BOOKING THE BUTTHOLES
The story of two barely functioning people and one magical night.
So I’m sitting on a toilet in Cancun, Mexico. It’s 2008. Slurring at me over the phone is Gibson Haynes, singer for the Butthole Surfers.
“I think we can make this show happen. Paul [Leary, BH guitarist] is coming around to the idea.”
“Coming around”? Hmm, that sounds a lot like a Realtor phrase: “I'll circle back around to you.” People who say they’ll circle back around often never do. It’s their arrogant way of saying, “I’m the man and I could care less about your venue or you.”
“Tell that studio genius I’m selling tickets tomorrow. Clear his fucking calendar—what, is he recording another album for the sun-dried Meat Puppets again? Tell you what, let them warm up for you and record their junkie asses on stage through the PA, okay?”
“Let me see, I’ll call you back.”
“Hey, Gibby, these calls cost me $5 a minute, make it fast.”
He calls me back: “Okay, Paul’s on board. How much should we sell tickets for, like, $23?” asks Gibson.