Thursday, December 13, 2007

accounting

Today was a special day.

I got my sales reports from Itunes.

I actually sold some music.

People paid electronic,
imaginary money,
to download songs,
in a completely intangible form.

That money went into my Tunecore account,
which sets up my Itunes stuff.

I withdrew from Tunecore
into my Paypal account,
and then I moved the fake
money from Paypal into
my checking account in Rochester, NY.

Then I called Comcast,
to pay for the internet that
I used to upload, sell, and deal
with all the money in the first place.

weird.

-p

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Are you dead?

No.

I'm not dead.

I ran into some friends
and loyal blog readers
at a Wally Dogger show (Pauly and Donehoo's band)
(Pauly and Donehoo, my old bandmates)...
and they were worried
because my blog entries
disappeared a few days into
the UK tour.

To be honest,
I'm not sure why I
stopped telling you stories,
they certainly were abundant.

I played 22 shows in 24 days,
two days off, one hotel room
the whole time.

Which means,
I stayed in more strange
places and met more crazy
people than you can even imagine.

Some wonderful people too.

Lots of them.

I'll try to tell you some stories
as they come back into my head,
but the exciting part is,
I have almost thirty hours of footage.

From shows and partying,
and driving and sleeping,
and smoking, and drinking,
and kissing 40 year old women.

that's right.

three kids, baby.

I'm starting to edit it all
onto a DVD, which will
be available as soon as I
can crank it out.

What it won't have,
is my last show,
in Liverpool,
where the bouncer
kicked me off stage
and threatened to
kick the crap out of me.

and I had to hand my guitar
case to a friend and sneak
out of the bar in disguise,
so I wouldn't get said crap
kick out of said me.

allow me to explain.

I was standing outside
the club, getting some air.

I was the headlining act
from another country,
I'm not asking for a dressing room,
or a fruit basket, or even to have
the door opened for me,
but a little common respect
and decency would be cool.

the bouncer,
weighing in at approximately
three hundred and fifty pounds,
was also outside.

As were two, young, pretty girls.
drunk, giggly, fun, perfect
audience members.

The time was 11:15 pm.
the cover charge was four pounds.

The girls had found a cell
phone in a cab, and the text
message on it said,
"meet me at the Zanzibar club"
(the venue of the show)

so...
they went to the Zanzibar club,
to see what was happening,
and to get the cell phone
back to its owner.

very thoughtful.

They were turned away by the bouncer,
because they didn't want to pay four pounds.

Now... in my world,
two pretty girls show up
after all the bands except one
have played, and want to come in,
buy some drinks, have fun, return
a cell phone, and check out
the last act from America,
you fucking let them in for free.

You big, fucking idiot.

I didn't say anything like that...
yet.

But,
the girls came to me,
asked who I was,
I told them I was playing,
I think the one thought
I was cute, how cute...
and she said "we want
to see you play"

I said,
"I want you to see me play,
this works out..."

"but its four pounds to get in..."

well...

"you're pretty girls,
he won't let you in?
Just tell him you're with
one of the bands or something,"

that translated into:

"hey... bouncer guy...
this guy is Nice Peter
and he says we can get in
for free."

hmm...
not exactly what I said,
but, still...

that's where I expected
the bouncer to ask a few questions,
maybe just say... okay,
it's late, they're cute,
you're in the headlining act
from America, the money is going
to you anyway... why not?

Instead,
he said,
"why don't you mind
your own fucking business,
you fucking wanker?"

wanker.
I love it.

First of all,
it is my fucking business,
you fat fuck.

It's exactly my business,
seeing as the cover charge
is going to go to me,
and you're just there
to collect it and keep people
from fighting, or whatever you
overgrown morons do.

Again, I didn't say any of that.

he was three hundred fifty pounds,
and I didn't say a god damn word.

yet.

I got onstage five minutes later,
and I was pissed.

I played one song,
and I told the audience
the story.

word for word,
including a few of my own.

I had a bit of drink floating
through my bloodstream,
so I'm pretty sure I said
too much.

But not that much.

and it was all ridiculous
enough that any person
with any kind of intelligence
would realize it was a joke,
and they could join in.

If the bouncer had come in,
pissed off, I would have sang
him an apology song,
lightly busted his balls,
but in the end,
we would have made peace.

Instead,
he stayed outside.

I didn't know if he could hear me,
when I continued to prod him, gently,
but apparently he could.

Now..
I've busted bouncer balls before,
it's one of my favorite go-to gags,

"hey... big guy.. I could take you,
all one hundred thirty of my pounds
can body slam your whole family."

obviously..
a fucking joke..
you fat moron.

I didn't call him a moron,
or fat,
I don't think.

to be honest,
I don't remember what I said,
but apparently it was the wrong thing.

After twenty minutes of the set,
he came storming in,
and yelled something to
the effect of....

"why don't you go back
to your own fucking country,
you fucking cunt?"

"who is this fucking cunt
coming here to Liverpool
and.. blah blah blah fat mouth gutteral blah blah...."

"cut his mic!"

right.

like that sound guy is going
to listen to you,
and make this whole
crowd stop watching the show,
and cut my mic beca-

.


..

holy shit.

he cut my fucking mic.

the audience was in shock,
I was in shock,
my manager was in shock,
the bouncer,
was a fat fuck.

Ed ran after the bouncer to try
to sort it out,
I got cheered on by
some of the crowd,
who drove an hour to see the show,
and I felt good.

sort of.

The show was over,
it was probably the best thing
that could have possibly happened.

I hope.. to at least one person,
it will go down as legend.

maybe.

-p