After three months away from home, here I am, back in the land of beer, beachside barbie’s and natural predators. As much as I LOVE the land of God fear’n, gun tote’n, free speach’n food fryers, it is nice to be back in Oz. Found out my house mate managed to burn our bathroom down, activating a sprinkler system which not only flooded my apartment but the one below ours also. So, the dreamy day of tour detox I had planned has unfortunately not come to fruition. Nor did the night of Zzz’s I’d planned for last night’s flight from LAX to Sydney. It seems my sleeping pills where in fact prescription uppers for those suffering chronic fatigue. Awesome!
The last week of tour was a bittersweet combination of early onset post tour melancholy and sheer excitement for what awaits our band. A tour with Buckcherry / Richie Ramone and a festival slot with Aerosmith, Billy Joel and Van Halen next week is certainly a boner inducing prospect. The Faster Pussycat / The Art tour culminated in a predictably rawkus night in Chicago. I could not however, in my wildest, wettest dreams have predicted JUST how rawkus. Both bands heckled each others sets with nude and hilarious hijinx, partied with fans and only then did shit get really weird. Everyone’s tale played out differently but mine went something like……….
Late night heavy metal club on other side of town.
Shots.
Hot sauce shots.
(This repeats too many times to mentioned) Unspeakably drunk guy chauffeurs meĀ  back to tour bus.
No tour bus in sight.
Delirium / Blackout.
I gathered the rest of the story from the accounts of others. Apparently, camp Faster Pussycat opted to drop my band mates and gear at Chicago airport and head to the next town on their tour, without me! A wheelchair bound fan (and now dear friend), Pablo, who’d been following the tour heard of this inconceivable injustice and set about finding me. Scouring bars, allies, haunts etc until miraculously finding me, delivering me to the airport and setting about the task of cleaning the multiple orifice discharge from the automobile in which we came. The band say I appeared possessed, pissed in an airport pot plant next to security and past out cold, face down until boarding. I never pass out. I’ve been embarrassingly drunk on many occasions with these people but my behavior on this occasion led them to believe I’d been drugged. While I can’t recall any details after the metal club, the feeling of utter helplessness still lingers. If anyone did have their way with me in the early hours of that windy Chicago evening I can only hope they had half the time I’ve had over the past few months. As I sit in this water logged apartment, contemplating what was, and what will be, I’d like to thank the universe for allowing me such a dynamic existence. I’m proud of my band, proud of myself, and proud of you for enduring this self important bullshit.
Thanks NKD for allowing us a platform to air our dirty laundry.
Respectfully, Jordan. (Drummer for The Art)

Written by Catherine Powell