[Keeping It Gimple]

The Third Week

Sunday.

Woke up. Felt slightly chirpy, until I realised that I am Billy Corgan,
tormented 70s child and alterna-rock superstar. I sniffed fly-spray
through my nose and watched Oprah until I was back to my usual self.
D'arcy called in a fit of pre-menstrual rage to inform me that she is
leaving the band to 'live a quiet life and be with her family'. She's
been talking to the fucking therapist woman again, I bet. I matter-of
factly enquired how she intends to pay off her Estee Lauder bill without
any touring income. She capitulated and hung up. I don't know why I
bothered - I could have gotten the chick from Veruca Salt.

Monday.

Perry Farrell phoned and asked me to do Lollapalooza again. "Are you
fucking kidding me...?", I asked him - "I could do my own Lollapalooza
and burn you into the ground! I am the pop-rock king!"
He hung up. That got me thinking - I could call my event Billipalooza.
I'd invite all the bands that I'm friends with...ermmmm...that'd be...
Well, I wouldn't really need any other bands, come to think of it. The
Pumpkins could play nine and a half hours without raising a bead of sweat.
Only I couldn't stand the mosh-pit wet dream. The crowd could be seated in
a stylish marquee and be served coffee to keep them awake during the longer
intrumentals. James could do a juggling act, and if I could just convince
D'arcy to remove a few items of clothing...

The doorbell rang and it was Jimmy.
"Please take me back!", he begged pathetically, "I invested my last few
dollars in a shady biotechnical company and now I've lost everything. I
don't have enough to cover my bail payments."
I fobbed him off with a bottle of Seagers and a plastic toy and told him
that there was a roomy homeless shelter a few blocks down the street.

Tuesday.

I have come up with a slight extension of my Billipalooza plan. I shall
hold a great festival to mark my birthday, on St. Patrick's Day. This is
only fitting, because I am undoubtedly the best Irish songwriter since
Van Morrisson, and the best Irish band since U2. There will be fireworks
and laser shows and the President can make a speech in my honour. Of course
I will have to have a few more chart-topping albums first - I immediately
rework the traditonal hymn "How Great I Art" and put it on four-track.
Stirring stuff. I follow it up with "Band of Hope and Glory", and "My
Pumpkin 'Tis of Thee".

The doorbell rang and it was Vig.
"Please take me back!", he begged pathetically, "I invested my last few
dollars trying to promote a Scottish woman singing over a looped sample
of radio static and now I've lost everything. I don't have enough to cover
my next beardstylist appointment."
"Sorry," I replied, "but we already have a producer."
"What about a drummer...?" - he was getting desperate now...
"Since when have you been able to drum...?" I inquired sceptically.
"I did the drumming for Garbage", he answered.
"Your drumming *is* Garbage, Vig..." I slammed the door. A perfect end to
a perfect day...

Wednesday.

The record boys at Virgin completely rubbished my idea of a 17 minute
video of my extended version of "Stumbeline", featuring me feeding the
homeless of Brazil and petting small woodland creatures, to be aired on
MTV.
They want something more "commerically viable". My next album will
definitely revolve around their unending quest to supress my creative
sensibilities.

James stormed round half-naked to inform me that Bugg Superstar had been
"possessed by the devil".
"He's barking and running round the back yard!" he blurted.
I sat him down and tried to explain that this is quite normal behaviour
for a dog.
"Bugg is no dog!", he proclaimed, "he's human, just like you and I. Only
yesterday he was penning the lyrics to my latest song..."
Well, that would explain a lot. I said I would telephone for help, and I
did. I telephoned Evanston Lunatic Asylum and said I would try and slip
some Valium in his Ovaltine.

Thursday.

The doorbell rang and it was Bugg Superstar.
"Where's James...?" he asked. "I was having a relapse of my Tinetz Syndrome

and he ran off screaming..."
I said I hadn't seen him.
Mental Note: Switch brands of fly spray. That one is doing me no good...
Got a little bored and cranky, so I took time out from recording more
masterpieces to take in a film. I saw "The Doors", directed by Oliver
Stone, and came out thoroughly inspired. First of all, I need a
keyboardist. I need a cool nickname, like the Lizard King. D'arcy
suggested Frog-boy or Mr. Wormy, I suggested she might like to change
sanitary pads. Then I need a cool anagram of my name, like Mr. Mojo
Risin'. Sat round at home and came up with "Golly Car Nib". Hmmmm.
Might have to work on that one some more. But other than that, I don't
see why I can't become a nineties' legend. Perhaps if I do a bit more
pelvic work...

Friday.

The doorbell rang and it was Mom and Pop. They tell me they're forming a
band called "The Crushed Corgans" and have written a catalogue of songs
about me abusing them. Thanks a lot guys. It's just my luck that my own
family would betray me when I need them most.
But that's of no consequence. I hear Paul Schaffer from the Late Show has
offered his services as my keyboardist! I am thrilled to bits, not only
because he is a quality musician, unlike the semi-talented cast-offs
I am usually forced to work with, but without him, the Late Show will
crumble into extinction, and the world will be free of the gap-toothed
curse of David Letterman. In a fit of ecstacy, I donned my fabulous silver
pants and headed over to the roller-skating rink to relive my youth of
1979.
Too late I remembered that I never really learnt to roller-skate, because I

spent all my time in my room with my guitar writing tirades against my
parents. I collapsed in a crumpled heap in the middle of the floor. A
friendly teenybopper kid offered me a hand up. There was an awestruck
expression on his pasty youthful face -
"I don't believe it's really you!", he exclaimed, "you're my favourite
singer in the world! Yours is the best band! You're a great guitarist and
I love all your songs...!"
I was stunned - recognition at last...
"So, ummmm, any favourites...?" I casually enquired, as I staggered to my
feet.
"Oh, yeah....definitely 'Peaches'". I immediately passed out again.

Saturday.

Awoke with a very sore head. It was already three in the afternoon and
that Christine woman tells me I'm supposed to be at the MTV Video Awards
at five. I can't help wondering how long we've been married. She reckons
that I wrote "Beautiful" for her, but I distinctly remember staring into a
mirror when I did that one...
"Oh, and Billy," she said, "Paul Reiser phoned. He wants to know when you
want him to play keyboards."
Oh my God. What have I done....?

Anyway the awards got off to a bad enough start when the first person I
bumped into was Billy Joe Armstrong from Green Day. He publicly embarrassed
me by demonstrating how he could flick a piece of snot into the air and
catch it in his mouth. Hmph - what can you expect from a guy who writes
entire albums based on three chords and films videos of vomit-inducing
dental surgery...?

I fled toward the VIP lounge only to be confronted by James, dressed in a
Star Trek uniform, accompanied by a fat, moustached grey-haired man, also
dressed in a Star Trek uniform, who insisted on being called "Scotty".
Fortunately the awards started before I was forced to talk to him. I was
sure "Tonight, Tonight" would be a dead cert for Best Video...
"And the winner is..." Drew Barrymore fumbled with the envelope for what
seemed like an eternity...
"Green Day for 'Geek Stink Breath'!!!"
"Are you people out of your minds?!" I screamed, but my voice was lost
amongst the tumultous roar of the crowd...
"And Best Guitarist in a Rock Music Video...James Iha for 'Bullet With
Butterfly Wings'!!!"
"No!!!" I cried - and if I'd had any hair, it would have been scattered
throughout the auditorium by now...

As James made his way up to the podium to crack Spock jokes and deprive me
of my rightly-earned glory, I consoled myself - this day alone should
give me at least another six albums worth of material...