Not Celebrating Presidents Day

I was on the phone to my mother - they had to put her in a wheelchair and install her in the office to take the call.

'I'm not surprised we're in such a mess - the most powerful nation in the world is being run from this office and it's full of old toffee tins.'

It's Presidents Day and there's a moron in the White House, an old toffee that's got loose from the rest of the tin. Not much to celebrate there. I imagine the cunt will be spending the day at Mar-a-Lago, playing a round of golf in a soggy adult diaper.

Amy's not celebrating Presidents Day by playing some tunes on WFMU.

Plenty to celebrate there - her new album The Old Guys is out at the end of the week and it's already getting unprecedented revues and airplay. She says she hasn't sensed such a buzz about a new Amy Rigby album since Diary Of A Mod Housewife.

I feel proud of her. And proud of me too because I engineered and produced the new record. I gave her a garage band edge and helped put a tougher frame around the mature, contemporary version of a unique and timeless songwriter. Her past five albums are a hard act to follow and I took the responsibility very seriously.

And there I go, making it all about me - I could be the President.

Her tour starts on Friday so we've been rehearsing. There are four different drummers involved so it's a little confusing. It's one drummer per night, not some Allman Brothers spectacular, apart from a couple of nights when she's more or less solo with a bit of bass and guitar playing assistance from the chauffeur. And the Omnichord - mustn't forget that - I'm playing the Omnichord too. I reckon this addition lifts me into multi-instrumentalist / utility man status.

And there I go again - it's all about me. Again. I could write speeches for the President.

I've just decided to do Amy's tour under the name Brice McCafferty because promoters keep announcing me as some kind of feature which is somewhat insulting to Amy because she certainly doesn't need a feature to prop her up. I'm going to wear a suit and keep a low profile. And be very afraid because one of the drummers is Steve Goulding, the man who played drums on Whole Wide World. 

I hope I'm up to it.

But there's no room for self doubt, it's Presidents Day after all, and as Amy's about to tell you on WFMU, The President Can't Read. It hasn't stopped him though. It just goes to show - any cunt born in this great land can become The President Of The United States Of America.

Go fuck yourself Donald Trump - heart attack on the golf course please, and die crapping your diaper.

Let's hear it for The Old Guys!

AMY RIGBY tour dates:

February
23 HUDSON NY The Spotty Dog
24 BROOKLYN NY El Cortez
28 HARRISBURG PA Note Bistro & Wine Bar

March

02 PITTSBURGH Club Cafe
03 PHILADELPHIA Dawson Street Pub
04 CAMBRIDGE MA Atwood's Tavern
09 NEW HAVEN CT Cafe Nine
10 NORTHAMPTON MA The Parlor Room
14 ASBURY PARK NJ The Saint
15 VIENNA VA Jammin Java
18 CHARLESTON WV Culture Center Theater
25 HULL O'Riley's
26 BBC 6 MUSIC The Marc Riley Show

27 BRIGHTON Prince Albert

28 LEICESTER Musician

29 BRISTOL Thunderbolt
30 LONDON Betsy Trotwood

It's a Long Way To Come For a Cheap Laugh

'It was Amy's birthday at the weekend.'

'Oh heck, I missed it. Again.'

'When we go out to the shops we'll have to get her something - I've got that packet of sandwiches but I think this calls for something bigger.'

'I'll just get up and we can be off out.'

It's like trying to contain a mountain goat in a playpen except the playpen is a hospital bed with the sides up and the mountain goat is my mother in a nightie.

There's been a spillage. When I get there she lying in sodden sheets. A nurse is just about to change the bed. She knocked over a cup of water. 

'The trouble is every time I laugh I leak - you surely didn't think this was all tap water did you?'

  

'I appreciate you being here but it's a long way to come for a cheap laugh.'

'I'm not poor - make no mistake, I don't have to live like this - it's art. It's an art project.' She waves a hand in an imperious gesture at the row of beds, each containing an old lady in a varying level of sickness. 'Most of these people' she explains 'are dummies.'

She wants me to take her home. I manage to persuade her to stay in the hospital, but somehow along the route of persuasion she gets the idea that I'm staying too, so she calls a nurse over:

'We need two single beds, side by side, so that we can watch television together and discuss what we've seen. Can you fix this?'

A nurse comes with the ward's cordless phone. Her sister, my aunt, is calling. She agrees to take the call and then carefully explains that her and I are going into business together because she's designed a shopping mall.

'I'm here now. It's in the very far reaches of West Hove. If you want in you're probably too late, but that's the story of your life.'

Some of this is the product of a disarranged mind - a highly creative and intelligent woman amusing herself in the tedious lilac corner of a hospital ward where she's been for too long. 

And some of this is indeed an art project.