From: Bknt at aol dot com Date: Sat, 28 Nov 1998 13:58:16 EST Subject: Norbert Fragg: the Lost Diaries
I have been forbidden, on pain of spit-spattering impedimentalization, from revealing how I discovered what appears to be an deleted diary entry from the journal of the Traipsing Friggster and perpetually disappointed coffee bar devotee, digitally reconstituted here as Norbert Fragg. Starbucks, November--
How we ask for cappuccino is how we ask for the salvation. How we receive our cappuccino, pathetically underheated with only a spattering of cinnamon, served 13 seconds after the snarggling blend was left to wilt by the lobotomized Marilyn Manson enthusiast whose refusal to remove the latest vocal hystrionics of a shrill mass-marketted, shorts-kirited harridan former-wife- of-recording-industry-weasel from the sound system, left the Bilious and Slightly Slurped Laptop Tappster less than non-plussed. Thus we must honor complicity and honor insipidity.
Partial absorption of the opening pages of Snard Bobbogonzo's "Essays in the Insignificance of Guitarists I Have Never Met But Feel Arrogant Enough to Criticize in a Public Forum," purchased at the Barnes and Ignoble with "Practical Rabbitry" and "The Portable Wilton Carpet," yield specific conclusions:
To list comments numerically implies logic, progression and a Newtonian taste for tedium.
Though the manner in which a cappuccino is prepared may bring depression into the world, the shop in which the beverage is prepared is not large enough for pistols-at-twenty, or other antiquated forms of gentlemanly satisfication.
Thoughts transcribed under the influence of caffiene my have the potential for embarrassment, or may not.
The oft repeated injunction that the Trapising Friggster is marginally incapable of performing the musical structure known as the blues in not only incorrect, it is wrong and mistaken and in serious need of accountablility. I was there. I am an expert about myself. I know what happened. Nobody loved me when I was down and out.
This last point is in reference to the previous evening's performance. Inadequately listed by the promoter as "an evening of groundscrapes," the earthbound expectations of audients were so enflamed that several among the Earnest Hirsuite Men seeking egotistical satisfaction made incendiary demands on the performer's attention, thus rendering the act of music impossible or merely foolish. When an audient insisted that the theater really was on fire, and that the performer should, at best, cease performing and run for his life, the guitarist, insulted and slightly singed, left.
I am joined by Out Tray, a former member of the Ted Nugent String Quartet, who engages me in animated conversation about the difficulties of marketing musical proj-yecchs in which the names of the musicians--Mondrian Bayou, Mag Lev, Mat Pastamotto, Nils Newford have peculiar spellings that inspire acts of questionable humor in the music press.
Tray expresses that ballistically inviting notion that audients who purchase our recordings, attend our concerts, and, in seeking to express their pleasure or in otherwise baying at the moon, make presumptions on the nature of the performers, should be shot on sight. I present him with one of Sister's "I've Been Fragged" buttons. Not understanding the humorous intent, he asks me if I'm suffering from post-dramatic art-rock syndrome. The conversation deteriorates after I mention I once wore velvet pants but only rarely rode in limousines. He accuses me of being a sissy and dumps the remainder of my cappuccino on my laptop and--
(At this point the diary ends--:>) Bill Kent