I hitched all the way
to LA to make my millions
and here I am broke and
hitching north to
Still can’t afford the fucking
Greyhound, can barely afford
some medication to smooth
out the ride I’m already regretting.
Duff used his
to get us some shows up there.
Decent guarantee. Rider. Cool beans.
But this is Guns and nothing goes smooth.
Hundred miles north of LA and
Slash’s friend White Mike’s borrowed car
grinds to a slow death in the middle
of the fucking freeway.
So there’s the five of us plus gear
plus attitude, plus hangovers at
the road-side, trying not to get pissy
checking our watches, thumbs aloft.
It takes fucking hours to get us on
our way, split across various rigs,
cars and, in Adler’s case, the back of
some sweet Angel’s greasy hog.
We arrive too late for soundcheck
Adler’s covered in dirt, Slash drunk,
Izzy wasted on something I don’t have,
Duff holding it together for reputation’s sake.
We walk out to six bored jerk-offs
and give them aural hell. By the time
we’re done the crowd has more than
doubled to an unlucky-for-some thirteen.
Then – of course – the promoter reneges,
pays us $50 instead of the agreed $250
and I’m too depressed to break his jaw
too embarrassed by the turn-out to break sweat.
The rest of Duff’s contacts fall through
or the others promoter get wind of tonight,
or our reputation precedes us, whatever
the rest of the string of shows is cancelled.
We travel back to LA by Greyhound
dejected, stinking, none of us speaking.
The funny thing is I’m finally on a Greyhound
and I feel like a piece of shit right now.