Welcome to US Air Guitar:
The Tantalizing, Treacherous West Coast Landscape of Epic Fails,
Life-Altering Game Changers, and Triumphant Glory
By: Mormon Rockwell
We appear to be at a Pilot® truck stop somewhere outside Bakersfield. Exact certainty of our location is lacking, for I was assed out in the back the whole ride up from Los Angeles. I'm told I talk in my sleep, though how the hell will I ever know that for sure. Shred is driving, Brock assumes co-pilot duties, and yours truly is sitting comfortably next to my main man for this trip, the strangest, most enigmatic California resident I have ever met, a man who preferred to be simply called "Claw". This guy just exited a gas station with the following purchased items: a Heineken tall boy (slammed in a matter of seconds right at the pump before re-boarding), nacho cheese Bugles®, one Starbucks® mocha frapa-crap water, a Hot Wheels® ZZ Top edition silver roadster, and a $30 Kyle Busch button down pit crew shirt (worn on stage later that evening). Random doesn't even begin to describe it. This man couldn't have bought a more nonsensical gathering of gas station impulse buys and yet, this would be only one example in a litany of incidences over a magical July weekend in southern California that would impact and alter all of our lives forever.
My dear friend in Houston, Brock McRock, is a well-known air guitar champion. He's been an active member of the air circuit, or "air-cuit" since 2008, and this year he would be joining a few other nationally ranked champions on the last leg of the regional championships through southern Cali. When he told me the details of the trip, it seemed like such an amazing opportunity, and I was admittedly jealous. As it would turn out, three weeks before the scheduled tour a spot fortuitously opened up, and I was offered, if I made my own way out there, to join the party and cover this historic assemblage of air talent as they traverse the Golden State. Naturally, I jumped at the opportunity. Brock put me in contact with the official chaperone, another air guitar legend from San Francisco, named "Tiger Claw", or "Claw" for short. I liked this guy from the start, and we exchanged plans through email to meet up Thursday morning, July 12th, in San Diego, the first stop on our crazy air guitar adventure. Claw used to work for Comic Con, so as a special bonus, we would all be attending the famed 42nd annual pop culture convention during the day before the regional contest later that night. Brock would be arriving from LA and joining up with another air guitar champion there, Shred Boy RD, to make their way down to San Diego to meet up with me and Claw. The stage was set, so to speak; I grabbed Claw once Brock phoned, we met up together and drove to a parking lot two miles away (because parking for Comic Con is a goddamned nightmare). The four of us exchanged greetings (except me and Brock of course), donned our hilarious costumes, and began the trek back to the San Diego Convention Center to begin the madness of this epic journey. "Welcome to US Air Guitar" retorted Claw; a phrase he came to reedit and recite multiple times throughout the weekend.
The champions opted to attend Comic Con in their traditional on-stage performance attires, while myself, the newcomer, went with Mormon Rockwell's official "casual look", a baby blue 1970's tuxedo jacket and matching white pants. In no uncertain terms, we all looked like either a group of rank weirdo's and pederasts (to the pedestrians of San Diego), or a group of rank weirdo's and pederasts who dressed in an elaborate team costume (to the folks at the 'Con). Both viewpoints are correct (except for the pederast thing, I think). Claw had on a loud guitar-themed button down and his traditional creeper masquerade eye and facemask. Brock was sporting the 2012 summer lineup: his standard Betabrand® disco trousers, a long maroon duster adorned by giant peacock feathers around the collar, and a black stovetop hat with an affixed GoPro® HD video camera in the center of the brim. But it was Shred Boy RD who stole the show, literally, when he dressed up as his 2011 stage persona, an almost exact look-a-like of feared 1970's horror franchise staple Michael Myers. Given the relative similarity in age between Shred and the original actor (Tony Moran) who played the insane asylum escapee, it is my opinion the average Comic Con fan actually believed Shred WAS in fact the real Michael Myers. This brilliant thespian didn't break character all day, walking straight upright and stopping dead in his tracks at random moments, to ominously stare down a passer-by and/or pose for a photo with jubilated fanatics. At one interval, Shred stood behind a glass wall of one of the convention halls for about 30 minutes, staring straight forward, only cocking his head to the side ever so slightly now and again, mirroring the Halloween character authentically. People were lining up to walk over to where he was and pose safely on the other side of the glass with their favorite costumed psychopath, as a trusted friend would enthusiastically snap the invaluable picture. None of us had the heart to tell these mal-informed nerds the truth.
As night fell in that fair city sometimes referred to as "A Whale's Vagina", we made our way to The Soda Bar, a local hipster hot spot, for the first battle in our three-day air guitar blitzkrieg. Soda Bar regulars were initially startled by our arrival, but they were still friendly and accommodating. It's a hole-in-the-wall, drinkers' aficionado type of joint, and a more than adequate establishment. The MC's of this year's regional contests were founding father Bjorn Turoque and 2008 World Champion Hot Lixx Hulahan, two of the sports' biggest air celebrities, or "air-lebrities". Both of these titans of fake rock were prominently featured in the hugely successful 2006 documentary Air Guitar Nation, which has been rightly credited as reigniting the popularity of professional air guitar on a global scale. Bjorn and Hot Lixx are the Riggs and Murtaugh, the Dr. Dre and Ed Lover, the "Rock"y and "Bjorn"winkle of US air guitar. Indeed all the competitors that night were storied veterans, except for myself and one other gentleman, whose name escapes recollection. Quick aside, the gang and I (minus the weekend DD, Shred) had been drinking non-stop, plus I had weed flown in from Texas (even though I would be in California, a stoner's Shangri-La), so we were good and fuckered this, and pretty much every night of our quest. What a badass way to begin my faux air career I thought, as I used one hand to drink scotch and the other to prop up my flabby body against an alleyway wall whilst I vigorously micturated. We were made to drink shitty beer, Natty Ice® if I'm not mistaken, a sort of ceremonial introduction into the evening's festivities. Those who know me well know I nary swill a drip of ale, not since the early college years, but I shuttered not when they handed me the room temperature can. This is tradition and Mormon Rockwell is nothing if he is not traditional.
Bjorn and Hot Lixx went over the rules, instructing how one is to conduct himself/herself on stage. In round one, a competitor throws up one hand high into the air (finger of your choosing, fully erect) at the precise moment you wish to start your chosen song. That is when the indispensible eye-in-the-sky Air Traffic Control, US Air Guitar's official DJ, promptly begins the track you've selected. The fortunate superstars moving on to round two will perform a song selected by the MC's. Here, accuracy and stage presence matter most. Above anything however, the principle characteristic competitors must possess is something called "airness", referring to the implied swagger, the presentation throughout, which oozes informatively the quality of "air" supremacy, all over the stage. Those competing who have won at least a single regional or national event got to chose their order of performance, while the rest of us drew random numbers written in Sharpie® on the back of a dime-store condom. It would seem the gods smirked forcibly at yours truly, for I happen to draw the #2 slot, behind maniacal man-child Tiger Claw, known very well in these parts and therefor much beloved by the locals. Dear readers, I have been in front of, and even made plenty an ass of myself to full crowds of strangers a time or two in the past, and still nothing was able to calm me down as Mormon Rockwell fulfilled his destiny and stepped onto that stage for the very first time. Speaking mildly, my performance lacked any semblance of precision or tact. Hot Lixx, serving dual duties as a recurring judge, would come to refer to me as a "button masher", the practice whereby a kid playing a video game smashes the joystick repeatedly and helplessly, making moves but ultimately looking sloppy. He was 100% correct. It's also how I still play video games to this day. Epic fail. San Diego was a great town to surrender my "air virginity", or "air-ginity". Some notables from the evening, "Fan-Stash-tic" and "Jolly Green Shredding Machine" combatted proudly atop the stage, dominating the entire crowd. Claw came ominously close to being nabbed for drinking in public at the start of the night. Two squad cars mercilessly pursued him but they were no match, as this quirky quintagenarian darted at the last second back into the Soda Bar, narrowly eluding capture. My boy Brock McRock, adopting a slightly dick-ish personality on this tour (possibly for strategic reasons), was in rare and tantalizing form. In the first round, he playfully insulted the judges by slamming his half-full pint glass down on their table before commencing with the airness, saying ever so cocky and disdainfully to a judge, "hold my beer Cupcake, I'll show you how to play real air guitar". It worked. They laughed their collective asses off and so did all of us who were in audible range. But it was the great and high-ranking Lt. Facemelter who made the air community proud by taking home the top honors; Brock was mildly shafted with a 2nd place finish.
Following the late night drive up to Venice Beach (and a brief catnap), we awoke to meet the lovely Mrs. Boy RD, as well as the progeny of Shred, his charming Lego® enthusiast son, Anakin. Pleasantries were exchanged; showers were had, then Brock and myself ventured out up the block in search of sustenance. We went one way for donuts and coffee. Claw staggered in the opposite direction and brought back no food, only two Steel Reserve® tall boys and a nausea-inducing bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. Not sure which flavor he purchased, just that it looked like cloudy Smurf piss. Being army strong, Claw drinks more before 9am than most people drink all day. Mormon Rockwell has many allies in LA, so after phoning a "friend", I was gifted with a small care package, courtesy of the local medical dispensary. My Texas stash was bone dry and of course, one would have to be bat shit not to indulge in the sweet fruits of California cannabis. So delicious, so stinky. Dank buds so gosh darn impressive, you just simply wish to bathe in that shit, decadently, and to no foreseeable end. To be belabored this one time only, the reader must not react or judge too harshly the incessant drug intake on this trip. I assure you, it was ancillary. Intoxicants, unless you truly have an addiction, are merely enhancers to an already good (or bad) situation. The meat of the story is in the relationships, the conversations, the overall incidents and perceptions. Ganja, booze, and what-else-have-you are just footnotes to an already busy and awesome tale.
Keeping this in mind, we made it a point to request the most powerful edibles on the market in addition to the chron-chron. The 4.20 bar doth land in our laps. It advertises a full 4.2 grams of cannabis inside a medium sized bar of milk chocolate. Holy Jesus this stuff is strong, like Mike Tyson punching a toddler with an industrial jackhammer fist! Dr. McRock and I would come to perform a series of potency trials over the course of the weekend, not unlike serious clinical scientists. Each bar is split into six equal pieces. Shred's better half agreed to shuttle Brock and I to the Venice Boardwalk for a short jaunt of sightseeing, and this seemed like as good a place as any to try one piece each. A good base-level stone, perfect for fucking around on a stretch of beachfront retail sidewalk space resembling a feverish dream constructed by Henry Rollins, Anthony Bourdain, and the Ringling Brothers side tent freak show. Again, no sarcasm here, this is what I chiefly cherish about this entire city. Where else can two grown men walk around in the afternoon like assholes, ripped and tipsy as if there's no tomorrow, and not actually patronize a single establishment, other than a munchies stand, all while avoiding any direct hassle? This journey we were all on, this cross-Cali four-day excursion, she was only just underway, but we were already basking in the overjoyed glory of our own action packed crapulence. Ice cream, churros, and strawberry lemonade now in our systems, Shred picked us up a couple hours before we were to arrive at the show. It was time for our gang to rally back at the Boy RD home, suit up, liquor up, and head over to the world famous Troubadour club in West Hollywood, where the LA regional qualifiers would soon be proceeding.
Some trusted college friends took me to the Troubadour back in 2009 to see Swollen Members, and I remember generally enjoying myself with no real complaints about the venue, bartenders, or staff. On the ride in, we consumed the second level experiment, two pieces at one time, completing an entire 4.20 bar. Boy howdy, proper messed and yet still oddly functional. The booze will take care of that soon. Best part of chocolate edibles vs. baked goods, it hits you super fast, square in the dome. Before we were done eating the two pieces, both Brock and I reported immediate conscious-altering effects. A short snafu with my name not on the list, the guys sprang to action and ran into the venue to straighten it all out. Mormon Rockwell doesn't wait in lines or pay full price for anything, for any reason! In my inebriated condition, I thanked (as best as possible) the doorman, Treebeard from Fangorn Forest, and floated my way into that bitch to set up for the event. The Troubadour is a near 60-year-old institution in Los Angeles, and its magnanimous stage had seen the likes of Elton John, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Johnny Cash, shit Lenny Bruce was arrested there a little over a half century ago. Tonight, Friday the 13th, in the great year of someone's lord 2012, that very same hallowed ground would see the likes of grown men and women dressed like trannies pretending to play pre-recorded music. This night's female combatants ranged from an elderly grandmother appropriately named "Some Old Broad" (beloved by the slovenly youthful), and an androgynous competitor known as "Lady Killer", who repeatedly slapped the face of an unassuming male audience member hard, during her set. Yes, when US Air Guitar comes to town, one must exercise caution, and above all, remind oneself that loud crazy shit will probably be in order should you take in the once in a lifetime experience of an LA air guitar regional championship.
The big money was on Six String General, the hometown favorite. The General and I were first acquainted back in February, when we joined forces on one glorious Sunday to protest the despicable Westboro Baptist Church whores, who had flown to Hollywood for the ultimate in star-fucking, pretending to protest the Oscars (but in reality, they love celebrity culture and they desire to taste Brad Pitt's baby batter just as bad as every other People® magazine reading vapid douchebag). The proof for this conclusion? There are over 50 members of this despicable Kansas church, and yet, whom do they send year after year on their behalf to the city of angels to protest the city's biggest cultural ceremony? The three hottest ditsy teenage girls in their ranks, their mom and aunt. No males joined them, because they all know damn well what their women do when they "picket" in Los Angeles. They put on makeup, stand on a street corner, and peddle their bullshit like true professionals of the night. Still, it was entertaining to stick it to those bible-thumping lunatics alongside the legendary Six String; the public seemed to concur. Enough about those heretical harlots, let's get back to the "air action" otherwise known as "air-ction". Inside the Troubadour, a bevy of air warriors (twice as many as the previous night) went through their pre-performance practice routines, some drank and cavorted with new and old friends alike, others sat quietly and listened to their songs. I've covered MMA in the past, and I noticed their fighters and air guitarists have similar regiments leading up to battle. Obviously, more free-weights and protein shakes than us, but the same level of causal half-nudity, screaming incoherently, chest pounding and angered spitting. I contend between the hyper amounts of cardio while onstage, and those of us who in the vein of Tiger Claw, were double fisting 40oz's like they were dumbbells, received almost identical workouts in the end.
Mormon Rockwell went over with the heathens of LA quite ok. Placed better than San Diego, a respectable score mostly. Still a shitty job, but good enough for my sophomore outing. Half epic fail. Shred and Claw were senior members (not an age joke) in attendance, displaying time honored air guitaring to the delight and spectacle of the audience. A dark horse competitor known as "Bloody Penis Fingers" decided to consume the only liquid everyone else in that place wasn't drinking, red paint. Then a ripped, disco-stripper version of Lenny Kravits named "Soulstice" shocked and tickled the privates of all in attendance with his "bang me" fuzzy boots. Brock gave, in this author's humble opinion, one of his best performances ever to the Troubadour that Friday the 13th. He even made his way up into the rafters, leaving the stage for a moment, to taunt and flaunt his stuff right in front of the judges' table. People were going nuts; he had broken the air guitar fourth wall. It would however undeniably be the high-ranking Six String General to go on and represent the city of LA at the nationals in Denver. The General, his exuberant fan base, and really all of us could not have been more thrilled that such a deserving warrior of wailing would take on the challenge of winning that national title. It was a magical, intoxicating, star-studded Hollywood evening. But one of the biggest celeb sightings went under the radar, for the most part. Towards the end of the night, Shred noticed that a particular air guitarist (or "airist"), known simply as "Mummy", turned out to be a major air guitar personality. He entered the Troubadour in full costume, and stayed that way until very late. The Mummy was dressed head to toe in wrapped white cloth, and spoke only in simple generic sounding mummy grunts, the entire time. We all just assumed this crazy somomabitch was mega loaded and really into staying in character. Turns out, the Mummy was really three time regional and 2005 national air guitar champion Rockness Monster. He's been comfortably in retirement since 2008, which is why his sighting on Friday the 13th at the Troubadour gave the whole strange occurrence a twinge of mystery. Clearly, Rockness Monster did not want to be recognized until the very end of the evening. And had he gone to the 2nd round, or even beat Six String in the finals, it would have been a major accomplishment. Imagine the headlines: Known reclusive, incomparable national champion comes out of retirement for a single evening to steal the show in LA. As it would turn out, the man we all knew then simply as Mummy did in fact not make it to the next round, and thus his unsuccessful attempt at a comeback in clever disguise fell short. Epic fail, truly.
The after party, I hear, was a jolly good occasion. Held in the ritzy home of the creator of the show Community on NBC Dan Harmon (he was also a judge) until the wee hours of Saturday morning. Lots of panty dropping, alcohol chugging, fun-fueled madness. I heard a goat was sodomized and then Andy Dick showed up and came on everybody. That last sentence is still unsubstantiated rumor; I'm closing in on confirmation. Mormon met up with his old friends Christopher Cossey and the lovely soon-to-be Mrs. Cossey halfway through the night and we all were a bit peckish once the festivities had concluded. Instead of the partying, we broke off from the group and sat down for tasty munchibles at Mel's Diner on Sunset. Mind you, I'm still dressed in Mormon Rockwell's official performance attire: Mormon bicycle missionary outfit, with helmet, gold cross-outlined 3D glasses, and two huge gold cross necklaces. Sitting here now, I realize someone there that night should have called the police, because a fake ass Mormon pimp and a nerdy white guy with creeper facial hair just walked into a restaurant at 3am, with what appeared to be an unassuming, normal looking, slightly scared single white female in tow. Like something out of a Quentin Tarantino something. No one did, so alas, we were cool. Upon finishing a great meal, the Cossey's drove this tired old dog back to Shred's casa for literally a couple of hours of rest before we were to load back up and strike out north for the second city on our tour named after a patron saint.
As they say, we are back to where we started. On I-5 somewhere, heading North towards the ancestral home of Tiger Claw and the last stop on our California air guitar tour, breath-taking San Francisco. Shred and I conversed in the car for a little while about a whole host of topics. Mostly, I was stoned and kept blathering on about the nature of science, religion, the universe, matter vs. energy, and whatever other simple extractions I've pulled away from complex scientific concepts. At the truck stop near Bakersfield, Shred and Brock were taken aback, safely speaking, witnessing Claw down that whole bottle in about 25 seconds right there at the gas pump. So were a few concerned lookie-loo's. I however was fully at ease with the situation. In 2007, Tiger Claw suffered a stroke, causing crippling nerve damage to most of the right side of his body. My roommate served in Iraq, came back with some deafness in his left ear. Claw is almost fully deaf in his. At half a century old, the pain is so severe, it starts first thing in the morning and does not stop until he falls asleep. Not being a millionaire, Claw is a victim of our country's shitty health care system, and cannot even begin to afford the necessary surgeries, medicines and physical therapy needed to alleviate his suffering. With all this, not only is Tiger Claw one of the most resilient, upbeat, able-bodied, capable disabled Americans I've ever met, he appears to have found a solution to the immense pain. Claw must consume alcohol non-stop, from the first moment when he wakes, to the last thing before zonking out for the night. He still has a small limp from the nerve damage, and you are required to repeat questions and commands a few times before he responds, but the end result is really quite marvelous. He is in very little discomfort when completely plastered. He's responsive, cogent, humorous, almost totally unaffected by his ailments. It's taboo, yes, to see a grown man slam pints of beer in an instant, then run off keeping pace with three guys younger than him, but I tell you, this beautiful bastard would never once grunt, bitch, or moan. His solution of self medication, however abnormal or alarming, does seem to be unequivocally working. He never once tripped in or out of a cab, getting around wherever we ventured, or at his place in San Fran, not that I observed. Simply put, the man is a quandary wrapped in a puzzle, jammed up the keister of an enormous snarky riddle and glazed in rich enigmatic contradiction.
Just outside Oakland, Shred Boy RD said something so benevolent and encapsulating, I had to quote him, "I thought this was gonna be [about] fake guitar, and it turned out to be about real people". How appropriate, given what we'd faced up to that point, and what remained on the trek ahead. The four of us now found ourselves in Nob Hill, standing outside the 20-year residence of Tiger Claw. Given the sheer mind-boggling nature of our escapades thus far, Brock, Shred and myself were anticipating the place looking like a David Lynch rape dungeon or an old shut-in's dingy, dirty apartment, reeking of cat fluids. These theories and others not verbalized were instantly dispelled, when he enthusiastically declared, "welcome to Claw's palace", and opened the door to reveal a pretty badass apartment. This amazing nonstop weekend continued to amaze at every turn. Claw lives in his own private dojo with every amenity a single man in the city would need. He has a gym, an office, a very respectable entertainment center, all the while living in a nice, newly renovated walkup, stocked with only stone cold hotties as his few neighbors. Apparently the one we met recently became single. Bear in mind, Brock and Shred are happily married, and I've got a nice thing going with this lady back home; it's simply something to note. The roof access was only one floor up, which led to a surprisingly stunning view of the city, including a cloud-soaked Golden Gate Bridge. This would become a favorite smokin' and chillin' spot over the two-day stay. Back to the ladies, no heterosexual man, however blissful in a relationship, can ever stop admiring the beautiful splendor of other smoking hot women. I would come to learn this is especially true in the city by the bay. For starters, everyone in San Francisco has a great ass. I'm talking world class, cheek to cheek, round, perky deliciousness. Girls AND guys. They owe it to the city lifestyle. Giant rolling sidewalks attached to steep hills, up and down, down and up, I've never seen anything like it. All the walking, up and down all goddamn day; some of these psychos even ride bikes. Over time, fatties and Melvin's are cut into stunning Adonis's. If Mormon Rockwell were a bisexual (he's not, the Mormon church forbids it), that fucking town would be like a 24-hour sex buffet! Right now, I look like Louie Anderson. Give me five months in that city and I'll come out all Magic Mike. Intimidating at times, being knee deep in a place where everyone looks like the gorgeous models in the background of an episode of Entourage. Still, I felt within minutes of landing on San Fran soil, a calm wash over me. There is something wonderful about this place. I've never been to Europe, but it feels like how Europe would feel. The odds of stopping an average San Francisco resident on the street and having them spout foolish religious jargon or talk about how they love their guns and the Tea Party is extremely low. The safety levels here are palpable.
For one last time on this inconceivably strange and enjoyable quest, 'ol Mormon dressed up in his performance attire, as well as Mr. McRock, Shred, and the irreverent Claw. This would be my third, and possibly final, air guitar presentation. Perhaps in the distant future, in some grimy retirement home in south Florida, an elderly atheist Jew will stand up and rock out with his orthopedic cane to Starship or something, but for the foreseeable future, this would be a conclusion to my air activities, also called "air-ivities". Airness remains, sure; that is stuck with me for life like VD. The final circuit event for the 2012 US Air Guitar Championships was held at world famous, appropriately sized The Independent, in North town near Alamo Square. The venues got progressively better over the three-day marathon, and Frisco did not disappoint. The weekend long experiment Brock and I were conducting took its most dangerous direction yet, as Saturday night, at The Independent, we each consumed an entire ½ of one 4.20 bar. Sill, now in retrospect, if us two gentlemen weren't such coinsurers and celebrated veterans of the Olympic sport of "bonging" so to speak, such an experiment could have turned out rough; cops up yo ass rough! Three pieces of the 4.20 bar at once easily exceeded ANY edible we had ever consumed in either of our lives, bar none. And mind you, we were part of a storied franchise of athletes, and could not under any circumstances, allow the situation we just put ourselves in to manifest negatively or lead to a very public and very awkward freak out. Not being able to speak for Brock, for me the venue turned into an underground cave, not unlike the one in The Matrix sequels where everyone gathers to pray and dance sexy next to their families. Just like that, only less lame. The stage was actually an outcropping of stalagmites, clustered close enough and flattened into a stage-like surface over millions of years of geological heat and pressure. ATC and the gang were up in the balcony doing sound checks. I went up there briefly to try and converse, but then I was suddenly attacked by some fucking winged creature in the stairwell, maybe one of those squirrels with the webbings on their body. But then what would a goddamned squirrel be doing so far underground in a cave, at an air guitar show? Regardless of what may (or may not) have attacked me, it escaped before I could kill it and so I determined the upstairs should be off limits to those of us in the condition of impairment that I happened to find myself in.
The last night, the largest slate of competitors. 25 if I'm not mistaken. Only two were on deep drug trips (assumedly), the other 23 were intoxicated in the classical sense, liquored up to no avail. The Independent's green room was like a private bar and potato chip depository (airists love snackin' on chips). For the last time this season, Bjorn and Hot Lixx gathered us all and we listened as mighty impending combatants to our CO's in the field as they imparted operational commands. The energy this night was out of control. We all felt it to the core. This was also the best night for Brock, which was odd, given his extreme state of hyper-inebration. The bastard only lost to the champion by 0.1 points, and no disrespect to the judges, but Seth Leibowitz's SF victory was highly suspect. For starters, his first round performance featured almost a full 30 seconds of no air guitaring! He was choreographed and looking pretty yes, but whatever he scored in that round, it should have been bifurcated to represent the tangible amount of time he was actually performing air guitar. Fan favorites included the energetic Asian gentleman "Gobo", who moved onstage like an epileptic ballet. "Shred Theodore Logan" by far had the best name of the night, but left a little bit to be inspired in the accuracy department. Early on in the festivities, "Janine Simmons", dressed as a female broke-ass GENE Simons, conjectured around with Brock backstage. During one interlude, she jokingly punched Brock's giant steel Texas-shaped belt buckle, thinking it was fake. Her hand suffered minor consequence. "You proll'y shouldn't do that", retorted Brock while she cared for her injured paw. Mormon Rockwell did well, even got a female judge smitten (more about that in a supplemental article). But all in all, my final performance as an airist couldn't have went off better. Mormon selected a hard rock version of "Devil Went Down To Georgia", originally by the Charlie Daniels band. Again, Hot Lixx reiterated his earlier stance. Fail, but an epic good time nonetheless.
Shred needed to get back to LA and so he was concluding his air guitar adventure (also known as an "air-venture"), departing our company Sunday morning after an all night rage-fest concluding the show. Tearful always, saying farewell, but joyous because we had all had so much fun. Brock and I would remain guests of Claw until Monday, when the two of us as well would conclude this Cali excursion and return to the dreaded Tejas from whence we came. There was a heartfelt exchange of goodbyes before that tall, beautiful, brilliant bastard left our sights. The four of us were a band of brothers. We had been to battle together, alongside each other, witnessing and perpetrating countless scenarios of fear, enlightenment, jubilation, self-effacement, and so many other adjectives you'd think a thesaurus just took a giant shit all over this page. He sped off into the distance, whereby the three of us were now un-whole. In reality, this entire air guitar excursion could be summarized in the exact same way I would review our last rooftop session; truly remarkable and awe-inspiring. We all, as a cooperative and on our own individual levels, would be forever changed by the involvements, accounts, and explorations that unfolded during that most charmed, spectacular four day stretch in July. It almost feels as though none of it indeed actually happened, remembering it all now. As if the four of us split off from our bodies the moment the trip began, and just sat back in some ethereal plane somewhere, viewing it all like one long cinematic exhibition. How none of us died. How none of us were arrested, shot, stabbed, hospitalized, involved in an argument over a back alley dice game, vomited on, made love to (other than Shred at his home, I presume), or whatever else that could have possibly taken place, is a pure goddamned miracle!
We witnessed LA cops arrest a hooker for an altercation with a hobo. Whilst slogging through the 'Con, all of us stopped in unison to gawk, jaws agape with astonishment, at a 60 year old Asian lady dressed exactly like Meg Griffin from Family Guy. We were so collectively hammered drunk, got so intensely bake-aked, much of the time was spent in high earth orbit. Funny how not one of us flew away, reeling endlessly into the unknown abyss. What grounded this merry band of air-pranksters was the admiration and respect genuinely bestowed upon us by each other, and in many cases, bestowed by all that surrounded us at every juncture, from living creatures to stone and steel structures and everything in between. The benevolent nature of our experiences constituted as an anchor, allowing us to soar to unimaginable heights, without the threat of spinning off into nothingness. As lengthy as every one of us would live from hereon in, the events of our fateful voyage while in California shant be repeated, despite best efforts to the contrary. "Once in a lifetime" hath not the breadth and prominence to accurately summate these experiences. Who knew it'd take a silly fake rock contest to expose the beautiful genuineness of real life? My travel arrangements on Monday began a few hours before Brock's, and so this already good friend, now a best friend, and I parted ways, to reunite again on the other side, in "the fly over states", where we would recount and recollect on the wonderful adventures just partaken. Whirlwind excursions such as this one come with ceaseless supplies of clarity and humility. The cab ride out was spent silently reflecting on all that had occurred. Who knows, maybe 'ol Mormon Rockwell will be invited back to chronicle part of the 2013 air-cuit. Only time will reveal. Until then, just as the altruistic Claw once said, "Welcome to US Air Guitar". Welcome to existence. Welcome to the bounty and glory of life.
