you know by now, I am not the
sort of person to fly off the
handle at the slightest provocation.
I am no petulant Hall-of-Fame
newbie who expects everything
that happens on the road to feed
my voracious narcissism, and
who thinks that the world owes
him a living or something like
it. As you have seen, I am
in the habit of treating my
fellow workers with the dignity
and respect they deserve, because
I am grateful for their efforts
on behalf of the
tour and in
the service of our ultimate
goal of making good music.
I'll tell you what, though — when
I find out who booked me into
this hellish dump for the night
I will personally see to it that
his/her lungs are ripped out
and fed to to wolverines in my
presence, so that I know that
the job has been done properly.
This place is the pits!
First of all, there is the noise.
I am being serenaded as I write
by high decibel jackhammering
from the north-northeast and
some sort of metal shredding
process to the south. This has
been going on since app. 7 am,
six full hours before my wake-up
call (which never came, by the
way.) The place is filthy, the
air is fetid and stale, and there
is nothing edible in the minibar.
In fact, there is no minibar
There is also no room service
menu, no pay movies, the bed
is smelly and uncomfortable
and the furniture is fucking
Also, there is no daily sheet — I have no idea where the gig
is tonight or when the bags are
being picked up. What the hell
happened to you, man? You used
to be beautiful at this gig.
For crissakes, Chris, get a grip
will you? I'm dying here!!!
PS: oh shit — I have belatedly
been informed that a) the
tour is over as of last night, and
b) this is my apartment in New
York, such as it is (that would
also explain these dunes of CDs,
the Eskimo art, and the portrait
of Prince Jazzbo in the bedroom).
So, as far as the body of this
note is concerned, uh — you
know, let's just forget it, okay?