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.

“$23, are you kidding me? You must have at least 1,500 fans in Austin who will pay $40, don’t you? You haven’t played in four years, surely your geriatric fans have real jobs now and aren’t still dropping acid like in the ’80s, right?”

Gibby said he wanted to do Friday and Sunday at the Scoot Inn—which was my bar—and needed a day of downtime between acts. What’s wrong with Saturday night? Hello! He said he was going to need an artist’s respite to recover from the first night’s gig. A “buffer.” Jesus. I said, “Dude, do Friday and Saturday, your fans can’t afford a babysitter Sunday night.”

*****