Usual Rubbish

Meet the jerks.

First there is a planet, then there is no planet, then there is. Or was that mountain? No, no… that’s planet, sayeth the booking agent. And we feasted on crow, and feces, and fillet of sole (the kind that’s glued to the bottom of your sneaker). And there was much rejoicing… not!

Well, friends… it’s only when you start thinking you’ve been fucked every way from Tuesday that they come up with three or four other days of the week you’ve never even heard of. What the hell am I talking about? Well, I’m gonna’ tell yuh. (Whoops… I’m reverting to my Warren Oates impersonation…. give me a minute. Mmmmph. Okay, that’s got it. Ahem. ) Now you may recall my account of how Quality Lincoln, our de-facto (or as we now call him, “de-FUCK-to”) booking agent, signed us up for a package tour of every planet in the solar system. And in his infinite wisdom, he accepted one flat fee for all performances on (and this is important) EVERY planet in said solar system. Then of course, moments after the toner was dry on the faxed contract, those mother-fucking snakes (i.e. space scientists) on the mother-fucking plane (i.e. planet Earth) went and added not one, not two, but THREE new planets to the solar system, obligating us to play twelve worlds for the price of nine. Remember? (Sure you do – it’s one or two entries down… have a look.)

Okay, now I will revert to 1970s-80s teenspeak to relate the subsequent developments. So we’re like, “What the fuck, Lincoln, we’re getting totally ripped off, here!” And he’s like, “No way, dude. This is great exposure.” And I’m like, “Way, Lincoln! How are we gonna’ make money here?” And he gets all, “I got it worked out, dudes… honest.” (All right…. you’ve suffered enough. ) So Lincoln suggested that we start with the outer most planets in the solar system – Charon, Pluto, and that other one… Sedna, or whatever. He said that those planets were so cold and sparsely populated that there was no way in hell we would spend more than one or two nights on any of them. Well, I should have thought better of this when I saw Marvin (my personal robot assistant) emit a strange green glow and start klanging like a steam engine. But did I listen? Did I? Now ask yourself… do I ever? (You’ve got your answer.)

Okay, so we lit out for Charon first and played three of the most bone chilling sets I can remember. We were set up on this glacier of frozen nitrogen, playing for a gaggle of stalagmite-looking shards of ice that looked… well… indistinguishable from the rest of this desolate landscape. Marvin froze in position like the tin man on the Wizard of Oz. Even sFshzenKlyrn — a denizen of deep, deep space with no body heat to speak of — was moving slower than what was common for his guitar-slinging, bound-about stage routine. Still, we turned up the thermostats on our rented spaceman suits and ground our way through the tunes, jumping up and down to keep the blood in our toes, wrestling with hypothermia while our audience stood in rapt silence. (Okay… just silence. Frankly, I think they’re really only icicles sticking out of the glacier.) Bad gig, man. And then Pluto…. you think Charon is bad, book yourself into a club called “The Cooler” on Pluto. (My shoes are still frozen to that stage, actually.)

Okay, so here’s the kicker… the thing that makes this GET ME THE HELL OUTA HERE Big Green Tour 2006 such a total bust. Now those fucking scientists are thinking about lopping Pluto and Charon off the end of the solar system again. So all that frozen-ass performing was for nothing! And that’s why we’re eating crow, sole, feces, etc. “Play the outer planets first,” he says! Blast you, Lincoln! There are going to be some changes around here, mark my words!

Political Rants

Trial by partner.

Even as the U. S. media gears up for what promises to be the “trial of the century” of the year (that Jon Benet Ramsey murder case they’re obsessing about now), our trusty hometown newspaper found space on the front page (way below the fold) for one story coming out of Iraq — that of another “trial of the century”. Namely, Saddam Hussein’s second, at which he will answer charges of genocide against the Kurds during the Anfal campaign of 1987-8. Conspicuously absent from the stand, of course are Saddam’s and “Chemical” Ali’s co-conspirators in the Reagan administration, as well as much of the congressional leadership at the time. Sure, Reagan’s dead, but many of his top people are still with us (particularly his special envoy to Baghdad, Donny “by gosh” Rumsfeld), some of whom have made their way back into the White House in the intervening years. At the very least, the full history of U. S. cooperation with Saddam up to, including, and well beyond the gassing and bombing of Kurdistan should be brought forward at this trial. But any such suggestion is merely laughable in the context of the U.S. occupation of Iraq.

This trial isn’t about justice, it’s about public relations. This is the closest thing to good news our government can muster out of the disaster they have created in Iraq. It is very likely that upwards of 200,000 people have died in that country since our invasion of March 2003. Add that to the 300,000 to 500,000 who died because of the 12-year sanction regime (imposed by the U.S. and Britain) and we’re putting Saddam’s grisly numbers to shame. Though it isn’t reasonable to set our death toll against his, since we are also morally and materially culpable in the mass killings for which he is being held responsible. No one talks about it now, but Saddam received billions and billions in aid and war materiel from the United States during his 8-year war against Iran. His regime received logistical support and satellite intelligence, much as was provided to the Nicaraguan “Contra” terror army at about the same time. He received components for WMD’s from U.S. and European suppliers with a nod from their respective governments. He enjoyed considerable diplomatic support as well, particularly in the wake of the Halabja attack, which we tried to hang on Iran, if memory serves. Indeed, our support for the bad boy went on until days after he invaded Kuwait in 1990, fully two years after Halabja.

You’ve heard me say all this before (those who’ve been reading this blog for a while), so forgive me for repeating myself. It is just that the entire history of our relationship with Iraq (and, indeed, with every nation in the greater Middle East area) goes unmentioned, unreferenced, and unremembered in the mainstream press. Those of us who do recall what happened end up sounding like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, but I suppose that is the only way to keep history alive — by utilizing this modern equivalent of an oral tradition. To listen to our leaders and our network newscasters, we are living in a world of clearly defined “good” and “evil”. But the definitions they offer do not hold an ounce of water, once you scratch beneath the surface a little bit (Olmert and Nasrallah come to mind). If Hussein belongs in the docket, then we should be standing right beside him, for the people who died twenty years ago… and for the people who are dying today.

The king is mad. Pass it on.

luv u,

jp

Usual Rubbish

Twelve planets?

Let’s see… five from twenty-seven is twenty-two. Carry the nine. Multiply by the square root of Chicago. Now check your work. Wait for it, wait for it… okay. Pencils down!

Jeezuz. Just try to get a straight answer around here! I even get prevarication with math questions, for chrissake. Let me tell you, friends – this is one disgruntled shipload of bandmates, and it isn’t just because we spent the better part of the last week clearing unexploded ordinance from the minefields of Borax 19, a grisly little world locked in mortal combat with its near-space neighbor, the planet Calgon (not to be confused with the laundry detergent). No, sir… we’ve just come to a very disturbing realization, thanks to the Univac-like brain of Marvin (my personal robot assistant). It’s just a good goddamn thing we insisted on taking him along with us on this tour. (Actually, he insisted, but what the hell… the effect is the same).

Anyway, here’s what we’ve worked out in mid-voyage. It seems our agent-of-the-week, former president Lincoln, signed us up for one of these package promotional tours where we agree to play every planet in the solar system for a single, flat fee. Old “honest” Abe was real proud of himself on this one – we actually stood to make some money on the deal (unlike every other venue he’s booked so far). Of course, while we were away, slogging through insufferable engagements in some of the galaxy’s most undesirable backwaters, the Earthbound science community decided to reclassify several asteroid-like bodies as planets.So now, instead of playing nine planets for X level of remuneration, we’re going to have to perform on twelve planets for the same bloody money. That’s like getting docked 25% before you even show up. (We haven’t even had the chance to suck yet!)

Okay, so ask me if we’ve groused at Lincoln yet today? Now ask me again. Answer? Stand back from the monitor for a moment, this may be a little loud. FUCKER!!!!! Ahem… I feel much better, now. Yes, we’ve had a few words with the ex-president. Suffice to say we have provided his tour management career ambitions with complimentary tickets to Ford’s Theatre. (Can you say “useless?” Very good.) As a consequence of this monumental blunder, I have asked all hands to work out a formula by which we might actually come out of this 12-planet marathon with more than a few cents in our pockets.

So far, Mitch Macaphee’s formula is way out in front — we create holographic images of ourselves and project same onto several stages at one time. Same Big Green, same boss tunes, same ludicrous side-kicks… only a whole lot thinner. Like maybe one zillionth of a micron thick. (Hey, you know what they say… you can never be too thin.)

Anyway, this is how our vaunted GET ME THE HELL OUTA HERE Tour 2006 will conclude — with a relentless march to the sea, a la Sherman. Who was, of course, the commanding general of Lincoln’s army. Whose wife was Mary Todd Lincoln. Whose middle name is also the first name of Todd Rundgren. Who must surely have something in common with Kevin Bacon. Blast you, Lincoln!

luv u,

jp

Weird ass music since 1986