Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: stu allen

Buffalo Gal

Are you caressing Stu Allen?

“It’s his hand, jackass.”

Ah. I see it.

“Good for you.”

Hey, wasn’t Harvey Weinstein a concert promoter back in the day? You guys ever run into him?

“A bunch. Him and that asshole brother of his ran Buffalo in the 70’s. Always something funny with the receipts with those two. Christ, I can still see his face. Like a fat pineapple. Looked like a Jewish Noriega.”

Not an attractive man.

“One of those strategic temper tantrum guys. Would scream at the top of his lungs about nothing, then get real quiet and charming. Well, you know. ‘Charming.’ Jackass.”

How’d you deal with it?

“Laughed at him. He was no Bill Graham.”

He was awful big, though.

“So was our crew. I’ll tell you a story. He tried that massage shit on Mrs. Donna Jean in ’77.”

That motherFUCKer!

“Yeah. She would get her own little room so she could get dressed. Keith was in there, but he had passed out.”

Shocker.

“So, big boy charges in there and starts demanding a massage. And, you know, Mrs. Donna Jean’s a Southern girl, and they’re real polite up to a point.”

Up to a point.

“And that point was him taking his dick out.”

Bro, I’m steaming mad here.

“Story gets better.”

Does she say something clever and hurt his feelings?

“Fuck, no. Grabbed his cock and sunk her nails into the shaft real hard.”

Awesome.

“Then she pulls him into the dressing room where we’re all hanging out and announces, ‘Boys, this venue got itself a cockroach problem!'”

I love Mrs. Donna Jean.

“She had her moments.”

Are you sure you’re not caressing Stu Allen?

“Go away.”

Okay.

You Got Yourself A Stu

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After one of the Chicago shows (either the first, second, or third; I’m sure about that), Chris, Martin, and I went to an after-party that Stu Allen was playing at. It was in a warehouse that had been turned into some sort of theater in one of those Arts District tax schemes cities are always trying; they presented the kinds of plays that featured people being impaled on stuff, and not in a Titus Andronicus-staged-by-Julie-Taymor way, more in a Bob Flanagan kind of way. (Dare you to look him up.)

Stu and his band were playing, and well, but the venue had large ice buckets full of water and there were many couches. Coca-cola was also available for a very reasonable price, and while I rarely drink soda, there are times when a cold Coca-cola is the only option. My two friends boogied and the music was at just the right volume: it filled up every patch of space in the room and you could feel it massaging your potato salad.

Stu may or may not have been wearing a hat.

Anyway, this is to say that Mr. Allen, along with some friends and a Phriend, will be celebrating his birthday over at Terrapin Crossroads starting at 8 o’clock Marin County time; if you’d like to hear what all the hubbub is, then perhaps you should click here.

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