Are We Done Here?

Someone turn out the light...

Where Did All The Escargot?

"They had to leave, Los Angeles." Oh it hurts. Fuck. Look who rules now, an Iggy clone with his parasitic canine friend. I spray painted his face once but you couldn't tell, even then. No matter, all is forgiven, or is it? We are traitors, we forsook our city for tea and crumpets. Damn it, we're sorry.
Like all war criminals we want to come home. Yes home. Oh LA, how could we have abandoned ye in your time of greatest need? The shame. Please help us make amends... send the boys home for Memorial Day. A eulogy of sorts, a wheel of meat with kegs in the parking lot, inside, ghosts from the past telling it like it was. The Blue Parade. Help us, won't you?

Here Comes the Suds!

Green On Red is proud to announce the motherlode of all keggers, tentatively scheduled for June 2007 in LA California. Grilled carcass, deeply felt resentments, and haltered babes will all be on display. Have ID ready for the cops, who should arrive around 10 pm, if memory serves us right. It will be a day of tunes and romance, maybe we can get John Doe and Exene back together for one more romp in the broken glass! Invites are precious, just ask Willy Wonka! Anyone from Scranton need not apply, unless he/she produces evidence of valid employment. If you were a Madam Wongs popster we might let you in, but only if we can find the Germs on your I-Pod. No folkies, you suck! Relax Loudon, but please give Rufus the wrong address. All of Montreal is cordially invited. Ladies, let those bushes grow, we'll be checking for that.

That Third Leg is Mighty Short...

"More than once I strayed off from the music and did my share of evil, and served my time... I always came back to the music." We hear you Mr. Mezzrow and we couldn't agree more. However, the alchemy of the long and short con is an impossible dream best left to young grifters with something to say, not crippled scribes who lust after that sweet papaya just out of reach. So serve mine still twitching, with plenty of folded prions. When the drool arrives, keep me out of sight and mind but don't feel bad for this has been a year of glorious beauty with a final week of jet setting absurdity to boot. Now please lads, say it don't spray it.

Loved One's Newsletter Postscript

The hardest thing about growing old is wiping one's ass, it really is. Thankfully, erections are plentiful and much stiffer than in decades past. The genes demand dispersal far and wide before a long dirt nap intervenes. Call me nature boy but not to my face. Remember that July 18th is the day of the viper and we shall not be moved. Please arrive with one of the following or a combination thereof: Jew's harp, small flashlight, black French cut panties... preferably soiled. When the last song from GFL begins, feel free to wang on the harp, torch up your face from below, or don the panties like a ski mask and inhale deeply. If you see the singer give the brush off sign, it means that you should turn your back to the band and moo... but polite like. We appreciate your cooperation and enthusiastic participation in this vital bit of sin eating. Bon appetit!

Reconquest: 2006

So this thing of ours is up, up and away in about a month. It's fitting that Athens starts us off since that's where the 87 meltdown occurred. Before the invective comes flying in about our mercenary behaviour while claiming to be not "back together", one would be wise to remember what F. Scott Fitzgerald had to say in his brilliant essay "The Crack-Up"... namely, that "the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time." Indeed, it is this denial of the present that allows us to shave in the morning without scrutiny, happy to soon be off on a roadie's holiday while raking in the shekels with both hands. Oh, the wonder of a reckless youth...

Maury, please forgive us

Maury, you were the first fan to ever write us a letter. Frank Riley's girl friday with the sandias grandes delivered it to us at the 9:30 club in Georgetown. This must have been, what? 1984? We were a bit shaky, cause we had just seen our first Norwegian rat out in the alley... fucker was big! Anyhow, you wrote a very nice letter about how much our songs meant to you and how we represented a changing of the guard... or was it underwear? You included a self addressed stamped envelope for us to reply which was very thoughtful. I believe we tore off a piece of the pizza carton and wrote a reply using the black perma-marker reserved for the nightly set list. We can only imagine how your delight turned to disgust as you opened that envelope and read our own heartfelt response: BLOW ME MAURY!!!!