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October 21, 2003

they're on to me

It is a bleary overcast day today and the bloke below me is smoking a fag. The wisp of smoke seems to creep upstairs right through my window to my virgin nostrils, so even though I don't smoke I'm enjoying a morning ciggy as I type this missive.
I am paranoid that the C.I.A. is onto me. From now on my correspondence may seem a little cryptic. Please don't tell anyone where I'm at. My location should remain a secret shrouded in mystery, sort of like Jesus' last supper or somthing. I only go out at night and I always wear a hooded black sweatshirt and dark glasses.
Tonight I want you all to meet me at pier 23 near the alley at 9 p.m. Wear somthing red so I know it's you. I'll be hiding in the dumpster. Knock 7 times and then cough and i'll hand you the package with the pictures on a disc and the codes.
Please be prompt and don't tell my record label about this. I think everyone is on to me. I hear voices that I can't seem to quiet. Too many dossiers, too many names. Tonight at The Fez in N.Y.C. I must play with my back to the audience because there are people chasing me. Tonight I am re-naming The Fez pier 23. This is a code that only those in the know will understand.

Thankyou to the 700 people who showed up to my c.d. release party in San Diego. It was a beautiful clear evening full of joy and cheer and fountains and coyotes and horses and tramcars full of cigars and chocolate cake. Thankyou to President Clinton and President Bush for showing up and dancing together to my speed metal version of "reunited and it feels so good." That was really rad man. Thanks to Victor's and the coolest people ever that work there. Thankyou to the navy for flying the jets overhead right at the peak of sugar boogers. You guys were perfect. I have to go now because they're on to me. Remember that today is the first day of the rest of your life.

I feel bad for my friend Westy. He is a devout Red Sox fan. I haven't heard from him in days. Hey Joe...are you oot there? Did you jump oot of a window and relive the ankle dilemma. Are you on crutches? Are you still a Sox fan? Who invented liquid soap and why? When is a good time to take a nap in trash compactor?

I am changing my name to Tralfamadore just for today. There are vans ootside my window and men in suits eating sugary donuts talking into their watches. Mama? Papa? I want to go back to Kansas. Carry on oh wayward son.

I am going to go do some "construction" on Lou and Rain's house.

Blah blah blah,

Tralfy boy

Posted by steve at October 21, 2003 9:40 AM

Comments

you gonna have those fancy new shirts on the rest of the east coast tour? i'll buy one for everyone at angie's...

Posted by: angie's boyfriend at October 21, 2003 10:16 AM

god bless lou and rain!

Posted by: mitch cumsteen at October 21, 2003 11:33 AM

Woodchuck to Grey Squirel, Wood chuck to Grey Squirel...

The Eagle has landed. Repeat. The Eagle has landed. All dispatches are go. Three counter-agents will appear at said location, with further instruction. Do not await word... proceed normal routine as if you were just "Steve Poltz."

Woodchuck
(if I could chuck wood...)

Posted by: Dan Siego at October 21, 2003 4:26 PM

I am making my way through the world right now in an angry, peach-colored haze, because I now know that there is a very real curse on the Boston Red Sox and every one of their fans. I hate you, Babe Ruth, and I hope you read this. I hope you like Steve Poltz and his music, and I hope someday you come back down to earth and take the shape of a hip little skater girl who looks like Avril Lavigne, except with your big alcohol-riddled nose, and I hope you buy tickets to one of his shows. And I hope you wait and wait for the show to happen, and your earth mom turns out to be really cool and she drives you and Lou Gehrig (also reincarnated as a teenybopping OB girl), to the show, and drops you off, only for you to find out that the show is 21 and over and you and your friend can't get in. And I hope that you wait in front of the door so you can peek a look in everytime a 21+ person walks in to see the show, and that you see how much fun they're all having inside. I hope that your little Babe Ruth tears fall all over your sassy little pink top that says something ironic and irreverent, like, "evil," and that Lou Gehrig wets her pants because she held it in so long waiting out front in the hopes that you would sneak in. I hope that you have to walk home, and that a bunch of cute teenage boys drive by and throw a Wendy's Blizzard at you and it splatters you with chocolate goo. And I hope you are sad and lonely and Poltz-less for the rest of eternity, Mr. George Herman Ruth, because you, little girl, are a big fat drunken bloated curse-uttering jerk.

J. Westy Daly
Cambridge, MA

Posted by: Westy at October 23, 2003 1:05 PM

I've changed the locks on all our doors.

Posted by: lou (of Rain fame) at October 23, 2003 1:23 PM

Westy's struggle to put his personal tragedy behind him is truly awe inspiring.

Lou, you've made the right decision.

Posted by: Dana at October 24, 2003 4:06 AM

re: " i came across a gang of mad bovines who had an alliance with lambs of all kinds"

we dedicated this week's CityBeat to the Bovine Anger Management Society (BAMS) and your good friend and mine, Edwin Decker, wrote a column about Saddam the Spider Boy, so, um, yeah, funny, huh?...

your pot-concealing journalist devotee,
Will

Posted by: Will K. Shilling at December 31, 2003 2:18 PM


Traveling
available now!
 
Chinese Vacation
available now!
check out some tracks here
 
Digital Video Disc
Live at the Basement
Sydney, Australia
 

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