divey little bar OFF the strip, apparently catering to locals and punk rockers 24 hours a day we were instantly greeted by that particular brand of friendly and happy drunk we've known to love these past weeks, (scary looking, but sans attitude and only a danger to themselves) and the bar seemed to be pretty packed with these folks.

so what happened?

well, things seemed to peak about an hour before we went on stage. about a half-hour before we went on stage, half the happy drunks seemed to evaporate, and our companion act, DJ BOZO--spinning great 60's garage and surf-tunes--was joined by 'szandra', the cranberry-haired apparent-satanist burlesque hula-hoop dancer. watching her do her thing, we knew that she was an impossible act to follow. but follow we did, and we played a set that could only be described as 'intense'. we didn't chase too many people out, but it was quite awkward playing about two feet away from a couple of very bored-looking german punk rock girls who did their best to look occupied with their cell phones or away in the middle distance.

so even when everything looks like it'll go right, all it takes is one or two unforseen acts of satanic hula-hoopery to thwart that 'perfect gig'. needless to say we drowned our sorrows in 'ass juice' and further spectation of the weirdest bulresque act i've ever seen, deep into the night.

if you all are looking for those 'what happens in vegas...' stories, there are no more to tell. honestly. no gambling, no deviancy, no (unusual) debauchery. just watching satan's little helper spin her hoop, barefoot on a dirty dirty floor. the king hen felt no need for all the strip-action out there in the land of the competing colossus'.

note to las vegas: nature will always win. eventually.