King Henry VIII?

Warning:

I wrote this after getting injured shitfaced in performance of my duties.

I haven’t actually read it. I’m going to try to salvage it and edit it into something that will do. If I recall correctly, and I probably do not, it’s pretty long.

I have no idea how this is actually going to turn out, as I meander into editing mode and try to turn this into something you might be interested in reading.

I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. If I were sorry, I’d have not done it in the first place!

Let’s give this a shot…


Gonna be completely upfront about this.

I’m kinda intoxicated. I am going to get more intoxicated.

They are currently tearing shit down to load the truck. This is called a ‘load out’ in our lingo. I don’t think any of us actually calls it ‘load out.’ No, we say stuff like, “Fuck. Time to load the fucking truck.” There’s no ‘load out’ in that sentence.

Side note: I usually try to avoid much jargon. ‘Snot fair to you and it’s not consistent.

Not me! I’m not lugging a damned thing. I made one trip to the car and I’m supervising while I type on a laptop. Pretty soon, I’m headed to a hotel. I’ll make one more trip to the car and that’s to carry my gear bag, one suitcase, and this here delicious beer.

For the record, I call this “supervising.” I ain’t actually paying attention to a damned thing. They know what they’re doing. That’s why they get paid! I do provide moral support and crack jokes – I also fetch beer!

Tonight’s show was lovely and, once again, the people are always way too good to us. Thank you, people!

Seriously… That’s truly the magic of it – and it’s not universally true, but it’s true more often than not. For all the pissing and moaning I do, I’m pretty sure I’ve at least partially deserved it whenever groups of people pelted the stage with objects.

Yes. Some venues are so horrible that they have that cliché chicken wire barrier. I haven’t played one of them in years – and you can’t make me. I’ve made my way to much nicer stages and audiences.

It’s for good reason that I like venues that provide security! (Ed Note: This article doesn’t actually improve.)

But, for the most part, our audiences are too kind to us. Sometimes, they stand outside in shitty weather, risk OIUs – and harming other people, drive long distances, spend money they can’t really afford, and things like that.

You know, alcoholics!

Sometimes, they even fight with their spouses and argue just to come see us. I suspect a few of them shirk their duties to their community, family, and job – just to come see us!

But, come to see us they do. And, for just a time that’s altogether too short, they invite us to give them an escape. They give us permission to help them emote and for them to forget about the stresses of life.

They generally want to hear two types of music.

They either want to hear stuff that’s modern, the same stuff they hear when they turn on their radio station, or they want to hear the music that helped shape them into adults. They want us to remind them of those youthful years, between 15 and 25.

We concentrate on the latter. We concentrate on the music that they remember mostly from their formative years.

I’m old. I’m tired. I’m not keeping up with Top 40 Hard Rock, Rock, Metal, or the umpteen other genres that get changed more often than I change hairstyles. I’m not adding the extra time that goes into keeping up with what is currently popular.

We, of course, have our own opinions about what we play and what we’d like to play. You can actually tell us what you want us to play when you hire us. If we don’t know it, we may consider learning it.

We reserve the right to refuse. There is shit that I refuse to play. There’s actually quite a long list of shit that the whole band won’t play – simply because one or more of us refuses to fucking play it. Even hookers have standards, or at least a sliding fee.

It’s at this point that I’m forced to admit that I’ve forgotten what it was that I was going to write next. (Ed Note: I’m pretty sure that’s obvious. Less obvious is I still have no idea what I was going to write about next.)

Once upon a time, there lived an old man named TheBuddha. He had a topic, and even a point, but he sometimes likes to drink.

Hotels…

That wasn’t actually what my subject was, but I’m gonna tell you about hotels next.

Universally, hotels suck. No, fancy five-star resort hotels suck worse. If there’s one place they won’t leave you the fuck alone, it’s a fancy hotel. They’re also far more likely to get suspicious if you’re dragging in hookers, obvious drug dealers, and leave the “Do Not Disturb/No Room Service” sign up for a week straight.

Econo Lodge, in the US, is pretty much as good as it gets, assuming you don’t mind transsexual hookers knocking on your door to ask if you want to smoke some crack with them.

I don’t mind that at all!

It’s a damned sight better than some idiot making jokes as he smashes that wheeled dolly with your precious instruments and curated collection of illicit substances into the elevator. Why no, no Mr. Bellhop! You may not take my bags out of my sight, thanks!

Bring on the crack whores!

Unfortunately, there are no Econo Lodges here. Instead, we’ll be going to some pretty normal looking, generic, hotel with a whimsical name and a very nice older gentleman behind the counter. Well, I don’t know if he’s still there. I already have the keys – so if the hotel is any good then I won’t actually need to see the old gentlemen again. In fact, that’d be ideal!

Also, I’m pretty sure if he sees us again tonight, he’s not gonna be very happy about that.

I did tell ‘em why we were there and that I’d do my best to keep it to a dull roar. He happily told me he didn’t much give a shit (though he used more polite vocabulary) ‘cause the place is pretty much empty. That is for the best.

It’s pretty awesome, but it’s still a hotel. Hotels suck, remember?

I like my bed. That’s why I bought it. I’m pretty partial to my house. I like my shower. I picked it out, just for that reason. I also really like poopin’ on my own toilet.

There’s just something weird about poopin’ on hotel toilets.

I like being able to go to my studio. I like being able to go to my study. I love being able to go pee off the front porch.

Which is why hotels suck. Even if you stay in it for months, it’s never home.

Huh… You’ve made it this far through the article? Weirdo.

This article isn’t going to get better.

No, it’s going to get much, much worse. (Ed Note: Truth.)

Today, we’re gonna talk about a little fella known as Henry, from the House of Tudor. You might know him better as King Henry VIII, the prick.

I warned you way up at the top that I’m getting shitfaced. You knew damned well what you were getting into when you opted to keep reading! I’m pretty sure you can’t place all the blame on me.
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