Having grown weary of hitting the delete button so often, the comedy writer decides to tell a few publicists how he really feels about them.
When you write about music in any small way you end up on the email lists of every publicist in the industry. I usually delete the irrelevant emails. Sometimes I reply with a little snark. And sometimes I respond with hateful rants that sound like they were scribed by a schizophrenic war vet. Like the email discussions below, about a blues festival.
Thanks for the heads up on the fest, I was going to run a marathon while straddling a salt-crusted wood saw, but this changes everything. The only thing better than self-mutilation is standing among a bunch of balding, denim-clad old men holding each other’s dicks while Jimmy Vaughan warms up a tepid afternoon crowd. Oh my god, I just peed. Alright, let’s talk guest list. I’m going to need a plus 20, transport and private shaded area to cool off from those hot licks.
With warm hands,
We will not be giving out any comp tickets for media, thanks for your “interest”.
“I” “understand” “every” “event” “has” “finite” “funding” “for” “promotions” “and” “I” “appreciate” “your” “efforts” “to” “have” “me” “give” “you” “some” “free” “publicity.”
“Can” “you” “at” “least” reimburse” “me” “for” ‘the” “marathon” “registration” “fee?”
It takes real guts to have a blues jam in the post-Jim Crow era. I applaud you. To be clear, I would rather drink a hobo’s semen, vomit it and gargle it while being sodomized by a lifesize bust of Kenny Rogers than come see a bunch of middle age fuck forks play that noodling horse shit. But, hey, business is business, right? I won’t hold being culture rapists against you ... if the check clears. Below is a rate sheet for my services, which I think are pretty competitive.
$50–Twitter event name (full 140 characters).
Floetry’s Philadelphia story