leave in a couple of hours for beautiful ireland
a fantastic run at the beautiful london soho theatre
last night was sold out
couldn't have asked for a better audience
sharp as tacks
wrote a new tune, added it to the show
got a development deal for a radio show on bbc4
got the new cd the terrorism of everyday life selling at the show
you should see it on the website within the next couple of days 
available to all my stateside friends
the dvd is scheduled for release in july
got an northwest and alaska tour in a few weeks
will be doing the southeast down to florida the first couple of weeks in april
got a recording session tentatively scheduled for may
all spanking new tunes
just me and a guitar as my hardcore fans have been bitchin' for
with the lovely ani difranco once again producing
i'm sitting on top of the world
most important i get back to the loved ones thursday
big developments with my 6 year old
major life freak out at the museum of modern art
all he can talk about
particularly jackson pollack
i got him a pollack book here
and he's excited
he told me he went to the arcade and got 330 tickets
and despite the fact that he wanted a game
he got me a mug
i'm not gonna get sentimental on your ass
you probably can figure out how i reacted
and although i'm really looking forward to ireland
haven't been there in a couple of years and it's probably my favorite country to play
i'm ready to get home
i missed billy childish by a week at the soho
would have loved to have seen him, met him, etc
saw a great play there, about an individual in russia
longing for the freedom of the usa and great britain in the 70's and 80's
black market jeans being the prized possession of any protester
talking of his time being incarcerated
and he and his friends great desire to hear and possess rock and roll
it made you very proud of our country
court system and the original constitution
and also made you realize what patriots those who take the people in power
in this country who are betraying that constitution to task are.
this current election process seems to be going on forever
good lord, it's hard to care after all this time
one hates to wish their life away but you almost feel
could we jump ahead a few years and see if we could end this stupid war,
get some healthcare, get the economy back on track,
have the mortgage situation stabilize?
edith warton's home us being foreclosed for god's sake,
something hs wrong there
pretty soon they'll have to throw bush out of the whitehouse...
wouldn't that be ironic?
he didn't get sentenced for war crimes,
he got thrown out because he couldn't make the mortgage payments?

these certainly are great days.
for the first time in a long time i have such optimism in the future
this london run is a dream come true.
but let us not get the impression, as i found out last night i was "booked",
that i am in any way solely a comedian.
i believe, which i make brutally apparent from the get go in my show,
i am a rock and roller.
solo, yes.
with an acoustic guitar, yes.
rockin' yer socks, yes.
telling jokes and occasionally amusing anecdotes, yes.
but over all...you get the picture. 'nuff said.
my heroes, and i have an embarrassing number,
but they provide such great and primal inspiration in these times,
come from all areas of the arts and politics,
and i'm sure there is a common denominator there,
although i've never stopped to articulate it...
although i guess i could if pressed:
bold, against the grain, refreshing, honest,
not taking themselves too seriously,
but with a passion that is steel like in it's unbend-ability...
you get the picture
i don't think that this is news to anybody that has been reading this...
and with criteria such as this
the really cool thing is i get continually reinforced
there is constantly new and exciting things happening in the underground,
every generation picks up the torch
bear in mind the beat guys were unheard of basically in the 50's, 
their most prolific time supposedly
so there's stuff going on, exciting stuff, banksy, obama, the web pundit,
bill mahr, daily show, colbert, that's just plain fun and exciting
and hats off to my pal kimya dawson for scoring, (pun intended)
a bulls-eye with juno.
and sure you have to wade through a load of crap on the internet and you tube to find this stuff,
and absolutely it's best not to read the reader's comments under your favorite video
but hey, did you ever read your diary from ninth grade?
i know i wouldn't want to do it
i burned them bad boys long ago.
i guess we're in a "transitional" period,
certainly the music industry is,
certainly politically the united states is,
but, (and i realize this is absolutely no solice to the people,
both military and innocent civilians that have lost their lives in this war)
maybe a george bush had to happen for some real change.
maybe not, it's a horrible thought i know.
but i hate to think it would take a catastrophe on monumental proportions
to wake the country up.
some might say that this administration was a catastrophe of monumental proportions
but i'm talking bigger, something that would make katrina or 9/11
look small in comparison.
because for a brief moment, too small a period unfortunately because bush nipped it in the bud,
where the country's priorities shifted
and the world was sympathetic
it seems a long time ago, especially for someone like me
who travels abroad a lot, and faces the disdain for americans in every country
(i've never been to africa, i see them greeting george with open arms
and to his credit he's giving them millions for fighting aids
but as he was jerkily and embarrassingly trying "dance" with them on the news
being the skeptic i am, but the "optimistic skeptic" now, i couldn't help but think:
is this the 'where's the oil?' dance?)
but anyway, i digress
if faced with the it's gonna get worse option
or the i see a light at the end of the tunnel option
i'm choosing the latter

 

sometimes things just happen for a reason, or the lord works in mysterious ways, or it's all a big mistake or whatever the fuck, but i have to say i'm glad it happened as it did...you see my friend ricki c had given me his latest and first cd he just recorded, titled "10 rock and roll songs about rock and roll" awhile back, and although i had every intention of listening to it asap, one thing led to another, and in this particular case the one thing that led to another was me having an unintentional withdrawal from my anti-depressant lexapro that plunged me into a despair so deep that my wife hustled me off to florida where i could recharge in the sunshine by the pool...it worked, god bless her knowledgeable diagnosis, and then i immediately had to hustle my ass on a plane for 2 weeks in london, threw ricki's cd in my bag and started doing the show, the first week in the theater was brilliant but left no time for extra curricular activities, i.e. listening to  his disc, and now as the dust cleared, and despite the fact that i'm calling home twice a day and getting all the latest home news, (remind me to blog about my 6 year old son's current infatuation with jackson pollack and his visit with his mom yesterday to the museum of modern art, for another time....), anyway i got wicked homesick yesterday, and today, having some free time after the show i finally got an opportunity to check out ricki's cd...i should also mention that i was  pretty familiar with all the tunes prior, and yet it was such a blast of fresh air, so intellectually astute, (he prides himself on his west side columbus ohio blue collar upbringing not unlike harvey pekar, so he'd cringe at that intellectually astute comment), but unpretentious and blistering in it's verbiage and ultimately manifesting itself in, yes, you guessed it, rock and roll...what a relief to hear something like this...i can hear the criticisms now...where's the melodies?...um, same place that tutti frutti has 'em...there's too many words!...you mean like patti smith or jim carroll?, and that's a BAD thing?...anyway infinitely less words than that bible you people go on and on about...and there's something so knowledgeable yet naive about the whole damn thing, just dropping names like a son of a bitch but like a letter from a friend, and you might counter, well, he is your friend ed, yeah, but it would be hard for me not to think that any passionate about the rock and roll fan that's over 40 wouldn't respond to this cd in poignant and resonate ways, and, admittedly that could be a select audience, a point that ricki mourns in a few of the songs, but so what? rock and roll probably never was meant to be mainstream, the few times that it has hit was probably a fucking miracle anyway, but this cd is proof positive that rock and roll still lives, as sure as the white stripes are doing it, as sure as the replacements did it with let it be... so, for those of you that read this, and love the rock and roll, not just like, because if you just LIKE it this cd is going to make no sense to you, but if you jam econo, are looking to get in the van, want to get your ya ya's out, are ready to testify, are a boy looking at johnny, are headed to babylon, and understand everything i just wrote when you picked up your 6 string razor than you need this cd. i did, and i didn't even know it. www.myspace.com/RickiC13

 i'll say this much for the soho area i'm in, they do their damnedest to keep the streets clean, it's gotta be pretty expensive, they got street and sidewalk cleaners going 24-7, taxes, taxes, taxes, and as we've already established with the last blog, in light of certain "upheavals" they need to...this a dangerous area for me, not because of the vomiting, or the endless bars and temptation to drink, which to be honest i have none, or the signs posted on the telephone poles saying "mind your possessions,this is a crime area", or the hooker transvestites, who i getting to know by name, "hi ed", "hi sheena", no...it's not only an area for cool theatre, wicked night life, but the two nemesis's (is that a word? i have no spellcheck when i'm using this laptop, does it often seem like you're reading the end of flowers for algernon?), anyway, my two GREAT temptations, vintage guitar shops and bookstores are everywhere around here...can't be going to london for two weeks, make thousands of dollars and come home in debt, that ain't gonna fly with the wife, but there are at least 10, and i'm not exaggerating, 10 stunning bookstores, between my apartment and the venue, and i'm only 4 blocks away, it's like satan himself is binding these beauties and sticking them in the window...and another thing to add to this whole dilemma, rock and roll has not died over here, yes they love their euro-beat and rap but in addition not as opposed, there is a billion new bands being touted to the kids, so there is all these books on the rock...yeesh, get me outa here, all the bookstore people are getting to know me by name, "hi ed", "hi simon", "sell enough cd's for that one ed?", "the kid's gotta eat simon", "no drooling on the tashens ed", "'nuff said simon"... so, not to brag, you probably figured the gigs have been going pretty good over here, i haven't bitched and that's always a pretty good sign, but saturday's gig was what i like to define as a "new level gig" where, no one is as surprised as me, when it goes not only flawlessly but it hits some kind of new mastery level for me...the show, "the terrorism of everyday life" had some script changes and new songs added that both the director, kate valentine, and i were pretty confident in, but it's been tweaked a bit, and credit has to be given to saturday's audience who were sharp, attentive, and ultra responsive...you have to feel lucky to keep on growing like this...it'd be nice if there was a hot shit reviewer in that night, although it'll probably happen the night i trip over my own dick, my guitar explodes, i lose my voice, the p.a. shorts out, i get in a fist fight with a grandmother in the audience, my pants rip, the toilet overflows to the first four rows, the audience comes in too drunk after a football game and thinks it's karaoke, keeps chanting, "boy george, do hungry like the wolf, thompson twins! pour some sugar on me!" i get tased by a bobby, creditors from local bookstores start coming in and demanding payment, the video screen behind me stops playing my video and only shows benny hill reruns, all the pent up tension that usually manifests itself in that weird performance that is bigger than life and a force of nature, instead produces tomato size boils on my face and head, that continue to enlarge until they explode on the audience---this will be the performance the reviewer will see, and the producer, james seabright, who is the politest fucking englishman you ever did see, will tell me afterwords, as the police are there trying to clean up the chaos and aftermath, "sorry ed, the reviewer was here, we'll have to wait for tomorrows review"...and sure enough, on the front page of the arts section, biggest paper in london, "GREATEST SHOW EVER TO HIT WEST END!!", and now the management team comes in and says we've got to produce this every night...i'm wrapped in bandages from my head to my toes, i look like the invisible man, and it becomes a huge sensation over here, kids line up for my show covered in bandages, "mummy rock" they call it, "it's boiling over" they say..."how did you arrive at this genius show hamell?" they'll ask. "it all happened organically"... roll over lester bangs, and tell tchaikovsky the news.

i haven't seen the daylight. the sleeping is, at best, incremental, and emphasis on mental, temperamental, experimental, and for my sanity, detrimental. my computer crashed last night depriving me the ability to write the valentines day prose piece i had so intended to write to my wife, which meant i had to go out at 4am and the soho area that i'm housed in was rockin', but they were drunk, crazy drunk, not drunk like you see in nyc drunk, no, not tipsy, or silly, or staggering, we're talking people retching, heaving, puke on every corner, this was a committed drunk, a serious effort to leave a part of one guts on a staked claim not unlike terratorial pissings... simon, that's MY corner, don't you see my bile there? sniff it, it's mine!...now i've had three great shows in a row, houses full hanging on my every word, new material, songs about tasers added and going over gang buster, so i can't complain, i've never been one to sleep worth a shit anyway, and if i never saw the daylight again it'd be no great shakes, although it means that i can't get into book stores because they're not open then, and if you know me you know i NEED my bookstores... but it is wild to see these 20 something year old girls with their short skirts and their 300 pound, (that's 600 dollar) boots, and their hair with the latest mod cut sorta nestled in their main guy's arms and just at one point lean over and fucking HURL, major league projectile vomiting, then go back to snuggling with their honey...i was ankle deep in  semi-digested meat pie from my doorway to the payphone...why? you might ask was i using a payphone? well...the cellphone i have over here is mucho expensive to call home, (the usa), and there's no phone in my flat, so the theatre, (who couldn't, by the way, be any nicer, see? theatres now! not them nasty rock and roll bars i've been doing for years where they say, hey, turn the fucking lights out when you leave!),lets me use their phone prior to the gig but of course the wife wants the gig update after the gig, or at least i want to talk to her about it whether she wants to hear it or not, poor thing, and so there i was, wading through porridge like streets to get to a phone booth and thinking wow! you don't see these things in the states too much anymore, and look how cute! little red, english phone booths, and look, no one's puked inside that one, i'm going to be safe in there, and i stood and made my phone call and the urine like stink permeated my nostrils as if someone had wrapped me in a week old ammoniated diaper...it was unbelievable, see the usa is a relatively new country, i know we like to think we're king shit and all, the world's laws don't apply to us, but we're babys man, history will tell the tale, they might yank george bush and his daddy out of bed, haul them downtown in a rickshaw and hang them for war crimes, you might see it in your lifetime, but anyway back to my phonebooth...they have had centuries to piss in this booth, churchill probably took a whiz in this sucker, the queen squatted and blasted one out, shakespeare was like, "to pee or not to pee there's no question, i'm letting one go", but, it's valentines day and all and i was bound and determined i was going to leave a message, told the wife how much i loved her and needed her and then sloshed back to my apartment...you gotta hand it to these english, they know how to fucking party. happy valentines day! burp...

like a newborn
hounding me they have been, write a blog for chortle! chuckle? no, chortle. like a fucking guffaw? i ask ...similar they say....hmmm..and someone will, um, care? viral baby, viral...millions of kids across the globe text messaging meaningless bullshit while it all goes up in smoke, hey, i say, put that cellphone on vibrate and stick it up your ass, you get a call and we all win don't we? testing, testing, one two...remember that know your rights/radio clash thing? ages ago right? when it was underground and kinda mysterious? thems were the days...and who makes us, um, chortle, these days? wallowing in dispair, crazy ass fema yelling, "run for your lives", i'm in line at the airport today and the guy in front of me can't get through security because he's trying to carry on shampoo, they're arguing with him, no mr. bin laden, you can't get through with this....santa clause is in guantanemo and with good reason, no obvious source of income that beard and sneaking into fucking people's homes...damn, i'll slap you with an old trout boy, the good ones is gone, hicks, hunter, you don't see that shit anymore...i'm afraid, i'm content, i want to shop...i used to think the government was in some kinda conspiracy, you know, give a giant flat screen tv, that'll shut 'em up, but no way man, people look ahead to the futily of existence and they drug themselves, religion, tv, the information highway, the endless job cycle, don't blame the government, don't blame the individual, there's your fucking joke...there is no one to blame! that's a cruel sense of humor man, that ain't funny at all. where's my goddamn trout? you know lester bangs? if you don't know lester bangs drop what you're doing right now and seek out psychotic reaction and carborator dung, turn off your fucking radiohead record for a minute and check this shit out, i've got nothing to gain by misleading you, i'm just trying to keep the spirit alive, that's why i drop names, there's my spirituality in a fucking nutshell, turn off your fallout boy for a minute or anticipate that trout slap we were talking about earlier--get out that bukowski, early stuff, short stories, poems and post office---feel the blood circulating, how come this isn't funny? this is suipposed to be a goddamn comedy piece! is this guy a comedian or what? no, i'm not a comedian, i'm lenny bruce. (he's not funny either they tell me, jesus reach for the lexapro, double up, it's been a bitch of a winter)...i'm not a musician, i'm hamell on trial... allow me to introduce myself, looking for something, shall we say, completely different? do you want, um, the truth? or do you want the trout? this is all rhetorical, please don't respond to this, i'll tell you advance i won't read it, i'm amazed you do, fucking really amazed, where do find the time, who have i mentioned? hunter thompson, lester bangs, bill hicks, bukowski, joe strummer, jesus by the time you get to them you ain't gonna have any time for me, and, and, and, and, that's okay...this isn't myspace, i'm not looking for friends, but i will share the wealth, testing one, two, is this cyberworld on? what would lester have done now? it'd be all old jazz and folk for him probably huh? and white stripes, he woulda dug the white stripes, and every lou reed record is like a letter from a friend, hey, i'm not saying that every letter you get from a friend is THE GREATEST LETTER I'VE EVER RECIEVED IN MY LIFE!!! but some are better than others, all of them make you feel pretty good, and believe me in these times, feeling pretty good is gonna have to do and anyway better a letter from a friend than some spam mail from the guys in maroon 5 who just want you to try their new song for free because they know if you try it you'll want to buy it, and i got food poisoning from it, soul poisoning, heart and head poisoning, and now i've gotta play a trick on the parents,i gotta play their game to the max because i've got a 6 year old and there's play dates and computer games, and soccer practice and karate practice so we're gonna get some home schooling for anarchists rocking here, read a little chomsky, take skeptical 101, global concerns for the preschooler, you want heavy kid? i'll give you rage against the machine...see what we come up with, okay so this is my first one, we'll see how this goes as i hit london tomorrow, my laptop doesn't like wireless... won't connect for love nor money,it's gonna be hell, writew the blog the publicist says...be more funny it's for the hardy har har site, a gag a thon i can relate, testing one two, who's got the trout?

USA VS UK HUMOR



Good Lord, I thought this was going to be an easy assignment. Not that I initially flattered myself to think that I had this great, encyclopedic knowledge of any nation’s humor. But I could differentiate between the USA and the UK’s sense of humor fairly easily, just by own experiences. When I’m standing at the bus stop conversing with the parents of the other kids? This is when I find I’m the least funny. Or at least perceived as the least funny. This side of the pond, parents are taking this whole parenting thing a little too seriously. For instance: When I say, “I love hanging out with my kid, can’t get enough of it, it’s like smoking crack.” Now, my British peers would think that was kind of amusing. They certainly wouldn’t grab their kids off the bus and guard them from my path as if I was a slobbering wolverine ready to attack. But we are a nation of fear over here, and simple joking or the wrong thing said at the inappropriate time can get you incarcerated, branded as a blasphemous traitor and beaten with a rubber hose in a forgotten cell. After being Taser gunned of course.

The simple answer would be, and this is snobbish of course, that British humor is darker, more sarcastic and articulate. Think Oscar Wilde. Americans are brutish, prudish, uneducated and more prone to jokes about flatulence. Think Dane Cook. This is an answer that is a bit simplistic; although it is true irony escapes Americans. Humorous success can happen over here utilizing “higher concepts” if you will. Mark Twain, Kurt Vonnegut and The Simpsons all come to mind, though I must confess I do sit back and think, “How the fuck did that happen?” Maybe the Brits have more time, centuries, to come to the conclusion, “Screw it, it’s all going to work out in a couple hundred years time or so. We can take a second and figure out what’s funny. We don’t need to drive a nail through somebody’s toe for the cheap knee jerk reaction.” Americans are in a hurry. For what? Damned if I know, maybe we sense the apocalypse, maybe we’ve precipitated the apocalypse with this current administration, and we want to get that damned flat screen TV now before the world fries to an ash like a burrito left in the micro wave for a couple hours.

Here are some things I know about US VS UK humor. We find British teeth funny. This was proven with the success of Austin Powers and also reinforced when Lisa Simpson’s orthodontist showed her “The Big Book of British Teeth.” We don’t understand jokes about soccer. Or football as you call it. I’m no gauge in that there was a very definitive line between the “sports guys” and the “music guys” when I was in my formative years. I chose the latter, squarely. What I know about sports you could fit on a midget’s shirt button. (Actually the politically correct term is “little person”. I have a friend that’s little person so I know that now. Actually she’s not really a friend, she more like a “shag buddy”)

I don’t know what the British think is funny about Americans. They’re probably too polite to tell me to my face. I have a suspicion though. Here’s something they might find funny: George Bush says if one more person compares him to Hitler he’s going to gas them. Did you find that funny? They might not over here. How about this? Two Middle Eastern fathers are comparing pictures of their sons who are terrorists. One of the dads says, “Ah, they blow up so fast.” Do you find that funny? And who would?

Here’s something I find funny, yet nobody seems to agree. It seems there is a small cult of Goth type kids that are digging up graves from old cemeteries and dancing with the corpses. They refer to the skeleton as “the bride”. I find this hysterical. I have questions. Do they bring music? What is it? Is the body still ripe? Is the transitional period “stinky?” People say to me, “Hamell, you wouldn’t think that was so funny if that was your father!” Well, actually, I would. And knowing my father’s sense of humor I can guarantee he’d get a kick out of it too. That having said, he’s been cremated, so I’d warn the Goths not to make an ash out of themselves.

Which brings me full circle, and why this was so difficult an assignment. I don’t know what anybody thinks is funny anymore, or of quality, or guided by a moral compass. I turn on the TV around the globe and see thousands, hundreds of thousands, of people laughing, applauding, being entertained by the most mediocre stuff I’ve witnessed in my life. And when I say, “Gee, this is kind of crap isn’t it?” they give me a look like I’m cynical or miserable, just a guy who wants to urinate in the punch bowl at the party. I don’t know anybody or talk to anybody that listens to that junk. (That having said my brother-in-law recently brought home a girl that claimed to be a Justin Timberlake fan. I’d never seen one in the flesh and I stared at her as if I was witnessing air flight for the first time.)

I do know, however, what both the USA and the UK share that might make the analogy so depressing. That unavoidable variable that never fails to disappoint. We’re all humans. What a nasty disease that is. And I consider myself to be a really “up” guy. Now back to the anti-depressants and Benny Hill reruns.

The first thing I remember thinking was, “Holy shit! I must have fallen asleep. That’s never happened before.” Then I noticed the blood in my lap, which was gathering in a widening pool on my black denim jeans and was soaking in. I vainly tried to brush it away. An attempt at a denial, I would guess, since I had to make the gig. You gotta make the fucking gig right? That’s the best part. I mean, if you don’t make the gig, what’s the point of all the bullshit you put up with? All that mud wrestling with the songs to get them right, the humiliation of talking the self absorbed clubowner into the gig the first time, the expenses that rack up on everything, not just the gas, or the wear on the car but how ‘bout them rings around the eyes? ------I’d only missed one gig before, when, same deal, not my fault, I’d broken an ankle in a car accident. But this time, when I went to brush the blood away I couldn’t move, and then I knew for the first time, not over dramatically or any of that bullshit, that I was truly fucked. And I wasn’t gonna make the gig. Then I realized that pool of blood was coming from my head.----- I don’t know about you but I prefer my blood on the inside, you know working on the breakdown of that cheeseburger or whatever the fuck it does, so I kinda freaked. And despite what a ton of people might think, I use my head for a wide variety of things, not just stopping my neck from being a large gaping open wound. So I started going over song lyrics, making sure I could remember them. Relieved that I could, I still couldn’t move my head. Then I did what every cowardly sucker does as he faces down that demon death, I put in a call to someone I hadn’t talked to in a longgggg time: God, oh please God don’t take my dumb ass now. All that shit I say on stage you know I’m just fucking around. You created me in your image, and I gotta say God, man, you gotta a nasty sense of humor. And then ol’ 9 lives here said something that might have got me a reprieve: I been studying for the finals a long time, let me take the exam, please, God, let me take the fucking exam.

A paramedic was vacationing behind me with her family and ran up to my car. “I saw the whole thing. You got run off the road by that white van, you flipped over twice, the ambulances are on their way!” ---------------They call them the “jaws of life”. They rip through metal to get an accident victim out of the car. They took the entire roof off of my car and helicoptered me to intensive care. I had broken T-1, T-2 and T-3, three vertebrae too close to my neck to ever operate. I’m always in pain but you get used to it. Let’s open that door right now. You know the one. Behind the facade, the mask, the laughter, let see if any of that physical pain might be on hanging out: (Hamell opens door) OOOWWW!!!! (Shuts door, calm) You see? There she is! ----Put 72 staples in my head. Never to be hidden by a stylish bouffant I might add. That bastard that stapled me shut didn’t give me enough anesthesia. It was like Chucunk! I was all depressed thinking about how I was going to keep the house now that I couldn’t work, I was like, all quiet, “I think you might want to give me another shot of Novocain” and the fucker proceeded, Chucunk. After that 4th or 5th staple I forgot all about the doom, or finances or my broken back, I was trying to hit that fucker with anything I could get my hands on, let me get this neck brace off, I’ll beat you to fucking death.

There’s a picture of me, the day I got home from the hospital, back at my house in my pajamas and body brace and a cast on my foot and wrist because I had broken them too, bandages around my head, playing my guitar, head thrown back, singing. My wife looks on, arms folded, staring at me like, “You son of a bitch, you’re going back out there. You and your stupid ‘Make the Gig’. You’re going to put me through this worry again.” But I had a song inside me, and I had to get it out.

Somebody named Raymond sent me this.
I don't think it's me brother in law Raymond, because it's not his humor.
Anyway I'm sending it out thinking you might enjoy it.
Thanks Raymond, who ever you are.
You made me laugh out loud.



A musician who's spent his entire life trying to get a record deal is feeling extremely depressed. He's been turned down by every record company he's ever contacted. No one seems to recognize his unique genius. So, he decides to kill himself, and comes up with an ingenious plan to get back at all the record companies who've rejected him all of his life. He books time at a recording studio, and instructs the sound engineer to record everything he says, and every sound he hears, and then copy it all onto 500 CDs, and send one to every record company executive on the list that he hands the engineer.

The guy walks into the vocal booth; the red light is on, and he begins...."This is a message for all you sycophantic, talentless, stupid record company assholes who've ignored me for all these years. I've dedicated my life to writing and performing beautiful, emotive, soul-touching music, and all you bastards do is discard my tapes, and sign these horrible, no-talent, ridiculous, stupid bands, and these filthy, dirty rappers! Well, you bunch of fuckin' morons; you dumb pricks, I've taken all I can of your puerile, shallow industry, and it's YOU who've driven me to this! Goodbye you fuckin' murderers of art!" With that, he places a gun to his head and blows his brains out.

The sound engineer looks up from the console, hits the talk-back button, and says, "Okay, that's fine. I've got a good level...let's go for one."

Write anything, they say.
Anything you want.
Maybe 800 words. Give'm sumpin funny.
How come? I want to know.
Because the publicist is trying to get asses in the seats for your London run of The Terrorism Of Everyday Life.
Anything?
(This reminds me of the joke about the old guy who gets propositioned by a prostitute
I'll do anything you want for a hundred pounds, she says.
Anything? He asks
Anything, she says.
Paint the house, he says)
Could I write: George Bush's head on a pole!
No, they say, you can't write that.
But it's 5 degrees below zero outside, I say.
I can't afford to heat the house, can't afford to put petrol in the car,
the economy is in ruins, the whole world hates the USA,
innocent people are dying everyday in the muddle east,
why can't I demand his head on a pole?
Two reasons: 1) The CIA will investigate you.
2) It's a bit of a downer.
Hmmm...a downer.
What if I throw in a joke with it?
(You know like: George Bush's head on a pole and hey...
I went to the doctor and he said
You gotta stop masturbating!
And I said, How come?
And he said, Because I'm trying to examine you.)
Look, the publicist says, If you write that you're demanding the decapitation of a major world leader
people will be put off by the show.
They'll think you're too intense.(This reminds me of a joke:
A guy goes to the doctor and he says, Sometimes I feel like a teepee
and sometimes I feel like a wigwam.
And the doctor says, You're too tense. Get it? Two tents. Nothing like the old noggin' severing with a chuckle!)
Unless of course you weren't serious about it,
if it was ALL a joke, they say.
Oh, I say, Existentialism!
Don't you get too high brow with us, mister, they say.
( A Zen master goes up to a hot dog salesman and says, Make me one with everything. That's existentialism with processed meat. That's not too high brow.)
Well for Christ's sake it's hard not to believe it isn't all a joke from where I sit, and hey it's not funny.
Oh great, they moan. Gloom and doom. What's this one man show of yours anyway?
Well, says I, it's got that Eugene O'Neill vibe about it, yes,
but with great songs about pro-cunnilingus.
(Did you ever hear the one about the actor doing Shakespeare and he's sucking big time,
and the audience is booing and he finally stops and says,
Whatta ya blamin' me for? I didn't write this crap!)
Let's get back to the pro-cunnilingus, they say.
By all means! I answer.
Is this show of yours some kind of erotic tale? Titillating, perhaps? That'll seat the punters.
Well, yes, plenty of good ol' sex, I say, and death too!
Like maybe Waiting For Bardot.
Death?, they say, you're back to that George Bush beheading again.
You brought it up, I answer, you really shouldn't say that.
It's a downer.
Speaking of which, lots of drugs in the show as well.
Oh! like 24 Hour Party People for the stage? they ask.
More, I reply, like 24 Year Party Person, with more politics and parents.
(My old man told me this joke. A lot.
A young bull and an old bull are looking down at a herd of cows.
The young bull says, Let's run down and mate with that one!
And the old bull says, Let's walk down and mate with them all.)
Let's get a grip on this show of yours before we decide what you're going to write.
None of this George Bush ending at the neck nonsense.
So far you're telling us this Terrorism show of yours is about drugs, existentialism, sex, gloom, suicide, snappy jokes, parents, politics and processed meat.
That's her, I say. Oh, and Rock and Roll. That's the most important part. The Rock and Roll. See, it's a musical.
WHAT!?
It's got all my favorite rock and rollers.
Charles Bukowski
Hunter S. Thompson.
Rocking the pen. And it ain't no jumbled mess neither baby. Big ol' Herald Angel winner at The Edinburgh Fringe Fest.
I'm proud of that shit.
Well, you can't write shit and you can't write George Bush's head on a pole.
You've got everything in your show except sports.
Oh there's sports, I say, got that covered too. Thumb wrestling. Big craze over here these days.
(This has nothing to do with nothing but I got to tell it. The big band is in town and after a great gig, they're celebrating at the bar.
A couple of beautiful girls, Siamese twins actually, strike up a conversation with the trombone player.
He hits it off with one, invites her to his hotel, her sister has to accompany, being joined at hip, and they end up making love.
The unaccompanied sister, bored, picks up his trombone and starts playing. She's brilliant. It's like Tommy Dorsey meets Jimi Hendrix!
When the first sister falls asleep the big band trombonist makes love to the other sister. The first sister wakes up and grabs the trombone.
She begins playing and she's even better than her sister. A year later the girls are looking through the paper.
Hey!, one says, the big band is back in town! We should look up that trombonist! Her sister says, Do you think he'd remember us?)
Well we can't wait to see this play of yours, they say.
And that's exactly the response I was looking for.
Now how 'bout that George Bush thing?

sometimes tours are like lessons in time relativity
hours seem like weeks
days seem like minutes
einstein rides in the back seat
salvador dali is his confidante
and i, as always, am at the wheel
here's the dates for a total of 1300 miles
boston, asbury park, nyc, vienna virginia
my man ricki c flies into boston
buses out of washington
did i tell you that boston is finally succumbing to my charms?
gig went great
that having been said
my cellphone rings on the way home
connecticut
a dear friend calls to tell me that his dad's cancer
has taken a turn for the worst
and on the way home the cops pull me over
hey, i never got the registration in the mail
the cop's got no sense of humor
he tows my car
ricki and i take a cab home
next morning, get the registration and the car out of hock
back in bed
detroit has his piano lesson
out to asbury park
no comment
some gigs is just for the money
hey, you gotta pay the rent
home, shot
great gig in nyc
back home the wife requests t rex and born to boogie
the three adults watch the rock
isn't there a cheap trick line somewhere about this in surrender?
out at noon the next day to washington
i'm taking a little nap prior to soundcheck
and ricki wakes me up to tell me to call the wife
sure enough there's been a death in the family
more about this in another blog
after the gig i take ricki to the bus station
and he almost gets back to columbus
with relatively few incidents but sure enough
the bus breaks down before he gets home
i, on the other hand,
get the 5 hour ride under my belt,
get home at 5:00 am
and work on some songs
sometimes it just feels good
to play the guitar

in the "no news is good news" dept
i guess everything is great news
nothing really new to report
and i'm guessing that you don't want me to blog
just for the sake of blogging
we continue putting together the dvd
we continue to plan for the theatrical
presentation of the
terrorism of everyday life
which tentatively opens for a two week run
in london at the soho theater feb 14-28 2008
and then does a two month run here in nyc
very exciting
looks like my friend ani will be producing my new record
in the first week of feb 2008, just a guy and a guitar
ripping the shit out of a room
in this case, her room, in new orleans.
boston, a town that has never succumbed previously to my charms
is succumbing, finally
my little residency on thursday nights is paying off
and then i play new york city
this saturday, first time in awhile
since the comix debacle
i guess it's all good
trying to add a bit about my car accident to the show
although, it's supposed to be a comedic bit and frankly,
there wasn't anything a whole lot funny about the accident.
that having been said, i was cracking jokes the whole time,
the medic that was stapling the top of my head shut,
was a little lenient with the anesthesia and every time
he'd hit me with that damn staple gun i'd feel a bitch of a sting
you know, nails driving into your head and all,
i was like, dude, would it kill you to give me more novocaine
i mean, why the ration? are they charging you by the shot?
i finally told him that i'd get him a gift certificate to home depot
get that stapling technique down with some fucking practice.
he thought i was funny," what do you do?" he said.
i said i'm a musician kind of thing, told him to check out my web site,
he was all psyched, thought he was meeting an artist or something,
turns out he was a born again christian,
he never talked to me again.
ain't that a bitch,and so typical of organized religion,
i mean, he puts painful nails in my head, and then gets pissed off at me,
because i like to tell the truth,
when everybody else seems to avoid it like the plague,
except i tend to use colorful language.

i had a different road manager this weekend
my 5 year old son detroit
it wasn't supposed to happen but...
my wife had to go to portland oregon on business
from wednesday 'til late saturday night
this meant halloween with pops
which was very cool
you know, far by it for me to read subtext and metaphor into life's events but
my son lost a tooth the same day i bought him a skeleton costume
am i reading signs of mortality into places where they aren't?
(by the way he wanted to be a skeleton on a skateboard for halloween
so i created a costume that made him boney hawk.
both the costume and the skateboard lit up.
thanks- i thought that was good too)
so much to my wife's chagrin
i had to accept gigs in boston, philly and westchester pa
for thursday, friday and saturday
and i took a shot and brought the boy along
that meant a half day of school on thursday
this was where my wife really let the shit storm fly
this is sending the wrong message she says
this is a woman who cherishes education
to her credit i might add
i, on the other hand, largely self educated,
really hated all things school
my son, i'm glad to say, really loves school,
the teachers make it challenging and fun
unlike my early teachers,
who in retrospect i realize should have been put out to pasture,
or made into glue.
but, you know, back to this wrong message thing,
it's kindergarten for christ's sake....
so we headed to boston after a half day at school,
stopped at mcdonalds along the way,
and he got a couple hours of a nap in,
then after we set up, we found a little skateboard park,
across the street from the club,
(okay, it wasn't a "club", it was a fucking bar,wadda ya gonna do?
my old man took me to bars, i don't know,
i guess that's part of the self education i referred to earlier,
read on, there was enlightenment on my part...)
and he pretty much played his tony hawk nintendo ds
throughout my show, although there was a pause
when he had to go to the men's room and go "poop"
but he got a really big kick out of selling cds at the end of the night
and the bar manager told me that if the cops come in
i'd have to hide him
so i've been thinking about having him and i
memorize scenes from paper moon
with ryan and tatum o'neill
back home by 2:30 am, him sleeping in the car
and yes, i did have him on the bus at 9:00am for a full day of school friday,
i slept, got him at 4:00 off the bus,
(long day for a road manager...)
and we had a nice home cooked meal,
and headed in the car for philly
he slept a good 2 hours,
i set him up a bunk in the dressing room
but he wanted to stay up,
watch dvds, since i brought his dvd player as well as nintendo,
he also filmed my show for me,
and later i was surprised to see that he had gone back to the dressing room while i was playing,
and filmed himself playing my "b" guitar and singing a song he made up.
(this is no bullshit, he really did this).
i asked him later why my case was rifled through
he told me he needed a pick
i asked him how he knew there was one in there.
he said, (honest), "i get around"
jesus, 5. i'm doomed
i have pictures of him selling cds, my sales were way up
everybody wanted to meet detroit
this was 1:00 o'clock in the morning
my wife wants to kill me
we got home at 4:30 am (he slept the whole way home)
the next day i took him to the arcade since he had me up at 8:30
and then thankfully he attended his first sleep over with a friend of his
down the street, he was very excited
got him in the shower and we did laundry, gave him $40 in case they went out to eat
and told him to say, "i'm going to pick up the check."
he said, "should i pick it up and pay it too?"
yes, i said
i dropped him off at 6 and drove like a banshee to westchester pa, 3 hours away,
ripped through a savage and fun set and got home at 4
well really 3 because i gained and hour, daylight saving time thingy
that was god's way of saying you must me exhausted hamell
let me throw you a bone.
all in all, a lot of fun,
although, (enlightenment mentioned earlier)
i don't want my kid hanging around bars.
i don't even want to hang around bars
and in other countries, i don't
theaters, concert halls etc...
here? bars
something we can't do all the time, but a weekend to be cherished
just don't tell the child protection services.

this is not a halloween message
honest
it's been going on quite awhile
my car is haunted
not in a bad way mind you
all my cars have always had "personalities"
i had this really great chevy cavalier that i inherited from my father
it was a pretty single minded, dependable,
i actually got 300,000 plus miles on it
it was still running great when i donated it to charity
i would have kept it but the wife said enough's enough
so then i got the car of my dreams
or at least within my budget dreams
a volkswagon jedda
almost new
the fucking thing was a lemon
with a mean disposition
it wanted to kill me
and damn near succeeded
then a family member gave me a little car to tide me over
it was a local deal, no soul
and now i got this mitsubishi gallant that is killer
amazing pick up, dependable as hell
and loaded with ghosts
from the charles bukowski rumble when it starts
to the lenny bruce speed rap when it accelerates
to the baudelaire glove box
and fred astaire corner maneuvers
its nick of time hunter thompson stops
and woody guthrie tenacity
it's provocative william burroughs seats
and old school marvin gaye style lines
sylvia plath sleep inducing reclining cushions
comforting miles davis heater
these are reassuring voices with which to ride in style
it's got this big bad joe hill trunk where my gear fits like a glove
and yeah it needs cleaning and the wipers are a bit helen keller
and the shocks are a little walter brennan
and i wish the headlights were a bit more carl sagen
then tody fields
and hub cap wise you're looking at elvis at the end
as opposed to '56
but man, i never ride alone, huh?

ah, the smell of the grease paint and the roar of the crowd
when the lights dim, and the first chords resound through the hall
does anyone stop and think, hey how did all this stuff get here on time
every night, sounding crisp and inspired, ironed, fresh and relatively sane and intact?
probably not, and that's the way it's supposed to be
because it's an illusion people, as well it should be,
didn't john ford say, "if the myth is greater than the truth,
print the myth?", (i paraphrase here, i think)
anyway i'm a sucker for the myth, but i'm here to tell you,
there's people behind the scenes, and i'm here to sing the praises of
our tour manager through the last 12 dates in europe, one susan alzner
who could get these drug crazed lunatics in line every night
while humming merrily a billy squire song? her, that's who.
and this became brutally apparent to me when,
in just minutes of her saying her goodbyes on the tour
and the crew and band and opener were left to the own devices,
with just a mere 12 hours to safely board a steam ship to the united states,
the tour bus was wrecked, the gear was stolen,
and the substance abused hillbillies known as the tech crew
had sold their passports for crack, the hotel was destroyed
and the opener, deported with an unsatisfactory status.
let's take you through the average day with susan.
the coffin shaped bunks are not conducive to sleeping.
these are the areas where you sleep.
load in is at 10:00 am which requires a good 1/2 hour of stretching on her part
she grabs her righteous babe issued crow bar and beats the crew awake
then goes inside to deal with the promoter and local crew
as the venue usually is permeated with the stale odor of german beer and urine
she takes it upon herself to spray disinfectant under her arms, and the music hall,
and get to work bribing the locals with cash and nylons
in the hopes of getting some genuine sweat and toil out of them.
sprinkling fresh cut flowers in the dressing rooms,
making sure the caterer has food that is not only edible,
(how do you know if the food is truly organic?
because it'll truly taste like shit.)
but doesn't look like cattle dung. recycled through a blender.
where's the phones? where's the wireless connectors?
where are the showers? towels? who's on the guest list?
where will merchandise be sold? any interviews with press and tv today?
let's get hamell up from his nap for sound check. are there hotels for tomorrow?
what time can the crew check in? where's the local veggie restaurant?
restock food for the bus.
the truck broke down! where's alternate transportation?
who lost their work papers?
can we cross the border with a kilo up our butt?
doors are at 7. the security has the brain of a tortured monkey.
blind as bats. unwilling to take advice from a woman. man the automatic weapons.
get the band on, get the band off, sell the merch.
count the merch. get paid. haggle with the promoter about....everything.
he's unwilling to take advice from a woman. big mistake.
get the artists to the bus. worry about tomorrow. get the crew out of jail.
go see the bail bondsman. haggle over the exchange rate.
he's unwilling to take the advice of a woman.
the fans are storming the bus.
(true story: i'm chatting with an italian fan who,
glancing over at the very straight and orderly line
of fans waiting by the dressing room door, says:
"i've never seen them so well behaved before."
my reply: "they've never dealt with susan alzner before")
end of day, back to no sleep in coffin bus. watch matrix for 2,000 time.
back home: find crew in shanghai jail. the fun never ends.
we love susan.

where was i at the second half of that last tour?
for some reason my lap top decided it no longer liked wireless connections
particularly in foreign countries with weak service
ah well...
suffice it to say it was a stunning tour
got a beautiful purse for the wife in milan
had a run in with a snooty resident in zurich
visited, although did not partake,
in the hash bars of amsterdam
with my friend francesco our brazilian monitor tech
the soundtrack on the tour bus
was this really cool compilation album of italian folk music
something about the tarentelle
one would assume derived from the latin
depicting the tarantula
anyway the story goes that the music is made by people that get bitten by a spider
in the south of italy
and want to dance all night
good lord i love italians
i'll miss joe torie
but it would be cool if joe girardi replaces him
but as my friend louis says about me
what i know about sports
you could fit on a midget's shirt button
i also met the head of the italian universal record label
the big mozzarella, as they say
what do you think we talked about?
hold on to your hats, here's a big surprise...
'cause everybody was asking me, wow, you guys really hit it off
we talked about...um...music...
what a concept huh?
he loves, eddie cochran, gene vincent, jerry lee, little richard...
i said well hell, let's go through my ipod
which led to, you guessed it,
two grown men. barely speaking the same language,
talking about rock and roll
speaking of rock and roll
my rock and roll field trip
was to go to the reeperbaum in hamburg
and find the star club
after blocks and blocks of daytime seedy live sex shows
and shops, crack addicts etc, enough to put you off sex
for hours if not an entire afternoon,
i finally found the place where the star club once stood, a plaque marks the spot
my patient navigator and pal todd
led me to indra, the first place that the beatles played
burning some of it down if i'm not mistaken, and being deported
due to george's underage status
all of this i diligently captured on video
had a day off in london, rested,
actually babysat, and played a blistering set
at shepard's bush empire,
not my first time there, as it turns out,
i had opened echo and the bunnymen
a few years ago to boatloads of beautiful young asian girls
who hadn't a clue what the fuck i was up to...
went much much better this time.
flew home to the loving arms of the family
an incredible tour, amazing,
maybe the best ever,
but great to be home.