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September 2007 Archives

September 5, 2007

Labor Day Weekend

I felt a little depressed after Lacey’s party. Whenever people lay heavy trips on me like that, I usually go up the mountains to chillax. When I got up to the cabin at the resort I usually stay at—I won’t mention which one because I don’t want fans to hound me while I’m deep-thinking—the gentleman who gave me the rental agreement told me I was receiving a discounted fare for staying all four nights.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You are staying for the full holiday weekend, are you not?”

“It’s a holiday?”

September 10, 2007

Scraped Knees

My lawyer, Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, set up a very important meeting regarding distribution. Since we recently reacquired our old recording studio, the Paint Shaker, but remain without a label, Feinstein set us up with a group that would print our CDs (both past and future) under the old Kelleystein name. Sort of a lo-fi version of the record label, without the overhead or the board meetings or the huge capital or the funneling losses into Cayman Island shell accounts. Essentially, these distributors will print our CDs for a nominal fee, and we can sell them ourselves.

Then, disaster struck. I parked on the street a few blocks from the distributors’ office, started walking along Melrose. I hit the intersection at Gardner, stopped by a red light. I looked both ways, saw oncoming traffic in both directions. I had just enough time to get across but, preoccupied as I was with the cars coming, I failed to see where my feet were heading. I tumbled off the curb, twisting my ankle and landing on the concrete. I howled in pain as my knees and right elbow hit the ground. Because of the heat, I made the mistake of wearing spandex shorts instead of the usual leather pants. As I staggered to my feet, I could practically feel the muscles and tendons surrounding the joint tearing apart. The cars in both directions were forced to stop, but when I got to my feet and got back to the curb everyone blasted on down the street.

September 11, 2007

Trapped in the Confessional

To get to the confessional of my church, the Church of Rafelman, you have to go into the pizza place next door (they also sponsor the Church), go past the booths and tables, past the front counter, to two doors hidden in a narrow alcove: MEN and WOMEN. Go into the one labeled MEN, walk past the sinks and urinals, to the two toilet stalls on the with OUT OF ORDER signs. There, among the sounds and smells and flesh of other men, co-founder and current High Priest Gambol Gutenberg waits. Rumors persist about what he does in that stall for most of the day, but I can’t imagine anything a fey man might do in a public restroom other than hear confessions.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on September 11, 2007 6:44 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Cancer Crisis! | Digg It

September 13, 2007

Meeting the One (That Got Away?)

I first saw Sarah Goss at a club on the Sunset Strip that no longer exists. I think it was called The Golden Dragon, but who really knew? Its building had no signs, you never saw any flyers. Everyone in the knew…just knew. I’ve never been to a stranger place. It had a nondescript, almost abandoned look to it. You rarely saw anybody enter, saw even fewer people leave, but that was by design.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on September 13, 2007 2:02 AM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Cancer Crisis! | Digg It

September 15, 2007

Sarah Goss and Owen Autumn

We’ve received tens of messages from fans demanding to know why I find Owen Autumn so terrifying. Shouldn’t somebody rippling with muscle, confidence, and penile enormity (I should note that this public image is why I refuse to allow any recent pictures of me to surface, with the notable exception of my unfortunate mugshot) kick the fucking shit out of a fat, washed-up loser, like I do in my song “Thunderbird”? The answer may surprise you.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on September 15, 2007 4:15 AM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Cancer Crisis! | Digg It

September 18, 2007

Husbands and Lovers

“I don’t want to leave,” Margo whispered, biting her lip to stop the tears. “Not again.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Margo,” I sighed as I flopped down on the couch. “I’m not the one with the problem here.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Fair enough.”

September 21, 2007

Redstain Attack!

I stood next to her in the darkened hospital room, watched her eyes get that rare, distant look in them. Owen sat in the corner, reading a magazine.

“Girth,” Sarah whispered, not looking anywhere near my direction.

“Owen…” I said.

“Girth,” Sarah repeated hoarsely, “Girth, why have you forsaken me?”

“I…have?”

“Girth…”

September 22, 2007

So Long, Jason!

Well, it’s that time of year again. Our intern, our friend, Jason Fields, must return to college. For his services, he’s received four hours of course credit and more experience than anyone in his position could hope for, especially since he handled many of our tour preparations from afar.

September 24, 2007

Funereal Disease

I’ve always hated the custom of the wake. Maybe it’s just a Catholic thing, but wakes always bring out the worst in people, starting out as a period of group mourning, descending into a lively party, and then—when everyone gets drunk enough—into a writhing lake of fire, with each friend or family member airing his or her grievances about everyone else in the room. By the end of the evening, we’ve all forgotten why we’ve bothered to get together—that we should both mourn and celebrate the life of the departed.

September 27, 2007

Who’s the Baby Daddy?

Margo didn’t call. Not even once. Barely mobile, I waited beside the phone, moving periodically to get food or a new bottle of whiskey. It’s a cordless phone, so I’m not entirely sure why I felt compelled to sit next to the base charger when I could get up and move around. Maybe it was her leaving; maybe it was the funeral. It was probably a combination of both. I just didn’t feel like doing anything. It was like being stoned, only without the light burning sensation in my chest.

I usually screen calls to avoid bill collectors, death threats, hangers-on, Vance Sloane, and other assholes I have no interest in talking to. But for the past two days, I aggressively pounced on the phone. Again, I’m not sure why, since I have caller ID and know any number she dialed would not come up as UNAVAILABLE, CROTCHBREATH LEATHER GOODS, or HECTOR’S SPITE PRODUCTIONS. I guess in the back of my mind, something made me think she’d be deceptive enough to call from a strange place in the hopes that I’d answer or listen to the VoiceMail.

Read more of "Who’s the Baby Daddy?" »

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on September 27, 2007 4:28 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Don't Call Me Daughter | Digg It

September 28, 2007

Margo Atwater’s ‘The Return’

“You don’t have to be so melodramatic,” I groaned. “You’ve been gone for, like, a week.”

“More like two weeks, if you’re ignoring that part where I came back,” Margo said coyly.

“I’m not.”

“Huh.”

We shared an awkward moment, until she finally got up and hugged me. I stood like a lump, because happy as I was to have her back, the full effect of finding out I have an illegitimate daughter had just slapped me in the face like so many gigantic, pump-action ejaculating dildos.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on September 28, 2007 9:56 AM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Don't Call Me Daughter | Digg It

September 29, 2007

Renal Failure

Presented by…

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Well, after all that lying and conniving with Lacey, she insisted I make this stupid charity thing legitimate, so I spent all of yesterday sitting in the back storeroom of the Den Himmel Clinic in Studio City, waiting to pop the cherry on Girth McDürchstein’s Sweet Treasures, my charity for wayward girls.