The High Desert
“Thoughts on my Ass! How’s it hanging?”
Low and lazy. How much attention you paying?
Tour treating you okay?
“Haven’t got on a plane back to Kauai yet. It was 65 degrees in Atlanta today, y’know? Global warming makes touring in the winter a lot easier. Shit, man: we used to go to Buffalo in March. March in fuckin’ Buffalo? It’s like getting raped by a Yeti.”
That is both offensive and nonsensical.
“You should hear the offers, man. Guaranteed twenty mil for Fenway. Headlining Bonnawhatever or that other one in the desert all the famous fuckers go to. Couple guys want to build a whole new festival around us.”
That sounds risky.
“Yeah, these guys were clueless. One of ’em was Benjy in a fake mustache.”
That must have been awkward.
“Well, yeah, plus he just stuck the fake mustache on top of his actual mustache. It was Cesar Romero-levels of not committing to your makeup.”
Respect the craft.
“That’s what I’m saying. How about England? The Mayer kid’s big there, plus we still got a bunch of fans over there. They can carpool to the shows with Elvis Costello.”
There’s an offer?
“On the table. But why go to Europe, man? I like Vegas.”
Oh, God, someone offered a Vegas residency, didn’t they?