Chris - As 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 Littleton, — 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 proper.

There is also no room service menu, no pay movies, the bed is smelly and uncomfortable and the furniture is fucking horrible.

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?



posted 9/5/2006


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