Really? Another goddamn picture of that fucking van? Can’t we let it go now, people, and put this tour behind us??

Apparently not.

Readers have been writing in, demanding an ending to this twisted tale. Also, quite a few people have doubted this journey actually happened, and claim to have seen me and Kimm sitting at Alex’s Bar during Phil Shane’s set while we were supposedly in Germany.

Oh, it happened, alright.

We brought home this tour in the small, yet stubborn ways that can change a man forever. Just yesterday I tried to order a Donner Kebap at Nick’s Deli. Anthony no longer says things like chinga or tu madre, only muttering things like Vixer or Schiesser to himself. Kelli still has a cool Harry Potter-like dent on her forehead from sleeping on the edge of an anvil case.

Alf? Strangely enough, he watches professional tennis now!

The images of the past couple weeks have been burned into the sub conscious. This is what I see when I close my eyes at night, desperate for the comforting escape of sleep:

Gaaaa! Do you see? Now you shall have them too! Don’t blame me when you wake up, fists swinging, cussing in German and demanding that the hostel return your passport!

Kimm and Kelli decided to spend one last day in Camden town. I think they were hoping to casually run into Amy Winehouse, see if she had any tips for a smart cocktail in town.

Anthony and Alf actually had the first flight out of London, but that flight was cancelled. After spending the night at the swanky Sofitel at Heathrow Terminal 5, the next flight was cancelled. Eventually they got back to the United States–if you can call Philadelphia a part of the USA!

It is Saturday as I write this, and I have lost track of them as they bounce their way from hub airport to hub airport, addicted now to food vouchers and liquor served in wee bottles.
For all I know, they are circling over our heads now, men without countries, untethered to the brotherhood of humanity and living beyond the earthly bounds that hold us mortals to job and family!

And me? Nothing to tell, really. I distanced myself from this bunch and discreetly hopped the express to Heathrow Monday morning. Spent the last of my pounds and euros on conveyor belt sushi and Japanese beer, and braced myself for the final leg of this trip.

Onto Virgin Atlantic#VS023, non stop to Los Angeles, seat 36C on the aisle, mimosa in hand and noise cancelling headphones at the ready.
We took off on time and reached cruising altitude, a short ten hours til LAX and the promise of Carnitas and American League baseball.

And as the midget in seat 35C reclined fully back, audibly crushing my patella and the last of its tendon, I laughed–laughed! Hysterical, maniacal laughter that did not relent until the plane cleared Dover and held for a moment above the sparkling Atlantic, that much closer to home. M

Got up and checked out of the garish Tiffany Hotel, but when we looked around for the Ol Orange Bionade van, it was gone. And suddenly a shiver ran through each of our spines, for we were alone–so alone!

You just can’t do that to a man, suddenly thrust him out into the wilds without the Mothership. Alf immediately huddled in a phone booth, suddenly agoraphobic outside of the humid matronly interior of Orange. I tried to hide my moist eyes as I said a silent prayer–Please Come Back, Please Come Back–and all right, I’m not afraid to admit I actually clicked my heels three times.

But it was apparent that the shows were now over and we were tossed to the streets— useless as yesterday’s Racing Form, crumpled and soiled, floating across the Santa Anita parking lot….

Alrighty then–Blackpool North to Preston, and First Class on the Virgin Line to Euston London.

Ditched the gear at the Hyde Hilton, and back to Punch for Pasties and Guiness….

The crew were feeling silly, no moving mountains of amps to earn our streetfood, no merch to haggle over…the sparkle came back to the eyes, and Anthony’s nose felt moist and cool!

Over to Camden for a few final cocktails of the journey. Things got tense in the rhythm section, but they worked it all out as they always do….

A fitting end, at the World’s End. Tonight we dream of cool Pacific breezes, beer chilled in ice and–for the God Sake!!!—Mexican Food.

A fevered dream, I am curling fetal-like in the heat, an innocent ant sizzling under the magnifying glass of a curious yet ultimately cruel nine year old boy.
Until now, I thought the term puddle of sweat was a cliche. But as I jump out of my bunk and look back-yes: an actual pooled reservoir of my much missed bodily fluids.
If this were home I would simply stumble to the bathroom and plant my mouth under the Kohler, sucking in the sweet city water as it turned lukewarm to cool.

But this is not home, I am instantly reminded. I look about my surroundings, see snoring degenerates strewn across the room like so many unmatched socks; a wilted hackey sack orb sits in the center of the tiled floor, resigned.
Gaaa! Hostel!

I lurch into the shared bathroom and run the fetid faucet water over my carotid artery, hoping to keep my blood from coming to a boil.

Checked the ol email at the hostel, caught up on the latest news

Hit the ground in Frankfurt, sadly on our own again as Mr. Benny left with Big Orange to take the ferry over to UK. We shall fly over to catch up with Adolescents and Damned it is decided. Bus to the plane to the train and we are in this seaside tackfest.

Into the Wintergardens, and it is Punk Rock Planet! Immediately met with some familiar and friendly faces:

Tomorrow we play, our final show of tour-M

Ya know what sounds good today? hmmm? Howsabout ten hours in Ol Orange for a drive along the Autobahn?

Yes, yes….that was the drive today, but at least now we know we have the stuff to become cosmonauts when we grow up. Is no problem to sit in defective cramped metal box and use recently empty drinking vessible as urinal! Yah!

Read a bit and napped a bit….apparently, at this point the only way to tell that we are actually asleep is by the terrifyingly vivid dreams that accompany any REM. At one point Alf and I are discussing the benefits and drawbacks of Interleague play, the next I stood on a Nordic battlefield in only a loincloth, the bloodied head of my vowed enemy in one hand as I licked clean my 9th century brazen swurd with the other!! Ah well—the past lives have come back to haunt us in the Motherland!

Finally made it into Frankfurt and were met by the great guys putting on the show, Fonzi and Daniel.

They fired up the grill and we sat to grilled goat cheese and brats with good local Bindlinder. We coulda been sittin in Alex’s patio on a Sunday afternoon—

The club was a proper dungeon deep below the fevered Earth surface. Down there the heat of the day dissapated and the shadowy fog of a thousand drunken spirits bade us to stay and play!!

We immediately behaved like children at Knotts Scary Farm when we discovered the Funucular lift that took the gear down to the club’s final surface—-

Perhaps just one Kebap before returning to the hostel to continue our battles on the bloodied tundra, yes? Yes!