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The Morning Scan
Random Notes From Far Arcturus


It is my doleful duty to inform you that, as of right now, the future of the Art Crimes '96 tour is hanging by a thread. Make that "a slender thread". There are a number of reasons why this is so, and if you want to see us play the rest of the dates we have booked this summer, I suggest you swing into action immediately.
First of all, we are experiencing a Casper Crisis of the first magnitude. Do you remember the days when Doug Casper used to come out to the limo as we pulled up to the gig and escort us to the backstage area? We do. That doesn't happen anymore unless we make a big fuss about it, in which case the feeling of being nurtured and cared for is completely lost. Do you remember when Doug would come around and tell us that showtime was in fifty minutes, then half an hour, then ten minutes, two minutes, SHOWTIME! _ do you remember that? Now it's "Come on, guys, time to go!" with the band already standing out in the hall, ready to walk on stage. Craig - you are a man of the world, let me ask you a question - do bagels have raisins in them? fruit of any kind? are they bright yellow? are they sliced hours before they are toasted? Well, the things that have been appearing in my dressing room lately, upon which I depend for sustenance through the long grueling hours of the show, fit this description. Whose fault is this? Doug Casper's, by default.
Details, details, you are saying. But wait - there's more. After his incredible experience of an altered mental/somatic state on stage last night, Donald is convinced that the entire tour has somehow slid into an alien toposphere in which our talents and perceptions are no longer able to save us from humiliation and possible extinction. Why is this so? How is this being done to us, by whom, and for what reason? These are questions we cannot answer at this time. I myself believe that the shocking fact, which we determined beyond a shadow of a doubt last night, that the entire city of Philadelphia is running on some sort of bogus energy which is not real electricity but which mimics real electricity to an astonishing degree and which is able to run electrical aplliances, however imperfectly, at least for a while before causing them to fail - I believe that this ungodly power (is there something called Peco Power? this may be what we're talking about here) is somehow responsible for shifting us into an alternate reality in which we find ourselves floundering. (I know for a fact that this fake electricity and its woeful impact on my mental state caused me to lose my eyeglasses this morning for a full forty-two minutes in my hotel room. Richard had to come over and help me find the bastards.) I shouldn't write too much more about this now, call me at the hotel later and I'll give you more details. For pete's sake don't use your cellular, okay? here's another thing: we pay all these bucks for that silly airplane and thousands of gallons of jet fuel - then, when we fly to the gig, we have to drive twenty minutes, a half hour or more to the venue itself - so what's the point? Why pay all that money for a jet if we're gonna end up driving anyway? Can't we play gigs that are closer to the airports?Has this entire tour been conceived in utter disregard of the comfort and expressed desires of The Principals?
uh-oh - that was Doug, I'm on stage in 90 seconds. More on this later W

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