It's been awhile since the tour ended. How long? Several months. Seven, eight. Long enough for me to settle into the sedentary life I loved and hated so much at the same time. Being a drummer by trade it helps that I'm so fidgety. I don't like to do one thing for too long, and I was coming to detest the daily routine of parking on the couch and watching soap operas all day. I'd surface for parties or go on the occasional date but for the most part I couldn't be bothered. And then, one day, the call came in. Manson. I'd know that voice anywhere. Hey, he said. We're recording next week. Get your shit together and get over here.
So began a be-yoo-tiful fiendship. At least this week. I never know what to expect from Manson, from any of the guys, really. He's extremely moody and it's easy to slip on a misspoken word, trip yourself up, fall out of favor. I'm probably the least suited member of the band now that John's gone. I don't often go all-out the way they do. I stay away from the drugs and most of the alcohol. Or I try to. I've done my fair share of late night Taco Bell runs to shake off the munchies, but no more than anyone else. We're all drug users, aren't we?
There's nothing left to say anymore. He said that pretty well. Can I get that on my tombstone? Spell it out in pepperoni.