I had talked to maybe two strippers in my first 31 years of life. In Washington State, no alcohol is allowed on the premises of ANY establishment where there is nudity - until recently, not even in a movie theater. I'm, by nature, a pretty hands-on person. Also - in those first 31 years - I tended to be pretty broke (again, by nature). I couldn't fathom going to a place that not only cost money to get into, but served drinks religiously lacking in alcohol for an arm and a leg, and would charge me god only knows how much if I wanted to have the attention of any of the female "entertainers." It just never added up. 

In the struggling artistry that was my twenties, I was too concerned with making sure the last of however many rehearsals I had on any given day ended in time to get to the Off Ramp before they stopped serving Hash after the Bash. On many (many, many) occasions, fifty cents got me the day's biggest non-fermented meal. A dollar would get you a double helping, and save you from having to wait in what was - in essence - a breadline for the hundreds of "also rans" of the illustrious Seattle music scene. 

Nope. Strip clubs, and therefore strippers, had never made an appearance on my radar. Aftermarket body augmentation was something only seen on the opening credits of Baywatch. That is, until the summer of 1999, when the band I was playing in, New American Shame, was selected as main support act for The Cult's first tour in years. They didn't have a new recorded to promote, so it was - for the most part - a greatest hits tour. 

As it turns out, if you were a girl who started stripping between the years 1987 and 1995, more likely than not, the first tune you slid down the pole to was a Cult song. And they ALL came out to see their favorite band. The either loved the dark, magik, spiritual, English Jim Morrison lead singer Ian Astbury, or the quiet-cool, understated, quintessential Rockstar poses and panty-dropping, buzzsaw riffs of Lead guitarist Billy Duffy. 

For this tour there would be a special treat (for me as much as the crowds) in the form of Matt Sorum. Matt had been The Cult's drummer when they took Guns ‘n' Roses on as a supporting act when Appetite for Destruction first came out. He later won the GNR lottery after the Gunners sent original drummer Steve Adler packing for hiding his cocaine in the wrong bowl of spaghetti. I had heard legendary tales of Matt's voracious appetite (sorry) for (mostly) sex, (as well as) drugs and booze. But as these three huge rockstars in one band were now sober, I figured I would probably be seeing a master at work - on and off the stage.

The tour started in San Francisco, and went on to Seattle, Portland, Salt Lake City, across the top of the country with a couple of stops in Canada, down to Boston and the rest of the East coast and on to Florida. Then it headed west along I-10 making at least one stop in most of the states on the southern border of the country all the way to San Diego. From there, a short hop out to Las Vegas, and then back to Los Angeles for seven sold out shows at the House of Blues Hollywood. 

I didn't get a winning Seattle scene lottery ticket. I was in my thirties by the time I got my first taste of major label funded bus tours and all the spoils that come along with them. I was painfully and desperately aware of how fleeting these moments and experiences I had spent ten years trying to achieve could turn out to be. I was determined to have the best time possible, meet as many people, remember as many names and make as much of a mark (a favorable one, hopefully) as 30 shows in ten weeks would allow. 

By the time we got to New York, I had become the de-facto distributor of the after-party passes. I was like a kid in an adult candy store. There was usually a three to five hour window after we got off stage before "bus call" would signify the end of the evening, bringing us one day closer to the end of the ride. And that's how I looked at it. 

I would start before we went on stage. The Cult's tour manager would come up to me and ask me how many I needed. He would give me how ever many I asked for and I would be off to meet and greet the most amazing collection of world-class strippers and their boob jobs that had ever conjoined outside the Adult Video Awards. I was always respectful, friendly, unassuming, and very forward. There wasn't going to be the time or energy for anyone to tell a girl once she got to the get together that her boyfriend couldn't join her. I never told a girl she couldn't come if she had a boyfriend, just that he wasn't really invited. If that changed her mind, no blood/no foul. It didn't really matter to me. I was never doing anything but cordially extending an invitation, and could always play the "I would love to let him come but it's The Cult's party" card - which it was. I had it down pretty well. 

I had, along the way, made some very special friends. Some were maybe more special than others, but for the most part, there were some real connections - some that remain to this day. The age of the cell phone had just dawned and talking to treasures just left behind, long into the night, while riding to the next city became the norm. 

When we got South Carolina, we played the HOB in Myrtle Beach. Here, I had a conversation with Billy Duffy about how our band was doing, and how he and Ian had selected us to be their opener. Unfortunately, our singer had been having a little trouble adjusting to life on the road, and it was manifesting in ways detrimental to some of the gear on stage - some of which belonged to (and was used by) The Cult. We had been threatened with being thrown off the tour if the behavior wasn't curbed, and eventually it was.

"But you, you're doing just fine. What you've got yourself is a reputation," Duffy told me.

I tried really hard to keep my cool. It took everything I had to just give a little "huh... really?"

Billy Duffy. He was absolutely the coolest guy I've ever been a fan of and had the good fortune of befriending. 

The very next morning, I walked into catering and it was just Matt Sorum, sitting at a table picking at a mostly eaten omelet, Ian Astbury, pouring milk into a bowl of his beloved frosted flakes, and me. Ian didn't sit while he ate, but walked up and down one side of one of the cafeteria with a nervous energy he possessed - an energy that always made me nervous to be around him. When asked how my previous night had ended, I sheepishly told him that a girl we met at the show took us to the strip club she worked at and got us drunk for free while introducing us to all her friends. It was a great night, but Ian was married, and the lone member of The Cult I had yet to bond with. I think he liked it that way. He gave me a kind of condescending look to hold my stare while he finished chewing his mouthful of flakes. In his English gentleman's accent he scoffed, "Don't you have any higher aspirations than strip clubs?"

I was bummmmmmmed. What was I going to say? This guy was a total hero of mine, even if he was a lead singer.

Before I could come up with the response I'm sure never would have came, Matt Sorum stood up, having heard a call to arms - and feeling none of the apprehension that Ian filled me with.

"Yeahah? Well some people like Frosted Flakes and some people like BIG TITIES man!" he says.

The door closed behind him before Ian even knew he had stood up. I just looked down at my breakfast and tried not to laugh. 

On the last night, at the HOB Hollywood, I knocked timidly on The Cult's dressing room door, having been told Ian was in there. I asked him if he would sign my tour poster. I had gotten everyone else's and his would finish the job. I blushed a little as he read, out loud, what Billy Duffy had written.

"To the King of Quantity, from the Quality King". It was a reference to an argument he and Sorum had now and again over who - in fact - would squire the most beautiful woman of the tour.

Ian put me at ease with some crack about Sorum never having a chance. Over the course of the tour, I had become - if not his friend, - at least an accepted peer. I relished that moment as he scribbled something on my poster. Then he rolled it and handed it back to me. Quickly, that nervous energy came back and I couldn't get out of the dressing room quick enough, thinking to myself, "God singers are fucking weird."

I went back to our dressing room and unrolled the poster, frantically searching for his contribution. What I finally found in his cryptic handwriting made me chuckle. After departing his company for possibly the last time, he let me know he had a sense of humor about himself. It said:

Geoff,

Frosted flakes are the most virtuous of all cereals.

Peace

Ian Astbury

Drummer Geoff Reading - who writes a bi-weekly online column (Fridays) for the Weekly Volcano called "Holding Down the 253" in addition to his weekly Wednesday music column - has played music in tons of Northwest bands - Green Apple Quick Step, New American Shame, Top Heavy Crush and most recently Duff McKagan's LOADED - to name but a few. He's toured the world several times over, sharing stages with the likes of Slipknot, The Cult, Buckcherry, Korn, Journey, The Sex Pistols, Nine Inch Nails and on and on. He has called Tacoma home since 2005, and lives in the North End with his wife and son.