We taped an episode of the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson yesterday in Los Angeles. We sat around a dressing room for 5 hours, and then the song took 5 minutes. I got in Chuck’s car and he drove Scrap and I to the Bob Hope airport in Burbank. We took the red eye, and I walked into my place for the first time in a couple of months at 5:45 am.
I didn’t meet Craig Ferguson, which is a drag, because I’ve been a huge admirer ever since his heroic declamation on Britney Spears. Incidentally, Cinco de Mayo in the year 2000 was the day I got clean/sober. So that’s eight years as of yesterday.
There were a few days in L.A. as a nightcap to the tour. I slept in Pete’s guest room. Scrap and I went on Steve Jones’ radio show; we played “Grey Ghost” and Jonesy jammed with us, playing leads on an acoustic guitar. I hope I get the chance to release that in some form.
He’s going to Yurp for a few months; the Sex Pistols are playing the big festivals on the continent. So this was a pre-taping, to air while he’s gone, in July or something. He played a recording of waves in the background, and we operated under the ruse that he was doing the show live from a Swedish fishing village.
His engineer kept yelling “More Abba! More Abba!” in the background.
Jonesy’s show is rambling and wonderful. Scrap talked about how Beethoven was evicted for being too filthy; I grilled him about a song he and Paul Cook did with Iggy Pop on the Repo Man soundtrack.
(I’ve been hunting that soundtrack all over the place. I finally found a copy, a couple of weeks ago, at Music Millenium in Portland. It’s also notable for the Circle Jerks’ acoustic version of “When the Shit Hits the Fan.”)
I’m lazing now, watching the primary returns come in. What a beautiful coming-home gift; I’m making espresso from the beans I bought at Stumptown Coffee in Portland, and watch my secret boyfriend Tim Russert enthuse about polls.
I wanted to just walk off that plane at 5 am and jump in a car, so I sent my suitcase with all the gear we’re shipping back; clothes, toiletries, etc. However, I brought the beans and my grinder (needed it on the tour bus) back in my carry-on. Priorities.
Now I’m back, feeling serene and pleasantly melancholy.
I got an email from the Hillary organization a month ago, during the Pennsyvania primary, to come and play a rally led by Chelsea Clinton. Basically, to be Chelsea’s support act.
I declined: I still could be happy with either Hillary or Obama. The only reason I would attend is a desire to meet Chelsea, because, let’s face it, she lives in New York, and maybe she’s into older guys? She’s a financial analyst, wouldn’t we make a stunning left/right brain combo? How happy would I be to have a hot girlfriend who spent her pre-teen Summers going to math camp?
Oh yeah: I’m throwing a party Saturday night, the 10th: my periodic Dubious Luxury affair. It’s $5, 10 pm, at the Knitting Factory in Manhattan.
Samples of the (new, original) electro music can be found at the above link.
Scrap and I have some duo shows down South in a week or so–we will drive lackadaisically, and feast on Chick-fil-A–but after that seven week monster tour, I’m gonna have some downtime–especially after my 38th birthday, on June 10. We are a happy bunch, my band and I, but after seven weeks you get crotchety–kvetching to Pete about looking in my shopping bag, and at Scrap for strolling off the plane too slow.
How lucky I feel, after those wretched years touring with Soul Coughing, trapped on a bus and not wanting to see any of their faces, to have these guys that I love so much, and the first signs of bickering don’t show up until almost the two month mark?