To commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the death of shock rocker GG Allin, Pussbag Press is releasing The Diary of GG Allin. The following entries are excerpted from his 1992 road journal:
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February 24 (Carlyle Hotel, New York): Very upset with the Carlyle. First they tell me the Empire Suite is unavailable. Then I call room service and find out they don’t have Beef Wellington. To top it off, Bobby Short isn’t playing the Café. Nothing against Barbara Carroll, but when I stay at the Carlyle, I want my Bobby!
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February 25 (Carlyle): Trying to relax before the show, but it’s pretty hard when there’s NO BUBBLEBATH. Called the desk a half hour ago and I’m still waiting. How hard can it be to find a bottle of Posh Froth on the Upper East Side?
Bubble Bath is finally here. The bell boy who brought it up was so adorable, I forgot I was mad. Tipped him WAY too much.
Still have to get a set list together. Don’t know if I should open with “Livin’ Like an Animal” or “Outlaw Scumfuck.”
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February 26 (Carlyle): Went with “Animal.” Good thing, because Al Roker showed up, and that’s his favorite song. What a crazy pig he is.
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February 27 (Carlyle): Argued with my manager all morning. He insists I wore the red jockstrap the last time we played NY. I’m 98% sure it was white, but don’t want to risk wearing the same outfit twice. Better go with the purple G-string.
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February 28 (Carlyle): Having a post-show cocktail at Bemelmans, when Bill Buckley comes over. “Great concert,” he says. “But didn’t you wear a purple G-string last year?” Going to kill my manager.
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March 1 (Lenox Hotel, Boston): Getting a neck tattoo today. Need something to read, but all my Keats books have disappeared. Either I left them at the Carlyle, or that new roadie has light fingers. Think I’ll throw out a quote from “Ode on a Grecian Urn” at dinner and see how he reacts.
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March 2 (Lenox): Lousy rehearsal. Wanted to try a ukulele version of “Expose Yourself to Kids,” but the band voted me down.
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March 3 (Lenox): The doctor just left. Asked how I managed to get a crucifix stuck in my anus. Obviously not a fan.
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March 5 (Rittenhouse Hotel, Philadelphia): Geraldo called and told me I couldn’t wear the assless pants with the swastika on his show. Jackboots, dog collar, infantry helmet… all good. But no ass. And no masturbating.
Then the club owner calls. Wants to know what I have planned for tonight. Says screwing groupies on stage is getting old, and would I mind screwing something else—a goat, or a llama maybe. “What is this?” I say. “Tijuana?” “Okay,” he says. “Forget it. But what if instead of drinking your own piss you drink tiger piss?” I tell him if he likes animals so much he should open a zoo. Who does he think I am? Siegfried and Roy?
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March 7 (Rittenhouse): Spa day!
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March 8 (Rittenhouse): Cops shut down the show again. Indecent exposure, assault, blah, blah, blah. Will never understand why I can’t stab someone when THEY ASK ME TO DO IT.
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March 9 (Rittenhouse): Last gig tomorrow. No more managers. No more roadies. No more obnoxious fans. Just me, the beach, and a stack of Us Weeklies. Caribe Hilton here I come!
Dan Morey is a freelance writer in Pennsylvania. His humor [sic] has appeared in McSweeney’s Quarterly, Vulture, Feathertale Review and elsewhere. Find him at danmorey.weebly.com