DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Horrorhound and Bound, Load 'Em Up and Truckin'!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Horrorhound and Bound, Load 'Em Up and Truckin'!
By Louis Fowler

I haven't had a vacation in about, jeez, two years, maybe? I've been so busy, what with all the writing jobs, moving five times, getting a dog, getting married...I've kinda had my hands full. With the exception of going to Denver every couple of weeks to buy records, I don't get out of town all that much.

One of the aforementioned writing jobs is for the burgeoning horror website Bloody Good Horror, and, as luck would have it, they were going to have a table at the Horrorhound Weekend Convention in Indianapolis, Indiana. Having never been to the Hoosier State,and not even knowing what the Hell a Hoosier is (is it like Gene Hackman or something?), I decided to take my two week vacation—the DEVASTATOR TOUR—starting there. My badge was paid for, the room was paid for and my plane ticket was only $60. The DEVASTATOR TOUR was also a thrifty one!

I arrived in Indianapolis, Indiana around three in the afternoon on a rainy Saturday. My good pal Casey (of Cinema Fromage fame) picked me up and as soon I entered the Marriott, I was greeted by not only my BGH pals, but also my new best friends, the crew from Night of the Living Podcast. Hugs for the ladies 'n' gentlemanly handshakes for the men all around, I wasn't there more than one minute when I was thrown on a mic and ranting on the NOTLP podcast, mostly describing how great it was to around fat people again while pencil-drawn pictures of Mozart as a vagina were thrown in my face. You can hear my inanity here.

Having not ate anything all day, I downed a few cold left-over White Castles that Casey had been carrying around. This whole trip, my main goal was to get as much White Castle as possible, and, even though those pocket-sliders were hard and congealed, they were still manna from Heaven. Even at their worse, White Castle is still the best.

Having pounded a few sliders, BGH writer Schnaars, who I was sure I was going to hate but turned out liking quite a bit, and I took a brisk walk to a nearby quick liquor store where I was accosted by some haggard and drunk cougar-wannabe who didn't like the fact I didn't know anything about wine. She told me that a bunch of her “girlfriends” were going to “party down at the lake”. I don't know if it was an invitation or just some random info, but, regardless, the hind of her stretch-pants were wet, leading me to believed she might have pissed herself.

When we returned, the gang retired to our classy hotel room and discussed such manly topics as our collective love of Katy Perry (hey, her songs are catchy!), our collective love of fine cheeses (I was recently introduced to Havarti) and our collective love of movies that make us cry (SELENA gets me every time). As we talked our macho-talk, I introduced the gents to my own personal alcoholic drink, the Midori Sour. While at first the kids were apprehensive, by the end of the night, they were downing them like they were mother's milk, if your mother was Slimer from GHOSTBUSTERS. (For more on the Midori Sour, check out the follow-up post!)

Apparently, the after hours party at Horrorhound is legendary, and once you got past the sleazy, Slavic lead singer from Gogol Bordello and his idiotic all-girl army of “alt-pin-ups” hula-hooping (Seriously, ladies, did having Bettie Page bangs and cutting yourself get too tiresome? Is this the new way for alternative chicks to get attention?), the party really did live up to its notoriety. Sure, it started off low-key at first, as I sat with BGH, NOTLP and my other new pal, Triefy from the Destroy the Brain podcast, at the lobby bar bull-shitting and making such asinine horror-nerd claims such as “Pinhead could take Godzilla in a fair fight!”, and this was nice, but then we saw the one, the only Corey Haim jet past on a mission and all Hell broke loose. (For more on my encounter with Corey Haim, check out the follow-up post!)

Apparently, while we were off partying with the Haim, there was also a bar fight, with smashed bottles and everything. It was like the old west, only very fat, reeking of Parliaments and guest-starring Derek Mears and Doug Bradley.

As the evening went on, the drunker we got, the louder we got, the more obnoxious we got. I haven't really drank that much in, man, at least over a year or two. I was downing Midori Sours like they were going out of style, which is ironic, because they were out of style about ten years ago. The last thing I remember is that we were all outside in the freezing cold and I was using a well-shaken bottle of beer to simulate a gushing penis, pretending to be Colin Ferrell. I believe it was something along the lines of “Oi, ya fookin' prat! Me name is Colin Ferrell, 'n I whas Bullseye ya coont!” (I know that a lot of this was on tape and is currently being edited into a feature. What are my future kids going to say???)

I remember fading out about 4 AM, sleeping on the floor and waking up with a bloody nose. I hope I wasn't raped.

The next day was bittersweet, as everyone left early for their respective flights home. I bought bootlegs of Alexandro Jodorowsky's SANTA SANGRE and Hal Needham's RAD. They were ten bucks each and are the best-looking boots I have ever seen. I wish I had bought more, actually. I really hope I run into this seller again. Additionally, Chez from NOTLP and I filmed a segment called “Who Wants to Be a Tortillanaire?”, where I offered fresh tortillas to the likes of Adrienne Barbeau, Jason Mewes and Bill Moseley. (Is this being edited guys? I think we have a pilot here...)

Sometime later, Casey, who so diligently picked me up, dropped me off at the scary Cincinnati bus station where, when I was using the bathroom, a hand came out from under the next stall and tried to steal my bag that was sitting on the floor near my feet. (Bus station tip: take advantage of the lockers!) And, with that, began the next leg of my journey, fraught with danger, junkies, gang members, BBQ sandwiches and being hit in the head for snoring by a fat white bitch (who be tryin' to act black) wearing a stained 5XL Tweety Bird “Talk to 'Da Hand!” t-shirt.

TO BE CONTINUED!