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"If you're a bass player in a rock band, you are by definition a moron."--Scott Thunes, in the March 1997 issue of Bass Player Magazine
I figured that the above quote would get your attention--it certainly got mine. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Things are very different now in The Life Of Bryan. A quick survey of the post "Half Alive..." tour landscape reveals some items you may find a bit disconcerting. A steady job. Gigs turned down. Another epiphany. (What is it about the end of January that lends itself to these monumental lifestyle changes?) There was even a debate inside my head as to whether or not this column would even continue to exist. As I said, things are very different now. I'll do my best to explain exactly how things are different in this, the 22nd Act of the LOB. You can all rest assured that it won't take five separate parts to do so.
But before I get to the "ongoing saga" part of our broadcast, let me first touch upon the three most frequently asked questions of the last two months:
Answer #1: Mike is rarely home, and when he is, he's either in the studio down in San Diego or spending valuable time with his family. To say that the months of touring (dating all the way back to September) are taking its toll on him would be an understatement. Don't worry, he's not about to collapse or anything, but he misses his family terribly and wishes very much that he could be home to watch his daughter grow up. His schedule, as I know it, is as follows: As of this writing (March 15), he's in South America. Then it's home for a short break in early April before heading out to Europe. And when I say Europe, I mean ALL of Europe--we're talking Russia, Latvia, Poland, and many other newly capitalist societies, as well as the standard NATO tour. [This leg of the tour has since been put on hold. --Ed.] After Europe, he gets another short break before what I understand will be something akin to "The Son Of G3". I'm not sure that this is absolutely confirmed yet, but all signs seem to indicate that another G3 tour is in the works for the summer. The ENTIRE summer. Bottom line: Mike will most likely be occupied with most things Vai until August. Obviously, the information in this paragraph is subject to change without notice.
Answer #2. Yes. The three songs I recorded with Keneally in early January have since been polished with vocal and guitar overdubs by the man himself. I can't seem to remember the ballad's title at the moment, but I can assure you that it's pretty and properly ballad-like in nature. The other two songs are rockers-- "Your Own", and "Frozen Beef (Come With Me)".
"Your Own" was previously mentioned in the January "Mike Types To You" under the name "Motor Skills". It's a mid-tempo grinder, taught to me merely seconds before the red light went on. This did not thrill me; the song's form and structure were a total bitch, and I loved the song and wanted to wrap my arms around it a bit more before laying it down. Mike wanted more of the "freshly learned" vibe, and he got it. I can't wait to play this one live, because then I'll get to hug this tune to my heart's content.
"Frozen Beef (Come With Me)" has been kicking around since early 1995, when Keneally, Joe Travers and I recorded a version of it at Joe's Garage (by the way, Travers recorded on all three of these tracks and he's fucking brilliant on every one of them). This one I already knew, and we had a good ol' time tracking it. Both "Your Own" and "Beef" are about five and a half minutes long, with lots of room for aggressive improvisation a la BFD live. I think you'll dig 'em.
I'll be heading down to Double Time Studios in San Diego on the weekend of April 5th to record some other, more intricate pieces. "Cardboard Dog", a very complicated six minute suite in the "Dolphins" vein, already has piano and drums (played by Keneally himself). I've been listening to it a lot lately, and I think it'll finally start making sense to me after I hear it another 40 times or so. "Beautiful" is a funky piano tune that I'll be recording with Toss. And, beware--Mike wants me to record a solo on "I, Drum-Running, Am Clapboard Bound" (formerly "Egg Zooming"). Somebody had better order the engineer some coffee ahead of time, since he'll be needing to stay awake for at least fifteen hours before I get anything on tape I consider worth keeping.
Overall, I'm just totally psyched to finally be working on the majority of a BFD studio album, even if it is only once every six weeks.
In case you've forgotten, the last question was "What am I doing in the meantime?" The remainder of this Act is the answer to that question. I'm ready if you are.
Let's go back to mid-January. In the Epilogue of The Alternate Reality, I believe that I mentioned something about taking some time off and then deciding exactly what it was that I'd be doing with myself for the next several months. Whenever I've tried to do this in the past, the results were mostly the same--I'd lay on the couch for about 48 hours, and then I'd come up with some grand idea and off I'd go into obsessive-compulsive land once again. Not this time.
The Half Alive In America Tour took a heavy toll on my body and my mind. After completing Act 21 (a week-long process), I collapsed on the couch and stayed there for a long time. I didn't go out for days on end. I ordered in a lot of overpriced food. I watched a lot of sports on TV, even finding my beloved NY Knicks on national television one Sunday afternoon. I basically hadn't stopped moving since I'd taken the job at ICM, and that was back in mid-October. My body was sending me an unmistakable signal: Rest or else. I heeded the call.
OK, so I wasn't completely unproductive--I answered a ton of e-mail. Some of the compliments I received on Act 21 were so personal and so touching, it scared me a little bit. I'll never be able to adequately express my gratitude for such feedback, but I can finally say this with some degree of certainty: The readership of this here page is officially over seven people. In other words, thanks for stopping by.
And then there was the NAMM show. This was the first year I attended NAMM solely as a spectator, as opposed to playing for either Keneally or Z or both. It was a big relief, actually. No, I didn't get up on a table in the Hilton lobby and pretend to rub my imaginary clitoris for the passers-by...I've matured since last year. Really, I have. The only good story I have from NAMM this year was the night I met John Entwistle.
It's NAMM Friday night, and things are hoppin' in the Hilton Lobby Bar (see Act 6 for a complete description of this madhouse). Back behind the lobby bar is The Pulse Bar, where BFD played last year. I figured I'd stroll on in and see how they were managing without us. Not very well, it turns out. Immediately upon entering The Pulse Bar, Dale Krevens from SansAmp (sponsor of BFD's '96 NAMM performance, as well as the mess that I had just walked into), collared me in a panic. "Bryan!! John Entwistle's band is going on in an hour, but the opening band's bassist just flaked! We need a bassist! Right away!!"
I asked her what bass I would play, and she said, "Just use his bass! It's already up there!" I told her in no uncertain terms that no way was I just going to go up there and play an unrehearsed set with three guys I'd never met...on John fucking Entwistle's bass. But she begged. And she pleaded. And she whined. And she said it would be OK. Oh, alright.
Big, huge mistake. The singer was this 80's rocker guy; I was told what band he used to be in, and I can't remember the name of it right now, but I do recall it being somewhere slightly below the level of, say, Great White. The guitarist was basically the same guy, just with a pick in his hand and more hair. The drummer turned out to be cool (I found out later that he was the drummer for Government Mule, Warren Haynes' [Allman Bros. guitarist] experimental power trio), but he alone couldn't save the horror that were the ultimate Page/Plant wannabes. I gamely strapped on the Entwistle bass and plucked away, with the Entwistle sound dialed in all the while. As Alex from "A Clockwork Orange" would have said, "Truly, truly horrorshow". We did awful versions of "I'm Goin' Down" and some other 1-4-5 warhorses. If you were there, consider yourself unlucky.
After four songs, I was spared from any further torture as our set ended a bit early. I think the audience was grateful as well. I literally ran off the stage in an attempt to try and find a place to hide, and in the process nearly knocked over John Entwistle, who was standing there waiting for someone to tell him when to play. There I was, face to face with one of the most famous bassists in rock history. He said nothing, looking perplexed. After regaining my balance, I said to him, "I just wanted to thank you very, very much for letting me use your bass, Mr. Entwistle." His response: "That's not my bass!" He said it dismissively, as in, "Do you really think I'd play that piece of shit?" I apologized and quickly returned to the lobby bar for a stiff drink. It was not my finest hour, ladies and gentlemen.
But, as usual, I digress. E-mail was coming in asking me what I was going to do, and my only answer was, "I want to start working on my book again". Which I did, desperately. I hadn't written a word of it since October, and it was eating away at me. The problem was, I didn't know how I could possibly make a living, be a full-time musician and write a book at the same time. Add in the usual life stuff, and there simply aren't enough hours in the day to do all that. By the end of January, I found myself trying to find the time to write, but not having the proper headspace to do so. You can't just sit down and say to yourself, "Now I'm going to write". Your head must be clear enough to let the flow come to you, as opposed to you reaching for it. I know that this is getting a little inside-baseball-ish here, but there is a point to all of this.
The day after the Super Bowl (and, eerily enough, practically a year to the day that I left Z), it came to me. I realized that I didn't like the way I was getting pulled all over the place at a moment's notice, which is the life of a freelance musician. It would be one thing if the work I was getting was enough to support myself, but it wasn't. Not even close. Well, get a job, right? That's fine, but a steady job plus rehearsals and gigs equals very little free time, and definitely not enough time to gain that clear headspace I was just talking about. I had to ask myself...what was more important to me? Chasing down every $40. gig that came my way? Being financially solvent and getting out of debt? Writing the book? It suddenly occurred to me that the book was more important to me than anything. More even than my life as a freelance musician in Los Angeles.
Don't panic. I'm not giving up music. I'm still firmly committed to Mike Keneally and Beer For Dolphins, the musical passion of my life. I just wanted more control over my own schedule and finances. If I could get a handle on those two things, I thought, then I could finally write the book in my spare time (now that I knew exactly when it would be) in peace. The plan came together in my head:
While I was busy putting in calls to all of my friends with real jobs, the March issue of Bass Player Magazine came out (the one with Tina Weymouth of Talking Heads on the cover). I'd already found out at the NAMM show that there was going to be a good review of "Half Alive In Hollywood" in there, but I didn't expect it to be the "pick of the month", or whatever it turned out to be. Apparently they seem to think that I "have a penchant for bouncy feels", or something. If I could only describe to you how surreal it was for me to see that review...I mean, I'm more proud of that recording than anything I've ever done in music, but it's just weird to see it in print like that. Hopefully the folks over at Bass Player spent the money I sent them on some nice new office furniture.
But the real prize of the March issue wasn't the "Half Alive" review--it was the interview with the one and only Scott Thunes, properly titled "Requiem For A Heavyweight?" and written by my good friend Tom Wictor. It's an absolute must-read for anybody who's trying to make it as a player in the music business. It literally challenges the very notion of what it means to be a professional musician. It's that sweeping a concept. In the interview, Thunes proclaims himself to be finished with music and happier for doing so. Of course, in the process of explaining why, he fires off line after truly thought-provoking line about his concept of musicianship and the pitfalls of working as a musician for hire (the "rock bassists are morons" line is only one of several gems). I don't agree with everything Thunes says, but his mind operates at a different level than most and his ideas and experiences cannot be ignored. If you haven't read this article, find it and see for yourself. As for me, it made for pretty interesting reading considering what was on my mind at the time.
Now we're in early February. In typical Life Of Bryan fashion, only days after I'd decided that I was ready for a full-time job if it was the right one, the right one came along. Anybody ever heard of SWR? If not, they're a bass amplifier and speaker cabinet company, and I endorse them. It's my humble opinion that they make the best bass shit out there, and I'd wanted a deal with them ever since my Berklee days. Well, I got what I wanted and more. I do quality control at their factory in not-so-beautiful Sylmar, CA, where they still make everything you see in the stores by hand. "Quality control" means that basically I play through the new speakers and amps to make sure that there's nothing wrong with them. So I'm getting paid to play bass for a majority of the day. Yeah, I know, nice work if you can get it. The hours are 9:00-5:30, and the commute is under ten minutes (in LA, that's worth at least an extra dollar an hour). Plus, unlike my days at ICM, I still have a brain left at the end of the day to use for writing. Sure, the pay is low, and sometimes, like in any factory, a production rush will come through and everyone has to go insane to make sure it ships on time. But, as I said, it's the clear headspace at the end of the day that makes it all worthwhile, because if my head is fucked and I can't write, there's no point to any of this.
So, everything's groovy, right? Steady job, Keneally sessions, time to write. Right? Only problem was, I still had some gigs that I'd booked in January for February. These were gigs that I'd booked before I made my big decision. It seemed only right for me to not to cancel them, since I could use the money anyway (however small the amount) and bailing out on such short notice would've been pretty unprofessional. The crazy schedule I'd be subjecting myself to (work all day, gig or rehearsal almost every night for two weeks) was the price I was prepared to pay for not to leaving these people hanging. The last gig I had scheduled was for February 22, both my mom's birthday and (as owners of the CD know) the one year anniversary of the recording of Disc 2 of Half Alive In Hollywood. It seemed like a good day to start anew, and so I made a resolution: February 22 is the day when my new life starts. After that, no more small-money gigs, and the work on the book can finally begin. That was when my phone started to ring. Constantly.
Call after call, the offers came in. It seemed like everyone who I'd ever worked with in LA for less than $50. called me all within the same week. Hell, even our old adult-contemporary friend Joe Flow (his name's been popping up a lot lately, hasn't it) called me to see if I wanted to do a steady Wednesday night restaurant gig. I didn't turn any of them down outright--I simply asked for $75. for each gig. Invariably, they said they just couldn't come up with the money. My reply was polite but firm: Thanks but no thanks. It just wasn't worth spending my scant spare time doing those gigs (and the inevitable four-hour rehearsals for little or no money that went along with them). I knew I was doing the right thing when I didn't feel guilty after hanging up the phone on those occasions. Are you scared yet?
Don't be. During the middle two weeks of February, while I was slogging away during the day at SWR and going straight to either a rehearsal or a gig every night , I received a couple of signs from the universe that I was in fact doing the right thing. The first was from Bass Player Magazine--Editor Karl Coryat (the fine man who wrote the Half Alive review) called me to say that the article I wrote on auditions was coming out in the April issue. In real time, that meant subscribers would get it the last week of February. I said "Holy shit!" and eventually thanked him as well. The second was an e-mail from John D'Agostino, head of public relations for Taylor Guitars. He informed me in his oh-so-irreverent way that he'd read The Alternate Reality, and found it to be entertaining enough for him to ask me if I'd be interested in writing a piece for Taylor's magazine, Wood & Steel. The catch was, he wanted me to do an interview on myself. That's right, as if The Life Of Bryan wasn't enough of a vanity writing assignment, now I was supposed to interview myself. Oh, you mean I'd get paid? For interviewing myself? You mean, you'd give me money to write my own press? Uh, OK, I think I can do that for you. I had a lot of fun writing that little number--look for it in the Spring issue (they publish quarterly).
By the 22nd of February, I was shot. The fifteen hour days were wiping me out, confirming my suspicions about not being able to hold a steady job, play a bunch of gigs, and write a book at the same time. Those first three weeks of working at SWR without being able to get any writing done on the book felt like those first couple of weeks at a job where the payroll is delayed by a week, creating the situation that some of you must know all too well--you work for three and a half weeks without getting paid a cent. The ideas were building up in my head, and I had no time to get them out on the computer. It was driving me crazy. All of a sudden it occurred to me: This is what people who write music must feel like. The creative flashbulbs were going off in my head. I needed to write. If I wasn't doing it, I wasn't happy.
February 22. Happy birthday, Mom. My last gig for a while was going to be with Janet Robin, known affectionately 'round these parts as "The Dyke". (The Jews were long since gone from my schedule--they liked to schedule rehearsals less than 36 hours in advance, and I was sick of their inconsiderate and unprofessional behavior in dealing with me and my time. So I asked them for $125 a gig and $30 for each rehearsal and that was that.) The show was at a popular LA watering hole called Molly Malone's, and I figured that it would be a good place for a last hurrah. if you want to call it that. It came off great, probably the best show I've ever done with Janet. The crowd loved it. The drinks were half-price for the band, and I'd be lying if I didn't also mention that there were plenty of attractive women at Molly's that night. That was probably the one moment that I second-guessed myself for giving up such a large chunk of my music lifestyle. Playing gigs isn't just work. It's like an all-expenses-paid night out in Los Angeles. Again, not bad work if you can get it. And here I was turning down gigs. That night, I decided to see if I could get any writing done during the next week, and if so, then I'd keep playing with Janet and Janet only (as far as small-money gigs are concerned), since her music is cool and she's a total pro to work with. The fact that I got Joe Travers on that gig was another reason to keep playing with her.
So, could I come home and write after a long day of assembling and testing the fine bass products of SWR? I sure as hell could. That next week, the ideas that had been building up in my head for months came pouring out on to the screen. Chapters were flying out of the printer faster than you could say "work in progress". I was absolutely elated. You have to understand, I wasn't sure that I was going to be able to do it. My last work on the book was done during the G3 era, when I didn't have a job and Keneally was already gone. I literally had all day to work on it. Sure, I only have a couple of hours a day when I can get it done, but at least NOW I KNOW EXACTLY WHEN THOSE HOURS WILL BE.
Don't get me wrong. Just because I've created a lifestyle that's conducive to writing doesn't mean that I'll have it done in two months. This book won't be finished by June, or even August. It's unbelievably time-consuming work, but it's the most personally rewarding thing I've done to date. Finally, I can create. Listen, I love Keneally's music. If I could write music, I'd probably want it to sound just like his. But the original music simply doesn't burn in my head like the writing does. So, in effect, this book is my solo album.
I know what you want to ask me: What's the book about? To be honest, I really don't want to talk about specifics. I'm not even showing it to Keneally, my parents, you name it. But I can tell you this: It's officially fiction. Those in the know will probably recognize certain characters (that is, if it ever gets published), but for the official record, it's a work of fiction. You want a blurb? It's a Gen X coming-of-age story. You want an ETA on when it might be done? I'm estimating December. Anything ahead of that would make me very, very happy.
And that's where we stand today. I don't go out much (sexpot roomie Joanne has taken to calling me "hermit boy"). I work at SWR during the day and come home, relax for an hour or so, answer e-mail--oh, yeah, I knew I'd forgotten something. Guys, gals, we need to talk.
I cannot tell a lie. There were times during those middle weeks in February when I seriously considered discontinuing The Life Of Bryan. My reasons were simple: One--work was kicking my ass while I still had gigs, and I was afraid that I wouldn't have any writing juice left for the book, which was the reason why I was doing all of this in the first place; two--creatively, I wasn't sure that I had anything left to say in this format. I mean, I was afraid that anything after Act 21 would be a letdown. Maybe calling it a day was the way to go out on top, I thought. And then there was e-mail. Don't take this the wrong way--the lad is still delighted to hear from you. It's just that some folks like to send me four page documents (I've got some fucking nerve, don't I, complaining about the length of someone's e-mail), some people like to e-mail me six times in one week...and I'm obsessive-compulsive. I must respond right away or the world as we know it will explode into a million invisible molecules. As I mentioned earlier, the readership is well beyond anything I could've possibly imagined back in the days of Acts 1 through 4.
But, ultimately, I decided to keep doing it. Getting a bunch of work done on the book helped me say to myself, "It's OK, Bryan, you can still do it without feeling guilty." I know, I'm a sick, sick workaholic. In fact, that's the big reason why I waited so long to write another Act; I needed to see some progress on the ol' book. Now that I've satisfied the merciless slavedriver inside my head (credit to you, Aunt Winnie), I can be the happy little LOB boy that I've always been.
I do remember saying something about this back in Act 19: "Would I ditch my web column for greener literary pastures?...I'd never leave you, unless I got a big book contract or something." So, until that happens, I'm all yours.
The big quest is for good time-management. The LOB fits in there quite nicely, but the e-mail...that's a tough one. Again, I considered throwing down a Keneally-style moratorium, but I just didn't have the heart to do it. After all, if it wasn't for this, I'd never be writing a book. So I guess I only have a few requests in the e-mail department so that we can keep on keeping on. First, try to keep them at a reasonable length. Two, don't e-mail me six times inside of a week (you know who you are!). Three, please don't ask me to forward any questions to Mike. Now that you know his schedule, you know why. That having been said, respond away. Hopefully the answers to the questions at the beginning of this Act will clear up some of the more common inquiries I've gotten over the last couple of months. Now you can all go and curse me for being such an egomaniacal prick. I'm sure I deserve it.
Onto brighter topics...hey, I've got a new author friend! Believe it or not, her real, true given name is Sparkle Hayter (talk about a struggle for your soul). She's a friend of my literary confidant Martha Lawrence, and I ended up trading e-mail with her for a bit before finally asking her to check out my stuff over here in LOB land. Miss Hayter (God, I love the sound of that) has a website of her own entitled, appropriately enough, "Planet Sparkle", at which she has several links to other author friends of hers. We're talking real, published authors here, friends, not little wannabes like me. Nevertheless, she decided to link me to her page anyway, and said some pretty nice things about yours truly. Now it's my turn--Sparkle, a former CNN reporter, has three books out already. I recently read her first, entitled "What's A Girl Gotta Do?", and it literally had me to spitting all over myself with laughter. She's a fucking hoot, and a good read as well. Check out her world at http://members.aol.com/SHayter370/ and experience Planet Sparkle for yourself, won't you?
And then we have The Return Of The Kike. Cami Slotkin, renowned jewess, Poison Pentium editor and fellow aspiring writer, has a web page. Actually, she's had it for a while now; I asked her a few months ago if she wanted to be linked to the LOB, and her reaction was nothing short of sheer terror. I'm happy to report that, after many months of counseling, she's well on the road to recovery and is ready to receive e-guests at http://home.earthlink.net/~arete/. There you'll find pictures of me, Mike, Janet Robin (rhymes with kike), and Ras Daveed and Providence (aka the Jewish guys), as well as several examples of Cami's sparkling prose. Warning: Cami is a Classics major and has a very stunning vocabulary (read: larger than mine), as well as the 'tude of someone who's worked at Starbucks Coffee for way too long (she's since quit). Read her if you dare. OK, boys and girls, we're almost done. But what would an Act of The Life Of Bryan be without a good Phil Bynoe story? Here's this month's special.
As you may or may not know, the April issue of Bass Player Magazine (with Jason Newsted from Metallica on the cover--yes!!) contains an article that I wrote on the topic of auditions. We're not talking just a little half-page thing here--this baby was nine magazine pages long, the longest of any article in the issue. Obviously, I couldn't wait to see it. So I receive my copy in the mail during the last week of February, and instantly I begin to scan through the article to see how viciously they decided to edit it. Turns out they were kind to me for the most part. They barely cut any of it, even keeping the line about not calling someone an "ignorant prick" if you want them to hire you. Pretty cool. The only editing complaint I had was the addition of several exclamation points throughout the piece. It seems that whenever I wanted to make a subtle, witty remark, they felt it would be better to announce to the readership just how funny it was with a good ol' exclamation point! I mean, exclamation points are weird, aren't they?! They really bother me! I can't stand them! Seriously, to me exclamation points are a bit classless. But if I want to be a writer, I'd better learn to live with the taste of the editor. Besides, they were kind enough to let me ramble on and on in their damned magazine; I should just shut up and say thanks.
But what does this have to do with Phil Bynoe? On the first page on the article, there's a small picture of me onstage in Ventura, CA, and beneath the shot there's a little blurb about "the author". Here's what it said:
"Bryan Beller plays bass for Mike Keneally and Beer For Dolphins. He has also played with Dweezil Zappa, Steve Vai, and 'plenty of lesser known bands and artists in the Los Angeles area who don't happen to be sons or former bandmates of the late Frank Zappa'". (The inside/single quotes indicate that I wrote the line; they extracted it from the piece itself and used it for the blurb.)
Uh, excuse me...did that say that I played with Steve Vai? God, if there's only one thing that the regular readers of this page know, it's that I didn't get that gig. I mean, yeah, I played with Steve Vai...for about an hour and a half one day. And I banged some drums with him onstage during the tour. But, c'mon. If anyone knew what the deal was, it was Bass Player Magazine--they did a story on Phil and I about this very subject! (Now there's a good place for an exclamation point.) How'd that slip by? Oh, who cares how it happened. I just knew I needed to call Phil before he saw it.
And I did. We both laughed about it. I asked him how Vai's Asian tour went, and his response was something like (paraphrased), "I don't know...weren't you there?" I told him it was just a small part of this big plan I'd been working on for months now to get even with him. To set the record straight, Phil (who was, in fact, there with Vai in Asia) had a great time in Japan, Australia, New Zealand, and even Singapore--but not Korea. As I said earlier, he's in South America right now, probably cursing my name in Spanish.
One last thing before we go. Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here (my apologies to Dennis Miller), but the car insurance industry in this country is one of the sickest things I've ever encountered in my twenty-five years on this planet. Remember that accident I got into a while back? The one where it took the "insurance-company recommended" body shop almost three weeks to fix my car, costing me many extra dollars in car rental (from yet another "insurance-company recommended establishment)? Well, now the guy whose car I tapped at ten miles an hour is suing my car insurance company for--get this--21 fucking thousand dollars in damages. I've already admitted it was my fault. Now this guy (who was bending down underneath his car and craning his neck around under the hood only seconds after the minor accident occurred) all of a sudden has $4,000. in medical bills for "neck-related injuries". I suppose that the additional $17,000. is for "pain and suffering". His lawyers make out, my insurance company's lawyers make out, the asshole makes out with some sort of settlement, and my car insurance premiums go up for an extra two years due to this claim. If I ever see that fucking guy again, I'll fucking show him pain and fucking suffering. People like this are why our insurance system is as fucked up as it is. May all of the assholes mentioned in this paragraph get exactly what they deserve.
God, I didn't mean for this Act to end this way. I'm not an angry guy. I'm really quite happy with the way things have turned out. It's funny--having experienced the madness that was The Half Alive In America Tour is making this new phase of my life feel even more correct than it did back in October. There's a lot of closure in the way everything worked out. As usual, I don't see any deities throwing dice anywhere around here.
If everything goes according to plan, things are going to be a little less exciting in The Life Of Bryan than they have been during the past year. As long as I can get this book done by Christmas time, that's a tradeoff I'm willing to accept. But, if I knew what was going to happen three months from now, I'd already be writing about it.
By the time Act 23 rolls around, I'll be 26 fucking years old. Until then, I'll just try my best to heed the words of Billy Crystal from the movie "Throw Momma From The Train":
"A writer writes...always."
Love and Happy Valentine's, St. Patrick's, and April Fool's Days,
The Bassboy Number Sixty-Nine
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