If I said our last tour was "SLASHTASTIC" would you abandon this blog immediately? No? Not enough to scare you off from the cheese-fest sure to follow? Damn! Unless they give me license to run amok, talking rampant shit about trivial idiosyncrasies or stupid bandwagons I'm not hip enough to hop on (and would rather burn down), I'm still not much for writing blogs on demand (I mean what am I, Netflix? Then where's my $8.99?...monthly bitches). But maybe this is just my chance to contribute something POSITIVE to the web (shocking, right?). And NOTHING could be more in the spirit of Slash than a shreddin' dose of good vibes. Just don't call Mr. Hudson "Saul", because I have it on good authority that he's not too keen on the whole affair.

Addressing someone with a nickname I didn't give them has always been awkward for me...and few folks have the balls to call themselves a verb. I'm telling you now, Satan'll be sodomizing snowmen before I call Sting "STING" to his face. We may have a few heated words over it, but unless he reaches into those Fields of Gold and produces a severed Orc head, post haste, then "Gordon" he shall remain. Or is it SIR Gordon? Has the Englishman in New York been knighted yet? It's hard to get any more bad-ass than Sir Sting. I'll pony up when Gordon makes with the crown-sanctioned prefixes*. The only Sting in my book used to wrestle with the Ultimate Warrior, until he went all Black Veil Brides (NWO 4 Life). For the record, I'm smitten with Sting's work (from The Police, not WCW). "Russians" is one of my all time favorite songs, and I missed the Cold War altogether.

So succumbing to salutations in the form of "Hey Slash", "How's it goin', Slash", and "Slash, does this look infected to you?", was easier than I'd anticipated. He made it even easier by sauntering up to my disheveled, baggily clad, and unsuspecting ass, mid-restring on my axe, to say "Hey, I didn't get to say hi yet, I'm Slash". Meanwhile I go into Superbad mode thinking, "You certainly are!". As if the nonchalance of the most aesthetically identifiable rock icon, arguably of ALL TIME, introducing himself wasn't enchanting enough, he proceeds to say with the utmost unquestionable sincerity, "I really love your band". I'm not making this shit up! You can just picture me mindlessly winding away at the g-string while I bask in the bliss of his embellishment, when suddenly the tension snaps the steel, the string slices through sinew to find my jugular and sever it asunder sending a sanguineous spray Slash-bound to settle in bloody beads against his ever-adorned aviators. Just the way I always wanted to go: death by G-string. The only thing better would be death by g-spot. I think he'd be too cool to even be phased by the whole scene. I'm sure he's seen more outlandish outbursts outta Axl, though there was probably less plasma involved...but that's a thin probably.

Okay, so I didn't puncture any arteries, but that was definitely the impact it had on me psychologically. Then he tells me that we were personally selected from hundreds of bands submitted for the tour. Which was cool to hear coming from him because I thought that was all hype and b.s. (which it may very well still be, NEVER trust a nice guy, and Slash is the NICEST...sorry Gene). Kinda like how Ozzy picked from "thousands" of guitarists...right. Of course there are thousands of guitarists who would blow Jack just to audition for the Ozzman, but did he REALLY see more than 20 guys...tops...IF that? Thanks to Harland, Brent, and Pete for bending the ol' Slash-er's ear our way, otherwise we may have never even had our fair shot.

Did I say Slash was the nicest guy? Cuz his invincible vocalist Myles Kennedy (Alter Bridge...and that movie Rock Star...he hates that, so I HAD to say it) may just have topped the ol' top hat. They say opposites attract, but it seems as though like minds seek out one another. Sort of the way the mediocre flock to the talentless, or flies find shit (http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/gossip/2010/06/justin-bieber-jaden-smith-karate-kid-never-say-never.html, Justin Bieber/Jaden Smith duet...need I say more?**). Typical me, knee-deep in the negative (instead of waist-high decapitated pop-star poser motherfu...wait, where was I?). Oh yeah, the BRIGHT side. it's probably why superstars form super-groups and why guitar heroes only collaborate with the cream of the crop. Slash and Myles are like the Osmonds on acid, they'll rock you till you're sterile but they're just the nicest guys! Okay, without the spontaneous gay-guy inflection that joke just doesn't work...but go ahead, I DARE you to say the Osmonds don't rock a stage. That's what I thought. It's just that when you're that good, and that successful, there's no reason to be a dickhead...unless of course you're just a dickhead. Or if someone eats your damn pie...that you left in the damn fridge...and wrote your damn name on...in BIG damn letters GOD DAMMIT WHO ATE MY PIE?!?!?

Understanding the precarious repercussions of a pie-pilfering predicament, I approached a similar situation with extreme caution. You see, in Milwaukee at the Pabst Theater (where the most annoying thing you can possibly do is ask the bartender how much a Pabst is...repeatedly *cackles insidiously*), after an awesome exhibition before an uproarious audience, I meandered my way to the the best backstage set-up of the whole tour. I reached the green room sporting Foosball, lavish lounge chairs, turntables spinning needle-worn Motown, and fully stocked fridges, and what should I find nestled next to my waiting meal (set aside from the best catering we've encountered since Kiss) but a perfect piece of that pecan pie I missed out on earlier. And Slash's name is written all over it...in BIG fucking letters. I tell ya, this sexy little slice sang to me like a siren from the shores of certain destruction. I left my meal in cryo-stasis and made straight for the pie, saliva swelling with every inch as I Indiana Jones'd the tupperware from its shelf. Clutching the container closer, the felt-tipped inscription screamed at me, "SLASH"...but for some reason it was spelled E-A-T-M-E! After furtively scanning my peripherals, it was clear no booby-trapped boulder awaited me. No tour manager stalked me from the shadows. No top hat was to be found anywhere but onstage, bouncing for the bemusement of the sweaty huddled masses. But while cradling my crusty captive, comprehension came crashing down on me: this was another man's pie. And not just any man, THE man. What kind of scum scams on another man's pastry while he's away at work, and in his own green room, no less. I whispered to the sweet confection that we could never be, this world simply won't let us, and stole myself away before the tears could take their toll. But low and behold, as the evening draws to a close and we're ransacking the vacant dressing rooms like homeless pirates, there she is. My little pecan princess, abandoned and defenseless. So I snatch that little bitch up and head for my van,CUZ I'M A EAT ME SLASH'S MU'FUCKIN' PIE, YES I AM! I'm more excited to steal Slash's slice than I am to be on tour with him, but my conscience goes Slim Shady on me and I start arguing with Dr. Dre about eating the damned dessert. So I decide to take advice from somebody who slapped Dee Barnes***. If it were MY piece, I would certainly appreciate it returned to me intact. I grab Pete, Slash's master tour manager and all around awesome dude (check out the bitchin' band he manages, Brand New Sin), and I apprise him with a little sit-rep. He says to eat it and enjoy. I ask him to make sure, because I'm gonna eat the shit outta this pie, and there's no turnin' back. He momentarily disappears into the belly of the bus to reemerge with a smirk on his face and the green light to feast. So I take my time to get changed and settled in the van, pie in hand, when Slash's security lumbers up to the window. He says, all too stoically, "Slash wants the pie". AAAAAhhh HA!!! I KNEW IT! I knew he couldn't let this little morsel just walk out of his life with another man! So I insisted that I be the one to give it to him. After all, I wanted a little credit for rescuing the forsaken confection from utter abandonment. I get on the bus and everyone's in the lounge area just hangin', but the banter muffles to murmurs as I intrude and make my way toward Slash is in his post-performance garb. He doesn't really take notice until I start to close in, and from behind those ubiquitous lenses he must spot his precious. Imagine Slash meets Smeagol. He's too cool to display any excitement, but his eyebrows betray him, because as his face lights up and it's clear that beneath his composure he's got a crazy case of the "gimme, gimmes". I tell him, "I thought you might want this. I've been eyefuckin' the shit out of it all night and had every intention of jacking it, but it seems we share a sweet tooth and I know how important pie can be after a long day". He politely, but all too eagerly, plucks the package from my hands with an energy that says, "Give me that you little shit...but thank you!". Wallowing with his precious, I'm temporarily forgotten until he comes to and acknowledges me as an entity and not merely an inanimate harbinger of pie. With the muscles of his face falling at ease, he speaks, nearly whispering to me the softest, most earnest "thank you". And with a sort of patrician nod, I'm excused from court of the Rocket Queen (...er, king) while he smugly stares down the prodigal piece as if to say, "Welcome home, daddy's missed you".

Alright, so you signed on for a blog about Slash and all you got was pie, a Justin Bieber link, and enough alliteration to make Alan Moore nauseous. The truth is that hanging with Slash issssss...uneventful. The event is that you're HANGING OUT WITH SLASH. The sleazy swagger of his imposing stage presence is so contrary to his friendly and pleasant demeanor. The only consistency is that he's just plain COOL, and you can tell he's looking to have as much fun as possible in everything he does. Stress free. I sat with him and Myles on a couch and shot the shit, each of us guitar in hand. And Myles is no slouch on that axe, either. He's one mean motherfucker (which is a weird way to describe someone who's such a sweetheart). I listened to them talking guitars the way most guys talk cars, admittedly feeling a little lost. They're throwing around model #'s and re-issue years, and I'm sitting there like, "Mine's black! It's gots purdy knobs 'n such. I like ta toggle them thar switches, hyuck hyuck". Slash asked me what year my Les Paul was, and the way his eyebrows creeped up over his shades in shock when I told him it was an '08 was pretty priceless. I approach guitars like pussy, beat it up but treat it right. I haven't named my guitar yet, so since I'm already Chris I'm leaning toward 'Rihanna'...lol, too soon? Mike's gonna call his 'Tina'...keepin' it classy with a safe classic ;)

Now after that little display of male chauvinism, maybe you're wondering how I prioritize: girls or guitars? Allow me sum it up for you with this final little diddy. So the last gig with Slash was the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake, Iowa. The Maggots (Slipknot fans, for those of you people who don't =shit****) were out in full force, so of course I couldn't help but pander and mention our Roadrunner affiliation & signing at the very hands of Slipknot's own A&R rep (who shall remain nameless, the cocky bastard). You just can't compete with the Maggots, baby. They are the most unyielding fans on the fucking planet! Rivaled only by the ol' supa-psycho Juggalos...but they frighten me, what with the clowns and all. I think it was Boris Karloff who said there's nothing more terrifying than a clown in the night, lol. So anyway, the show is arguably the best of the tour, there are a slew of cute chicks, and we're selling a ton of cd's. But we still haven't had a chance to catch a pic with Slash. I imagine it's something of a mood-killer for him, so we never suggested it in our little hang out sessions. But I'd be damned and donkey-punched before I left that tour bereft of a snapshot with Slash. Yet the night waned on, and even after we were packed up, there had yet to be any photo-op. Rather than obsess over it and come off as creepy, I preoccupied myself with a captivating young vixen who was a sensational "conversationalist". She didn't know shit about Slash, but boy did she love to "talk". So we ended up at the bar across the street, and we're "conversing" in the ladies stall with bloated-blattered bitches banging on the door when I get a text from Mike saying, "Bro, where are you? this pic is happening NOW". I knew it was now or never, so I pull out of my little lavatory dialogue "mid-sentence" and SPRINT to Slash's bus, with only a hasty "Gotta go, stay here" for a farewell, zipping up my "lips" along the way. I'm just glad I didn't "bite my tongue"...especially since my tongue's not circumcised. I make it there in time to bid a fond farewell to Slash and his remarkable entourage, both band and crew. We shoot the shit for a little while. He invites us to hang at the Vegas gig in January. We tell him we'll be on the bill together in Australia at the Soundwave festival and he looks genuinely excited, saying we gotta hook up over there (and being the master diplomat he is, I buy every word of it...because he sells it so effortlessly and my twisted little heart wants to believe it desperately). We strike up a brief convo on Maiden, and before giving Myles a big wet one, my bar-bathroom "discussion" comes up. After bringing everyone on the bus up to speed, there's intermittent laughter, mostly from tour master Pete, but not from Slash. He has this crooked half-smile, half-sneer on his face and those ol' eyebrows are twisted up in confusion. In disbelief (exaggerated, feigned, or otherwise), he stares my direction with a look that says "Are you for real? You ditched a chick to be here?", and then says something to that effect. My immediate response is, "C'mon, you wouldn't blow off a random broad for a chance to hang with Joe Perry?". He rebuts with a look that I still can't decipher as shock or disgust, lol. I retort with, "Besides, I can always go back to the bar". And back to the bar I went, whisked her into the ladies room, and "talked" her fucking ear off ;)

B SHRED OR B DED Chris

*Googled it (or my mom did, anyway), Gordon Sumner was was knighted at the same time as Roger Moore, jolly good show Sir Stinger ;) **I just realized that Will and Jada's kids are named Jaden and Willow. Egomania, thy name be Smith ***Remember "Guilty Conscience" by Eminem? Dre was the angel on your shoulder...well, until all that "Awww, fuck it. Shoot 'em both" business...no, I didn't shoot anyone ****people=shit is the title of a Slipknot song, I promise I'm not just an asshole...well, at least not ALL the time.