My Cock Hurts

Why does that dog have to all the time jump on my cock? And my balls. He alternates. One jump: cock. Next jump: right ball. Cock. left ball. It's not Sal the Feist. She's a face leaper. She jumps upon your face, perchance to leave a faint brown star upon your forehead and thus claim you for the Order Of The Brown Star. Sal the Feist cannot reach the Nexus of Pain. The large fellow? He is my cock's nemesis.

Does your cock have a nemesis? Or your balls? I curse the day they descended. Must've been 3, 4 years by now.

The whole assemblage is right problematic. The whole stupid tackle. I suspect it of being vestigial, an ugly chicken neck of an appendix that hasn't the brains to attach itself to something on the inside and eschew extinction at the business end of a golden retriever. A frustrating affair, all told. A source of much garment-rending and tearing of hair. And I don't mean like in "9 1/2 Weeks". Quite the contrary. Quite the contrary.

Perhaps the thing is like a literary device; something to stir up the plot a little. A penis ex machina, if you will. The puns involving climax and denouement I will leave to the smaller minds.

I really like the deal about Medicaid paying for Viagra for child molesters. That's awesome. And then the thing I heard yesterday about there being evidence that Viagra and Cialis cause blindness. Speaking of blind, are we so lost that the teachings of our elders no longer resonate? No longer carry weight or, dare I say,gravitas? Are we so foolish that we cannot realize that it is not the pills that cause blindness but the subsequent self abuse? Everybody fucking knows that. COME ON.

Never mind. Next time the dog whacks my bag so's that it sways from side to side like the Bells Of Rhimney I'll fucking keep it to myselves.


Let's All Take a Quick Moment To Adore Skylarking.

God, how I anticipated this record. '86? Remember how big the 60's were coming back? I heard "Dear God" and "Grass" because I sprang for one of those 12" singles and also "Extrovert" was on there I think. Man, I was deep into that shit. I think my favorite band at the time was The Byrds. I'd gone from postpunk to the Beau Brummels and The Beatles and that.

And Andy was about to introduce me to a certain Mr. Wilson.

When these guys were recording this in Woodstock in summer '86 I must have been about an hour and a half away. I remember that summer, too. It was a good, workmanlike summer. On the hideous charts was Madonna with "Live To Tell" and Howard Jones' "No One Is To Blame". Did REM put out "Pageant"? No, I think that was '87. The Malarians were starting to fly. I gradiated collidge. We had put out "In The Cool Room" (vinyl!!) in the spring and we were top of the heap. Pretty soon we'd start recording at Fort Apache in Boston with Sean Slade producing and we'd mine that 60's brainpop vein pretty deep. And get the Rhino deal and start getting college radio.

I had sort of been feeling like music was dying a death in the mid-80's. I guess it sort of was. What didn't suck in the mid- to late- 80's? That was Michael Bolton time. That was Guns 'n' Roses Time. All those 70's wankers came back and did crappy "make it sound 80's" albums. It was endless. Skylarking! that was the heat, man. "Season Cycle". "Ballet For A Rainy Day". "Summer's Cauldron".

It made me really want to get to work. Maybe it was part of the reason I quit the Malarians a couple years on. The fact that music that ambitious was commercially viable made me want into the ambitiosweepstakes badly. I was recently degreed in the stuff, too, which gave me something to prove. I had such a lovely two years after that, sorting myself out and writing and writing and writing. Very likely my most artistically pure time. Then I did the Mr. Sherwood band which was all jangle and 4-part harmonies. Great. Ambitious. "Busy". We did "Scarecrow People" from O&L. And the other cover was that Who song, oh, um..."The Kids Are Alright".

Then we heard "Teen Spirit" and broke up.

Norhing against "Teen Spirit". But you couldn't hear that stuff and not realize the groundswell would be moving well away from string sections and big harmonies and song cycles. 'Course, it killed hair metal dead and that was important. That was an interesting time for me because it was identical to the Rubicon of 1977. Every one of my heroes from then had made the decision to act like they were punks for a few years so they could have careers. It was interesting to me to note that I wasn't up for that, but I think grunge was so much more of a cash cow in '91 than punk ever was.


Just So's You Know Where I Come Down On Tattoos.

Well, obviously I think they suck. The only good thing I ever write about is music, right? Music Hath Charms That Sooth Mine Ass. Everything else? Blagh. Blertch. Splork. All varying gradations of shite. Except for MY GANG and MY KIN and for ROCKIN' PAISANO'S LAST FRIDAY WITH FRED AND MARK AND BRIAN THE ELDER AND BRIAN THE YOUNGER AND LORI AND ALL THAT GANG. Glad the gang got to see a show where I really put the screws to the front row. Entertainment is so passive now. There's always a screen between you and it. I'm not down with that. I like entertainment that sweats and moves and reaches out and grabs you by the ear and challenges you. And gets brought up on charges. And never drops a dime on it's buddy. And fucks really good. All grimacing and hootin' and cursin' and quoting D.H. Lawrence.

We used to use the old "I don't come to your job and tell you how to flip burgers" anti-heckling line and on the road it became a kind of game to make it as obscene and grossly insulting as possible until it was really just horrid.

People fucking loved it! There's always some disgruntled wang who resents that you told them that you don't come to their job and make lampshades out of orphans but hey, somebody's always gotta be a puss.

It's really easy to avoid a fight in a bar, too. It's done with alcohol. If I can get a rise outta the crowd it's easily worth twetny (you don't know twetny?) bucks in Snakebites to make friends with some excitable feed-cap wearer. The only people I've ever traded blows with in entertainment venues are bandmates, for chris's sake. Bing bam boom. It's in E. No it isn't you stupid fuck it's in C. Blang blang crash. We'll be back inna fiteen minutes good night cleveland.

It's always gotta be cleveland when I play somewhere. good night cleveland. What am i going to say in cleveland? Have I ever played Cleveland? I'm not getting anything. Played Saybrook Illinois. Played that Madison Wisconsin. Christ, the Mayflower Motel in Madison? Jesus. Played fuckin' someplace in Ohio. Um, some place. And up there in Manitowock Wisconsin. There's a Man's Town, right there. Manitowock? Want a fucking Venti Latte? Not in Manitowock, my dear francophile friends. That ain't Latte Country. That is fuckin' RUST country. It grows on the trees.

Played, oh, Kentucky. Bowlin' Green? Owensboro? Tennessee- Jackson? Nashville? That fuckin' place in Nashville that's all cool where the lady gave me a free glazed at the Krispy Creme? Ohhhhh. Fucking Atlanta Georgia? Where I almost got waxed when I crossed an invisible line into Not White Land? What was that place in Chicago.......they were having a big book convention and in our hotel room some mideastern bookseller dude had left a business card and i wrote on the back, "Abdul- this man has book how to make dirty bomb" and left it at a gas station. What was that club. Um, I can never remember. They had steak tips and dirty rice and there was these awesome hippies smoking pot in the dressing room all night. No, that was obviously in the South. That place in Iowa where we got so blorked and had the corn tasslin' hard drinkin' front row come over to our hotel room to break stuff?

We played with the new band of the dude from Superdrag in Atlanta and he had this Wurlitzer that'd he'd gotten from some ol' dude in Florida for 100 bucks that he let me play and he said he was glad someone had finally done it justice. They were good. Weird.

Um, I played in, um, fuckin' Montreal. Told you about that. Me and Lime Rickey the drummer slept in the van and in the morning some tosser opened the back and was trying to steal our shoes. That's when you're hurtin' for a skin pop right there gee. Burlington, Vermont. Portland Maine, Los Angeles, CA, Las Vegas NV, Douglas GA, Waterloo IA, Syracuse NY, Keene NH, Boston MA. OH, PA, RI, NY, SC, AL.

I've seen a hundred faces. AND I'VE ROCKED THEM ALL.

We always used to say "we put on the same show for 15 people as we do for 20". I fucking LOVE that. That's as funny as saying a car is "Pre-CBS".

Sorry. Musician humor.

Hey-what's the range on a fretless bass?

About 20 yards with a good arm.

How can you tell a drummer is at the door?

The knock speeds up.

Oh, yeah- tattoos. Um, I've trod the boards for a spell and I've never felt compelled to indulge in this particular boo-joah trend (that's not affect- I don't know how to spell bourgious). Here's the deal with a tattoo- a tattoo marks the wearer as someone who doesn't plan on changing enough to be someone who a tattoo wouldn't belong on.

Get me? I like when people change radically over the course of their life. I'd never put a mark on myself like that and advertise my immutability. The ones that women get above their ass? Jesus! Talk about painting a moustache on the Mona Lisa. Fucking weird. You'd be behind there and you'd be like, "it's not a sailor's forearm...it's not a sailor's forearm...". You'd be doing the opposite of playing baseball in your head. you'd be all trying to conjure up images of the mom in the Partridge Family. Or at least I would. That ages me right there. you'd prob'ly be working up a vision of Gwen Stefani or Mischa Barton or one of those children. Actually, Gwen Stefani is only 4 years younger than me. I guess I'm not really ALL that out to pasture. I should stop doing that. I've just waited so long to be Venerable.

Oh- NYC? Hoboken NJ? Rocked 'em. Who are we kidding? The Beaten Path? The Pyramid Club where the drag queen tried to kick my ass and Debbie Gibson's manager told us he wanted to sign us and we insulted him unequivocally?

Dude, that was fucking awesome. He was PISSED. We just wanted to make a nice little record at the Drive-In with Mitch Easter.

Mal Thursday threw some Malarians flyers onstage at the Agora Ballroom in 1984 when REM was playing there on the Reckoning tour and Stipe read the whole thing.

I haven't the foggiest what kicks more ass than that. Not the foggiest.

I was going to do an awesome post on Mother Teresa but I couldn't find a single effin'picture of her naked on the whole damn Interweb. Piece of shit.

Hey Assholes It's Me Jesus.

O.K., listen up and listen good you lily-livered fucking Christer weirdos. I'm only going to say this shit once. Don't you think I've got better things to do then lecture to a bunch of FUCKING IDIOTS?? Huh?? Me H. Fucking Me!!

First of all, have you fucking nutjobs ever heard of figurative speech? Have ya ever heard of metaphor? Do I have to go through the whole Dad damn bible for you literalist fucking peabrains and tell you what was meant and what wasn't?? Fuck!! Who on earth is stupider than you??? Oh, my DAD you people are stupid.

Alright. Here we go. Just so we understand each other and so you fucking fundamentalists and evangelicals aren't all surprised when you die and THERE'S NO CHOIR OF FUCKING ANGELS FOR YOUR SORRY ASS.

1. There's no God. Sorry. I lied. I figured I might be able to get people to stop gang raping their neighbor's children for a couple go-rounds. Big fucking mistake. So fucking sue me.

2. There's no heaven. I thought for sure you fucking idiots would be able to figure out, oh, maybe somewhere in the late renaissance that I meant for you fucking shit heels to maybe make THIS life bearable for, oh, ten percent of humanity for starters. Idiots. I am so disgusted.

3. The loaves and the wine and the fish and shit? You think I don't have access to CGI and all that? You think I never filmed in front of a blue screen? You fuck stains? I HATE YOU. You're SO STUPID.

4. Riddle me this, you fucking blue-eyed Jihadists: Where did the 670 bajillion people that were around before I came and (OOPS) spread The Word go when they died? Huh? 'Cuz, y'know, they couldn't Accept Me As Their Personal Savior very well, since I DIDN'T FUCKING EXIST.

Seriously. What's the answer to that shit, yo?

5. Is there anywhere in My Good Book that says you have to be stupid? You guys! You don't have to be such morons to assure yourselves entry into the kingdom of heaven which doesn't exist!!! Is it in Luke, maybe? Does it say, "and Jesus bade them to be dumb of ass and dickish of head that they may inherit the earth". Is it in Proverbs where it says, "and God so loved them for being stupid idiots that he gave them his only son"?

I DON'T SEE IT, LAMBS. What the fuck???

6. What's the deal with this "What Would Jesus Do?" shit?? That shit fucking bugs me. It bugs me bad. What is your fucking problem? Do I go around asking "what would this idiot abortion clinic bomber do?" or "what would this retarded drydrunk stupid president do?" NO I DON'T. Is it too much to ask that you cut that shit out?


Fuck you! Fuck all of you! I'm getting out of the religion bag. I'm going to start a fucking Big Box retailer. Maybe I'll be able to do some GOOD. Clearly, hanging on a fucking CROSS until I CROAKED LIKE A BUG wasn't ENOUGH for you ASSHOLES.

yeah, yeah------ I can see it now------------ "ChristMart- Name Brands At Discount Prices". Sweet.

Anyway, Y'all be sure and go fuck yourselves now, y'hear?

Love, Jesus.

P.S. A little bird wanted me to just quickly ask you how you can be Pro Life and Pro Death Penalty? You fucking midieval peasant goat-sacrificing nut jobs. Next one a you asks What Would I Do gets a visit from The Studded Strapon Of Turin. And it won't be appearing on a taco. Dickheads. Druids. Monkeyfarts. Whale Hemmorhoids. Occult stools.

Occult stools! ha! drumroll please!

What do you mean you can't do a drumroll on a harp? Faggot.


Remember those retarded ads after 9/11 that said if you bought drugs you were supporting terrorism?

Um, this is the only dude that ever profited from my ass.

Snerk. Oh, that's some funny shit right there DAWG.

Look at that fucking guy. Man. It's Jesus of Bongzereth, patron saint of Chex Mix. tee hee.

Let's Compare Infirmities

Hey, what're you guys sporting in the fucked-up body part category? Me, I got polyps like volleyballs on my vocal chords from rockin' too hard, I got the hiatal hernia from carryin' too many SWR 4X10's and Crown amps on coffee, and I got the bad knee from a combination of rockin' too hard and carryin' too much shit. I think part of the hiatal hernia is maybe from incessant horking in disgust at humanity. That rings true.

When I want to communicate with the common man I like to drop "g"'s at the end of words which is stupid when you think about it because it takes just as long to type a "'". Fuckin' college fag.

Other than that I'm smelling like a rose, comparatively speaking. Oh, I've got a spot of depression you'll be shocked to learn. They say it won't kill me, it'll just make me depressed at certain depressing junctures which i really don't understand because LOOK THE FUCK AROUND YOU. And what the dickens is a guy going to write about when he's all pressed? (that's the opposite of depressed) Anyway, no big. What do you guys have? Anything good? We got any sucking chest wounds out there? Any anyeurisms or shit?

Have you noticed the story that your body tells as you round the Youth Bend? Look at mine- it's the topography of someone who never stops pushing too hard against immoveable objects. Think about it. Like, if you have a lot of scar tissue on your knees then you're probably fairly successful, or say, if you have a permanent lump on your forehead you might want to stop running into things. If you're blind then you must have been a wank fiend but my inner voice of truth is suggesting there's substantial proof to the contrary at hand. Y'know'wha'am'sayin'.

This could almost be a science. Lightfootology. C'mon- prove me right, hosepuppies. Let's see what ya got. Yes, hemhorroids count. Once I was cuttin' the first Fiction Damage album and I had to do all the lead vocals in like two days. Screaming and eating cheeseburgers and drinking coffee for 48 hours? That, my friends is a 'roidal recipe. Huzza.

George the guitarist used to call Our Rectal Visitors "The Grapes Of Ath". Holy Preparation H is that a hoot. "The Grapes Of Ath". I liked to call them "Tree Ears".

Anyway, that one time there I got one so bad and then another li'l one that grew on IT. George dubbed that particular configuration "Grape And A Sidecar". "Grape and a Sidecar". So that, of course, was the working title of "Heathen Stuff". My friend Paul had one that they had to dremmel off. That's what they do with those and also with the throat polyps like mine. They take a Dremmel and they use the Flesh attachment. That's why they don't let you keep them after th' operation. They're just dust which the hospital sells to


Smith & Wesson


Democracy Registered Trademark.

Proper Recording Protocol

Massed handclaps are always in mono. The accompanying monstrous reverb is also in mono.


Three Cheers For Jellyfish!!!!!

Guys remember Jellyfish? Wow! This chick Beth Ann at Polygram turned me on to them in '90 or so because she had their 12-song demo that had made the rounds and gotten rejected everywhere, Polygram included. Wow. Charisma picked them up and kept 'em when they fired everyone else on their roster in '93 (my buddies The Sighs included although Matt Cullen went on to Ware River Club so bob's yer uncle) and the rest is fuckin' history.

It's a damn shame these guys couldn't make it to album 3. Thing is, Andy Sturmer from what I hear makes Andy Partridge sound like a total sellout. Great conceptualists have a hard time yielding their concepts to be busted on the wheel of radio and retail. Anyway, album three wouldn've been their Black Sea and it's tragic that they never got there.

So many things never happen that should. It makes you feel out of control sometimes. All the bands that seemed like they were the next amazing thing and they had a bus crash or went into receivership or some shit. The Crystal Mittens come to mind. This was Johnny Tomorrow's band before we did the Malarians and they were the heat right there. Oh, my gOD. Gary Rzab on the kit? Like Copeland on industrial grade speed.

Anyway, Jellyfish's second album Spilt Milk is a vast and wildly beautiful piece of work, a scratcher of many, many itches and a chewily ambitious affair. Released in early '93, it caught me right as I relocated to Calif. to make my ugly little lunge, ergo its ability to evoke the vast landscaped pastures of Orange County and the glamour of Hollywood (ha ha ha ha ha) to this punter. Seriously, this god damned record is so lovingly constructed and so informed by ambitious influences that it sounds quite archetypal.

I know the bitch with Jellyfish is that they were super derivative. I never had a problem with that myself 'cause I started hearing great music in 1979 as we know so if anything the primer I got in '60's and early '70's music from Jellyfish was a blessing. I, for one, always found that they sounded suspiciously like Jellyfish.

Thing is, album three would've broken all that into pieces. It is powerful to hear the beginnings of the greatness on Fear Of Music that blooms into Remain In Light, the intimations of Skylarking on The Big Express, of For Your Pleasure on Roxy Music. Sometimes it takes a little while, a record or a few, to achieve that diamond-sharp defining moment. What a wonderful destination that is. Holy shit. Everybody knows when an artist sews themselves thus into The Tapestry. Everybody catches wind of that shit.

Yay, Jellyfish. Let's put Spilt Milk on the next Voyager.