So, I deleted the stupid shit that he wrote but then thought I’d share some of it with you, for rock history’s sake. By the way, he really is pretty fucking stupid. You’d think a 66-year-old man who has flown around the world hundreds of times on 30 some-odd tours would know what a fucking seatbelt was, especially on his own plane. He held up his own plane for 9 hours, and then it turned out he thought he was in a car.

Anyway:

>“Jesus fuckin’ FUCK! What in the flying FUCK is going on here? What is this fuckin’ thing? I don’t have time for this fuckin’ shite! Are we fuckin’ flyin’ yet? An’ where are we bloody fuckin’ well going, anyshite? Eh? Fuckin’ VERMONT? AGAIN? For fuck’s fuckin’ sake, man. We’re in fuckin’ China or Japan or Egypt or some fuckin’ place and we gotta go fuckin’ THERE again? Fuckin’ hell, man. Fuckin’ HELL.”

> “Oh, and great. Now I’m lookin’ at this newfangled fuckin’ computer Facefuckin’ TV thing or whatever the fuck it is and fuckin’ SHITE on fuckin’ SHITE! Apparently there’s only going to be 47 people at this fuckin’ show! Montreal? Acadia? WORK ON FUCKIN’ SUNDAY? I can’t even fuckin’ FATHOM where or what the FUCK Ogunquit is. FUCKIN’ HELL! I’m flyin’ to this fuckin’ thing from fuckin’ Korea!
I’m wastin’ a LOT of money on JET FUCKIN’ FUEL! Yeh, fuckin’ expensive these days, mates, in fact ALWAYS fuckin’ expensive! I’m paying for my private fuckin’ jet to take me to play this fuckin’ gig. I’m even wastin’ fuckin’ money right fuckin’ now dictating this fuckin’ shite to my fuckin’ assistant!
Listen up, you fuckin’ Yanks: GO TO THIS FUCKIN’ SHOW. Every time we come here to the States you have proven yourselves to be of…whatever the fuck. You dig our music. Good on you. Come see it again. We’ll never let you down.
I had to go through this “Cooley” guy to get this shite to you. Met him at a gig a while back. He’s a decent enough bloke, but shite as a fuckin’ bartender. Ya call that a Black & Tan, mate? I call it Black & Fuckin’ MUDDY SHITE.” Fuckin’ wankfuckering wankfucker.
Anyways, again, YANKS: GO TO THIS FUCKIN’ SHOW, WHY DONT YA?. This sluggish economy is EVERYWHERE, mates. Don’t forget where you fuckin’ came from. Peace fuckin’ OUT!”

>“I just had to lay off me fuckin’ assistant (Roland). Shut your fuckin’ face about it. I hadda do it, man. The money for this gig isn’t gonna pay for those silk burn-proof oven mitts and/or the lawsuit settlement regarding what I did at Larry’s house last month…‘ey, can you put this in those comma things? Awright: (really, I’m fuckin’ SORRY, Larry. Canna we just move the FUCK on?). Stop the fuckin’ commas NOW. Anyway, all Roland did was type what I said. Big fuckin’ WHOOP. Me fuckin’ daughter’s doin’ it now. She’s three years old and she can type this shite FOR FREE. That’s a real fuckin’ fine way to start, if you ask me. I’m startin’ to dig this Facefucker thing. I might get me own fuckin’ account, mainly cuz this Cooley guy’s bein’ a real fuckin’ prick about me using his computer TV password thingymagingy. An’ he can’t make a drink worth a fuckin’ fuck. Fuckin’ YANKS. Enjoy that Nobel Prize, you fuckin’ bastards. I done more good for the fuckin’ world than you’ll ever fuckin’ know. Just wait ’til fuckin’ tomorrow. Then you’ll fuckin’ know. THEN you’ll fuckin’ know.”

>“Great. And now I have fuckin’ jet lag already. For this 47-audience-member gig (212 ‘not attending’…COME ON! ROCK WILL BE HAD, YOU YANKS!) GEAR and fuckin’ FAB? I think bloody fuckin’ not. Ah, and no beer until 11:00AM, fuckin’ AMERICAN TIME. This fuckin’ country and it’s STUPID fuckin’ time zones. I’m on Tibetan time, mind ya, so gimme a fuckin’ beer! Not only that, but do you realize you just sort of tried to blow up the FUCKIN’ MOON? For FUCKIN’ WATER? We already got plenny o’ water down here, mates. In fact, I think we should be AFRAID of fuckin’ water. We don’t need any fuckin’ more of it if you ask me. Christ, think of all of the people water has fuckin’ killed in the last few years. I don’t wanna get into the horrific details, but it’s a fuckin’ LOT. Water’s evil, man. That’s why we’re made of it. We’re fuckin’ evil, too, after all. If you bastards think you have the bloody fuckin’ right to blow up the fuckin’ MOON, I have the bloody fuckin’ right to drink a fuckin’ BEER.”

>“Anyway, if you’re one of those young fuckin’ kidsters or flipsters who tweezers or mytubes or whatever the flyin’ fuck you fuckin’ do out there, come see us rock in your shitty little town. You won’t regre-JESUS FUCK you guys have some shitty fuckin’ weather goin’ on down here. Bloody shit. Literal bloody shit in the skies.”

>“God, I hate fuckin’ airports. Same fuckin’ shit every fuckin’ time. This Burlington one is alright, but it still kinda fuckin’ sucks. I just wanna fuckin’ beer. I’m on Japanese time right now. There better be fuckin’ beer at this fuckin’ gig.”

>“And I spent my fuckin’ flight celebrating John Lennon’s birthday. This Faceshit shit is kinda alright, though. I know what Drum and Reg are up to now. Unless they’re fuckin’ lying. Can’t trust those fuckers with a fuckin’ thing. There better be some fuckin’ people at this fuckin’ gig. Some hippie bloke just tried to take my luggage.

Ugh. The cab driver’s playing the fuckin’ Eagles. I hate the fuckin’ Eagles, man. Fuckin’ Don Henley? WANKER and a fuckin’ HALF, mate. Wanker and a fuckin’ half.

Fuckin’ shite.”

More photos HERE»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»>

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Ghost.

I was offered the opportunity to be a part of yesterday’s BOADRUM 9 in Troy NY, and turned it down…to remain on daddy duty.

Boredoms. 9 drummers. Me backstage with EYE.

Instead, it was blanched broccoli, Elmo diapers, repeated readings of The Little Island, and gauging how many inches I can actually pinch these days.

Cooley dispatched intermittent and rabid media files my way last night. Here are some of them:

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Cooley (and his companions Herb and Tanner) are planning to write all about it, so I’ll leave it to them to tell you how awesome and life-changing it was. I’ll just go pre-rinse some cloth diapers instead.

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The Playboy. September 1971. I wasn’t alive yet, but Olsen was. Somehow when I was 23 this issue fell into my hands. The centerfold is Crystal Smith, who is stunning in both her beauty and her taste in American Flag bell bottom pants. Among her favorite films at the time are M*A*S*H and Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. So, there’s that. Whenever my old band Bag Of Panties would play I would always put this centerfold up. There’s no bush, so it seems sort of innocent. And cool. If a gig was going bad or if I just needed some inspiration to play better than I was, I’d just look at Crystal. I know I’m way too young for her, but…Then there’s an interview with Jules Feiffer, a weird “surrealistic nudes” pictorial, movie reviews of Two Lane Blacktop and Who Is Harry Kellerman and Why Is He Saying Those Terrible Things About Me? (which I’ve sampled many times), a negative review of McCartney’s “Ram” (lame, but fun to read) and the ads. My god, the ads. Apparently in the early 70s the kind of man that read Playboy was into leisure suits, Hush Puppies, and newfangled stereo equipment. TONS of ads offering new turntables, reel-to-reels, portable 8-track players, etc. There’s also a Datsun ad in there that I once used to design a ticket for a Wide Wail CD release party. Anyway, the centerfold is getting custom mounted and framed tomorrow.

The Rolling Stone issue which just happened to be there also changed my life. It’s the Best Albums Of The Last Twenty Years issue, August, 1987. When I was 14, the upstairs college student neighbor (C.K. Walls) gave me this issue. All I listened to at the time was metal and The Beatles. It’s an informative issue that explains very well why each album is great and why you should have it. It also has impressive reproductions of the album covers which is what drew me in initially. Through this issue I found The Sex Pistols, The Velvet Underground, Television, Otis Redding, New York Dolls, R.E.M., Todd Rundgren, The fucking STOOGES…they turned my feeble little mind on to great shit. I spent years finding these albums. Looking through it today I realized I don’t own 6 of them. Someday I will.

And then there’s this:

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A Bag Of Panties reissue of the first 1997 cassette release “Half In The Bag” (which Mrs. Olsen guests on, quite beautifully) is in the works…on VINYL.  Seriously.  I don’t know if it’ll be an Icebox release, but it’s in the process.

There is a little girl screaming into a microphone across the street about Star Wars characters.  I’ll take it.  Better than the fire trucks.

I’m going to spend the next 45 minutes trying to become man enough to deal with drunks until 2 AM.  Ya gotta act tough.  Wish me luck.

Okay, this girl is just yelling stuff about pumpkin pie.  I forgive her.