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  • When people ask me why I'm not so gung-ho about doing gigs as much as I was in my twenties, endless equipment wrangling is the main reason, with human wrangling being added into the mix. Unless you have a touring kit that permanently remains in a trailer, your gig begins at the band room, or your house, with breaking down the kit, putting it into cases and loading it up. Then you drive all the way to the gig (which can be hours away), load out the kit, remove it from the cases, set it up, run it up to the stage, set it up on stage and finally do the fun part, play some damn rock & roll music. Next, you run it off the stage, take it out to the van, break it down, put it all into traveling cases, load it back into the van, and maybe then you can have a couple of drinks.

    Of course, if you’re in a band of raging alcoholics and are the only one with a semblance of any sense of mortality and responsibility (and don’t want to wind up in the B-section of the local paper as the local rock band killed in a drunk driving accident), you can’t even relax and have a good time, because you have to stay sober to get these drunk idiots back to the band room. So, you have to wait until usually the venue closes at around 2AM, corral several heavily inebriated, obnoxious and sometimes violent social criminals into a confined space to drive a couple hours back to ground zero. This drive will include a trip through a fast food joint where several of the future spit burger/phlegm burrito eaters will hurl some kind of insult at the group of pimple face, minimum wage earning, teeny-boppers angrily prepping their food on a weekend night, so you can’t even enjoy a late night meal until you get home unless you want to consume the DNA of the workers at McDel Burger/Taco In the Box. If you’re lucky, the food will knock these animals into a coma, and then you’re left with several sweaty, snoring, farting beasts who smell like a distillery built next to a hog farm.

    After a long drive, in the wee hours of the morning, comes the real fun part of trying to wake up from a deep drunken sleep several large hairy men which is akin to trying to raise post-raid Vikings from the dead. Thankfully, my drums go in last on top of their amps. So, I run my shit back to the band room, pile it in the area where it’s normally set up (because after all of that horseshit, I’m not pulling it all out of the cases and setting it back up until the next practice) and let them mother-fuckers sleep in that van all night if they want until the California sunshine hits them like God's own cop Mag-light. Oh, and you do this for some free beer and chump change that no-longer even covers the gas money for the van at $4.00 plus a gallon. But, I'll do it again next week if I have to, because I'm fucking stupid and probably insane.
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