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So it goes …

The doc told me that stitches would only get in the way; he just kind of squeezed the gash together and glued it shut. Then he used a few little stick on sutures, telling me not to fuck with them because they’d fall off when they were ready. I later found this to be bullshit; I fostered the dressed wound so tenderly I ended up pulling the damned things off after a week. Then he gave me some mild painkillers, telling me that I could drink a decent amount on a regular dose. I asked him if he’d like to come on tour with us.

She, however, was painstakingly mended together by Neil Sargent, whom I’m convinced is a god among men (and guitars). He swore he couldn’t do much and that he wished he had more time to thoroughly work her over, but she came back singing like she hadn’t since the first day I’d met her. I tipped him nearly as much as he’d asked for.

Then some bullshit like this has to happen. This is my ‘78 Les Paul Custom. Her name is White Lightning, though I usually just call her Honey. She took a mysterious spill earlier this week and got herself split wide open. Looking at her that way was way worse than having my own hand split open.

So it’s been a fucked up few weeks. Anybody that was at the mink the night of the record release (and there were at least a few hundred of you) knows what difficulty we had with the PA. Thing is, shit was already getting a little out of control a bit before that. Like when I mangled my strumming hand on a pint glass earlier that week.

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