Date: Mon, 20 Nov 2000 13:11:22 EST From: Bknt at aol dot com Subject: The Lost Ego of Norbert Fragg
Hotel Merely Egregious
The traveling gigster continues to sit, in situ veritas, awaiting his ego, which the airline considered to be of such enormity that it was refused transport as a carry-on item. Having consigned the item to the luggage bin, the gigster discovered that it was not among the crushed, shattered, shaken, stirred rocked and rolled-over items appearing in the arrival carousel. Though the gigster has previously dismissed matters of pride as so much excess baggage, he now finds the prospect of performing without himself to be somewhat wanting.
The ego has yet to arrive. Out Tray's offer of an id as a substitute has been gratefully received, but his bass motivations are not plug-compatible with the refined English sensibility. The U-D-Man Superego that Mondrian Bayou has employed recently to stunning effect requires the insertion of a device that forces the performer to remain in a standing position. This is not possible for the guitar gigster who must contemplate his stool. The drummer suggested the adoption of a Jungian rather than a Freudian mode, in which Old Baldy Carl's mystical archetypical symbols of anima, animus, shadows and spite replace Old Beardy Sigmund's cigar-scented psychoanalytic tripshtick. This causes the gigster to slump in a fit of distressed nostalgic reverie, for the sound of a different drummer, who, long away and far ago, had the good sense not to drum, when the trio was con brio.
A wretched sound check is altered by a hurried flurry of e-slurry. The purloined persona has been found!
A post to the Kvetchbook:
SlobberingGuitarFreek234 at NitNotes dot net
I'm the studio guitarist who insisted on occupying the seat next to yours on the flight into Boston and I was really expecting some abuse and you didn't disappoint me when you called me a "foul and pestilent congregation of vapors" after I compared your spider fingers riff on The ExKCeption When You Flush to Morse Man's UTTERLY RIPPIN' run on Twigs Tweaked. Anyway, I figured since I was such a nice guy and you were such a MEAN OLD POOP, I could RIP YOU OFF so I glommed this yucky, smelly thing and took it home and it is just TOOO Disgusting because it's making me want to work for no money, sell records for almost no profit, hate cameras and the rock press, humiliate semi-literate kvetchbook posters with simpering sarcasm and nasty enumerations, tell concertgoers to chat during the performance in order to "subvert the Western concert tradition" then make sarcastic remarks when they don't stop talking, assume that I'm special because an undefined Creative Presence wants to beat me with a stick while shoving music into my ludicrous maximus, and, least but not last, make loud slurping noises when I cappucino which is soooo yuppie slime, ya know?
So I took the ugly stinking mess out of my trendy rennovated South Boston apartment kicked it down the stairs but it just SAT there like some kind of overfed March hare and it would not budge. It would not follow it's own instructions! It would not MOVE ON because it HATES TO TOUR!
I am, therefore, sending it back to you, as Microsopht bile attachment. Click on the bleating heart and good riddance!