Welcome home. My house looked like a fucking dog poo fetishist’s wet dream when we got back here due to some serious negligence on the part of our beloved dogsitter. He combined diarrhea inducing chew sticks that they’re allergic to with a little bit of the old classic “blind eye” to the massive shit deposits everywhere. End result? Trip to the rug cleaners, couch cleaning, massive hands and knees scrubbing last night. Seriously exhausted daddy. It’s cool though, as I just happen to BE a dog poo fetishist. I love it when it’s warm under my nails.
Today I just narrowed down the cover of our new record to four potential photos. Up next, I email the label and see if there’s gonna be an insert on this bad boy. This should all happen pretty quick. I think I’m gonna go in and hear the final mixes/sequence this afternoon and then that’s pretty much it. Well, no. I still need to get a designer to lay it out for me, but it shouldn’t be hard. Simple placement of words, you know? Well, I guess I still have a few songs to name…that’s always fun. I’m thinking “even at our best we’re worse than most, unless they’re also at their worst, in which case, eh…maybe we stand a chance” is a pretty good title. Whaddaya think? Is that too niche of a joke? What can I tell you? I’m a real snob, man.
Okay, okay. My friend Eric, who I hung out with this weekend has an intern, a la Kramer on Seinfeld. Eric has no job. He watches a baby and dicks around on his bass and dicks around on his computer and he’s got this intern who’s a highschool kid who comes over and does his bidding. It’s amazing. The kid’s a really talented artist, and so Eric just has him draw shit for his band, logos, tshirt designs, shit like that. In return, I guess Eric imparts some wisdom on him in the form of how to steal computer programs and general pointers on life. I dunno. It’s fucking funny. Eric and his intern. HA! And, it’s pretty smart. I mean, fuck, maybe I need an intern. Anyone out there want to be my intern. Here’s the qualifications: My baby must like you. You must live in Chicago. You must have a nice rack (photo required) but you don’t necessarily have to be a chick, Um, what else? You will not get paid, as this is a highly coveted position, kind of like in the Pursuit of Happyness (sic), where the learning is reward enough. Um, you should probably be able to do something that interests me, and you must have a general sense of aesthetic and design skill. This does NOT just mean that you think you can kind of draw. Repeat: this does NOT just mean that you think you can kind of draw. Jesus Christ, my band did a contest about 4 years ago to have someone design a tshirt for us, and the garbage that flooded in was remarkable. So many people, such a very tiny little amount of talent. Anyway, back to the requirements: No junkies, no aversions to dogshit, no aversions to babies, no losers or turds. That kind of rules out most of you, huh? Well, I don’t wanna have to post on Craigslist, so don’t let me down, Dogs of War.
There was one other thing…Oh yeah, my friend Eric, the guy with the intern is friends with Andy Johns, music producer extraordinaire of Led Zeppelin 4 and Exile on Main street fame. He told Eric a story, which Eric recounted to me about one time when he was over at a party at Salvador Dali’s place. It was a fancy affair, with butlers and servants and shit, and after the 7 course meal, Andy was getting ready to leave. At this point, Salvador said, “andy, wait…I’m having a little show after dinner” and so the guests, in all of their finery sat down on these nice velvet couches, and a servant wheeled out a female corpse, and there, beneath the chandelier, one of the guests fucked it. The deceased was described as “green”.
That’s what I mean by having a sense of aesthetic, people. That’s a show. Not a bunch of spinkicks and flipping your haircut out of your eyes. Let’s fuck some corpses! I mean seriously.
Okay, seriously though, good luck out there kids…Lotsa pervs walking around. Oh, and speaking of that, I’ve been getting queries for advice lately, but I haven’t been answering. Don’t fret, little socks. I’ve got advice to give. I’ve just been waiting for the right day. Perhaps tomorrow.