If There's One Thing You Know It's That I'd Never Fucking Lie To You.

Here's the plan: I don't care if you're 15 or 90 if you've never listened to this. Fire up your i-whatever-the-fuck-you-have. Artist: Rufus Wainwright. Song: "Poses".

Trust me. It only costs a dollar.

Fucking guy.

Now off it's time for me to go open a large can of Get Down on the Soulfinger Ski Resort Tour '06.

When you're nestled in your beds give a thought for me sweating and blowing the middle eight of "Who's Making Love?" against the back wall at Killington. It's wearying, man. The late nights. The endless nights. Of Soulfinger. Ah, the cold backstage. The greasepaint. Your 41 year old ass staring back at you from that mirror. And then...the roar. It starts distant, faint and vaguely menacing and builds to an adrenalin-pumping crescendo.

No it doesn't. I made that up. I wanted to end that by having it be some dumb sound like the heater kicking on but I already said the backstage was cold so I couldn't make 'er fly.

Everything I do I do so it will look cool in the movie about me, but there'll never be a movie.

That's so beautiful. When you die you'll fly through a huge open window into heaven. Like a god damn Wyeth painting but better.

Because you're coming while you do it.

If there's one thing you know it's that I'd never fucking lie to you. I love you too much.

Hey You Unwashed Polesmokers It's Me Dick Cheney

Can you imagine the contempt I have for you? Do you know how many hours my staff and I sit around laughing at you?

Do you know that if your own child had been at death's door as many times as I have they would have turned the machines off three fucking thrombosises ago? Huh?

Whaddya think of that, polesmokers? How's that fetch up against your unwashed fucking noggins, huh? Ohhhh...oh...you think I'm joking!

I'm not joking, you peasants. YOU don't make national headlines for a little bloating, now, DO YOU? I'm the FUCKING BEATLES OF EVIL. MY health insurance is 6,000 more comprehensive than yours because I'M SIX THOUSAND TIMES BETTER THAN YOU. The THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS that have been spent on clearing my fat-clogged plumbing and repairing my shitty, withered little heart would have fed ALL OF ETHIOPIA FOR A FUCKING DECADE. HA HA HA HA HA HA.

HA HA HA haa...hhh.....glrrrppp...glxxxx.......__________________________________


Ohhh. OH, that was a doozy. Fuckin' I could FEEL my mitral valve hiccup like a cheerleader on grain alcohol.

Oh, and by the way: I very much like to touch children. to touch them in BAD ways and to drink their tears like rainwater. To wring the grief out of them as from a sponge and mix it with vermouth.

And when the Bad People among you stir amongst yourselves and hatch a scheme to shorten my ten thousand year reign (I've serverd in EVERY polesmokin' admindistrationn), why, that is when I call upon the Old gods to smite you as I cackle and clutch at my chest.

And that, my evil little whingers, THAT is when I extract scarred, leathery member from its little sheath and wag it, wag it and giggle, the ochre pustulescence oozing from my conjuctivitis-ruined skull as I chant all manner of imprecations. I dance in the firelight, my torso smeared with puppy entrails. Dancing and cackling and wagging my wizened little piece of pesto ziti in the faces of your children and pets.

the guy in fucking New Orleans who said to go fuck myself? Ah, his end was especially poetic. One could almost call it apropos. You see, we shoved him headfirst up his own ass. And it's not pretty, my little capons. It's not like the silly poster. It's a broken back and fractured neck erupting through skin and a ruptured torso and a horrible splintering and cracking and endlessssss gleaming freshets of blood blood blood.

Which I of course enjoy with a celery stic. Stick.

Glossary Of Malarian Terms.

Yay! The fucking Malarians! My first big-boy band. We're talking 1985-1989. Rockpool Top 40 1988 with the Sean Slade-produced "Know" EP. Rhino distribution.

Actually, who gives a flying fuck about our CV? This band was about having fun. Well, aside from the heroin and fist fights and suicide.

So, The Malarians amassed an amazing amount of native terms in our years together. It's what happens when you mix long drives, long nights and short attention spans. I've wanted to do a glossary but it's a monumental task and would be funny to about six people. I'm just going to dip my toe in here and see how it feels, a-ight? I certainly hope that if Mal Thursday drops back in, or Johnny Tomorrow or Lyme Ricky for the matter, they will add to this rich and evocative esperanto.

The hod-carriers of the band often brought gauche words or phrases from the construction site and these were easily altered and incorporated into the vernacular. I think it is this unique marriage of construction worker filth and drug-addled rock 'n' rollspeak that added up to the Malarian Patoise. One can also easily glean the main inspirations of our young lives by seeing how many words we conjured to identify what were to us the most important things.

Much of our journey involved Boston and Portland and the Northeast and the accent must be rendered thus, in the most working-class Lowell or Worcester accent.

Soice- A variation of "choice", as in "good" or "excellent".

'Cidle- (pronounced SIGH-dle)- pot. Derivation: "herb" to "herbicide" to "herbicidal" to "'cidle".

Soice 'cidle- pot of a particularly high quality.

Yoice- a popular variation of soice.

Tettins- Breasts. (pronounced TE'-ins. Note glottal stop on double "t".) Derivation: "tits" to "tittens" to "tettins".

Soice Tettins- breasts of particularly high quality.

Der Bingle- a bong.

Rock Stick- singular for the legions of skinny girls that hang out in rock clubs.

sack- a bag of pot.

Soice sack of 'cidle- a bag of pot of particularly high quality.

Yunt- yes.

Moist- a popular variation of Yoice.

Moist Rock Stick- a particularly cute skinny girl that hangs out in rock clubs.

Losh- to make love. Derivation unknown.

Yoking- making love. Derivation unknown.

satchel- a bag of pot.

Motrin- pot.

Yoice satchel of Motrin- a bag of pot of particularly high quality.

The Heat- a board mix cassette of the evening's show.

Spent- bad. Finished. Derivation: common English term.

Spunt- the bass player for The Malarians, Slater Awn. Derivation: Christian name "Kent" became "Spent" (see above) when he went on th' Spike. Changed to "Spunt" out of sheer glottal pleasure and negative connotations.

Spunt Hunt- a ritual of every concert, wherein it fell to predetermined band members to assess the whereabouts (alleyway, crack house, jail cell, gutter) of Spunt (see above) and assure his attendance.

Soice Spunt Hunt- a hunt that takes less than an hour.

Spent Spunt Hunt- a hunt that takes 3-5 hours and involves either guns, police, or shots of adrenaline to the heart.

Froist- a popular variation of Choice. Derivation: "Choice" to "Soice" to "Yoice" to "Moist" to "Froist".

Frontal- breasts.

Froist Frontal- breasts of particularly high quality.

Stoking- smoking pot.

Stoking Der Bingle- smoking pot out of a bong.

Stoking a soice satchel of 'cidle in Der Bingle with a Froist Frontal Rock Stick and yoking yoicely to The Heat- smoking pot of high quality in a bong with a skinny girl with attractive breasts and making love pleasantly. While listening to a recording of the evening's show.

Next: 40 other terms.

Th' Soulfinger Diaries: The Whiskey Pub, Manchester CT, 1.07.06

Very possibly the most unremarkable show of my career with Soulfinger. Aside from complete loss of voice. A question of counting the minutes.

"BTW" we went to school one year with that little kid in the lower left corner. Jeremy Glerbflerks or something.

He couldn't play the drums if you held a gun to his head.

An experiment I would dearly love to try.

By The Way I Just Wanted To Let You All Know That You Crack My Ass All Up.

when i god damn read some of these replies i laugh so hard that i can feel my stomach creeping ever-further into my hiatus. God damn it.

Also thought you might enjoy this. I'm guessing he makes some excellent points.

Th' Soulfinger Diaries: Rookies, Hartford CT. 12.30.05

Yeah, this was interesting. Tell you why. We know that Lula's phasing out. This was one of her last shows and we brought in a potential replacement for her on this show so it was all three of us up front. This new woman is fantastic. Dynamic performer, great, tough singer, great team player. We'll call her, oh, we'll call her Beulah Halliday. No, that sounds too fat. Jackie. Jackie Halliday. That's got a ring. Jackie's all grown up and can play ball.

So, this place is like one of those mega sports bars. Big ass stage, couple hundred people. Meats. Dozens of meats and stupid drunk girls with stupid hair. You know the drill. Between the three of us and the gossamer vocal harmonies of the rest of the players it was like the R&B Beach Boys. Beautiful. 3rds and 5ths and 7ths everywhere, which is where I came in, because I've got th' Hard Harmony gift. I can find those tough 6ths and 11ths and 9ths and shit and make a good chorale a great one. What a treat.

Ace got a little up on those Bailey's and Courvoisiers he drinks like sodie pop but the guy's so fucking amped that it doesn't matter. Fucking guy could probably drink six bottles of Nyquil and still be like a fucking jacking laser. In fact, the next night I think he did.

We was the happy hour band and the next band was this 80's abomination called Aquanett. Looked like a bunch of fucking plumbers with hair like Europe. Scary. I couldn't get out fast enough. People love that shit. I'd rather suck razor blades than listen to that crap. In fact, the next night I think I did.

Manila Godown, who you will no doubt recall was sacked back a couple weeks for getting ratcheted and taking swings at everybody before finally faceplanting in the parking lot to the tune of five stitches, is back and in fine form. Why? Jesus, guys. Nobody with a decent daytime gig is going to do this shit. You have to have a screw loose or and honest-to-goodness deep connection to music to walk this fucking road.

Sorry, I've been redundant again.

Anyway, it was pretty. I'm doing "Crazy Love" now which is as pretty and simple a song as was ever written. Also up and operational this evening was my new percussion rig which is three little pads and a D-4 drum module. Pretty cool. Tiny footprint.

Guitarist Tito Corleone (tee hee) is fucking amazing. The skill. I can't believe he hasn't been all over the place. Oh, wait- he's crazy. I forgot. He told a story about taking 400 hits of blotter acid in 1979.

I believe him.

Guys have taken to introducing me as "Albino Red". There's some chitlin' circuit story about this black jazz band who had a white horn player or somethin' and they were getting static for having a white guy so they started saying he was a black albino. "Albino Red". It's funny.

I am Bobby Lightfoot, though. If I have to fight then I'll fight. I don't fucking care. Do I seem like the kind of guy who gives a fuck if there has to be a green room dustup or two and a couple less molars to get my Christian name on the god damn marquee?

"Albino Red" is sort of funny though. And flattering in a crazy way. And it's Soulfinger so everything is something in a crazy way.

Th' Soulfinger Diaries: Cafe Manhattan, Springfield, MA 12.29.05

I've been remiss, dear readers. Remiss as a fuckin', um, oh, I don't know. As something that's all remiss and shit. I'm behind on my blogging and there's no excuse. Actually, there's an excellent excuse. Been trying to do this thing, man. Been trying to ride this Crazy Wave called Soulfinger. Trying to stay on, man. It's like As The World Turns with a god damn backbeat.

Only reason I can stop and write now is I can't talk. Illness of th' throat and singing for four hours a night on three hours of sleep has done its predictable number on the old Lightfoot pipes and I reckon I'll be pretty much mute until Tuesday or so.

Dialing it in, man. Learning my boundaries. They're back there somewhere in the mist. My boundaries.

Ace McClintock is manic depressive in a big-screen way. But he's the only guy like that I've ever known to draw so succesfully on a chemical imbalance to build a career. Think about it. Do you know how fucking nuts and up-somebody's-ass you have to be to swing booking 3-5 shows a week, every week, every year? Me, I can't do it. I approach a club owner maybe 6 times without a commitment before I tell them to go fuck themselves. And I've been begging people like that for scraps my whole fucking life and I'm done. Guy like me needs people like Ace. People like Ace need guys like me.

The show? Fuck me. I can't remember. It was O.K. I guess. Came and went. Came and went. I believe this was my debut on "Let's Get It On". Maybe it wasn't. I don't fucking remember. Soulfinger. Jesus Christ.