Rock Accountant

Month: February, 2017

Moral misdemeanor

Sneaking a piece of pie
before bed as a child​,
led me to a life
moral misdemeanor​.


And this from the people who tell you whom to vote for and what to think? You might as well get your news from the New York Times. by Regis Boff

Your father will be home soon

Mom, why are we at home and sitting in the living room?

Your father will be home soon

Why haven’t you started making dinner?

It’s dinnertime, and we should be ready for father.

Why are the groceries still in the bags?

Because your father will be home soon

There is no point in making dinner until he comes.

Once your father is here, he’ll decide where we’ll eat.

Why did you take us out of school so early?

And why are you still wearing your coat in the house?

And why are you wearing your hat?

Because your father will be home soon

And we will be here to greet him

He will know if we should go out to eat

He will have ideas about where to go.

He will have presents for you, and we will be ready.

Why are grandma and grandpa at the door and why is grandpa wearing a suit?

Why is grandma wearing her fancy dress and her necklace?

And why do they have their suitcases?

Because your father will be home soon,

And he loves to see grandma and grandpa.

Maybe they will come to dinner with us,

And your father might want us to get dressed up

They might stay over for a while

And why is grandma wiping her eyes with her handkerchief?

Why do our neighbors keep coming to the door?

And why are they bringing us food if we are going out to eat?

It is getting toward evening, and your father will be home soon

The neighbors don’t know that father will be home

The man on the phone said father wouldn’t be coming home soon

Some of the neighbors are saying father will not be coming home

Mom, What’s going to happen to us without father?

Mom? Mom?

Your father will be home soon

Your father will be home soon

How to watch the news

I grew up with scaly, dour old men reporting world events to me as though the news demanded unappealing but venerable newscasters to dampen our population’s suspected tendencies to giggle at the world’s misfortunes. We are drawn to the news because we don’t like to miss stuff and because we, each of us, are deluded enough to think we are vital in shaping our nation’s direction.

Cable networks revealed that all news is far more enjoyable if it is brazenly biased. Every American is appalled by the slant of television reporting, so we each pick news people we think are telling the truth and if our goal has been a bisected, persistently testy country it seems to be going well. I am the only person I know who watches the news with a genuine disregard for his own beliefs. I accomplish this by first screening the newswomen who are delivering it for their beauty alone. Then I put together the prettiest into a viewing timeline and presto, the news!

When I was in high school me and my friends always made sure good-looking girls felt insecure about how smart they were. I know now this sabotage was horribly mean but we who were plain were jealous of how unearned physical attractiveness opened all doors for them. We believed that being smart would make us the successful ones, the ones who would be on TV.

I get my news, my weather, my traffic reports, financial advice​, even my political commentary only from the most alluring women in the world. I refuse to a take a pill unless I have been warned of its side effects by a preternaturally exquisite woman (and, I confess, sometimes a drop dead gorgeous man) I would love to date.

I have warned the media that I am fickle, that I am immune to truth, facts, and intellect, and that I am as shallow as they. They have nervously responded by shoving ever increasingly more breathtaking women onto the air.

The diversity diet

While bunching up the line for homemade rhubarb and kale pies at the Farmers Market Wednesday, I got into a heated exchange with my two girlfriends. Innocently, I mentioned the headway on this “diversity” thing I was making in our village. My tactic, such as it could be flattered, was to invite people of “difference” over to my house for dinner. This way, we would grow more like one another and not so “diverse” anymore. Problems solved.
Well, nothing seems to empty little minds like jealousy. Like annoying magpies, they chirped that I had “diversity” all wrong, that it meant to accept differences without interference. Things then became frosty, let me tell you.
Without stopping to swallow her saliva, one of them offered that I might be interested in her new diet, which consisted of eating foods grown in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
It hurt me that my diversity dinners now seemed so inept. Before I could fight back, however, my other friend, now nearly hobbled with rage over the diet thing, briskly offered that she had lost over forty pounds by eating nothing but beets for six months.
Seizing the moment, I snidely assured her that I hardly noticed the red stains around her mouth, then I paid, collected my pies, and left feeling good and childish.
I was unsettled. I had figured that a winning strategy for this diversity riddle was at hand. I had asked a black couple, I barely knew, over for dinner next week to lance our differences.
” So the aim is to keep people different ?” I mulled crestfallen.
Fortunately, the people I had invited to dinner called and canceled. Out of respect for each other, we never tried again.

The Meanest thing

Denying someone else love is the meanest thing you can do.
By Regis Boff

American actors and a dictionary

Not one American actor could find “fascism “in the dictionary.


I wake every morning grateful to the media for a replenished sense of doom

Rock Stars

I never once, in thirty years, saw even one rock star write a check.

Rock’s most embarrassing moment

I was the tour manager for a band called Genesis during the years with Peter Gabriel. I was responsible for what is arguably rock’s most embarrassing moment.
A standard show climaxed with Gabriel, the lead singer, dressed in his “Gods of Magog” outfit, a long velvet black cape and a giant triangular headpiece.
He was to throw off his hat and cape to reveal himself in a silver jumpsuit, and then finish the song, end of the show. We made him momentarily invisible by the detonating of flash and concussion powder. The controlled explosions came from metal pods on the front lip of the stage. The audience was blinded and dazed, an excellent early rock conclusion.
We filled these canisters with a martini of flash and gunpowder. They would be criminally outlawed today, whereas back then they were quietly banned. We never told anyone we were going to do it. One of our roadies, Geoff Banks, filled them a couple of hours before the show and would set them off electrically at the right moment.
This incident took place somewhere between 1973 and 1975 either in Cleveland, Ohio or Berlin, Germany. Believe me, that in my world this is terrific accuracy.
Someone prophetically, (I can’t remember who), had the inspiration to “fly” Peter into the air while the audience was blinded, (This was most likely Peter himself).
He was to be “shot,” (hoisted) fifteen feet into the air by nearly invisible thin metal wires, “ called flying” in those days. He would finish the song, floating in a silver jumpsuit, as the front curtain closed, end of the show. Nice.
Gabriel was to be further concealed by smoke machines (they looked like leaf blowers) and an intense fog that bubbled up by dumping huge blocks of dry ice, by hand (gloved), into buckets of water by the crew from behind the speaker stage bins. They would explode with vapor, filling, if the prevailing winds permitted, the entire stage.
Here’s how the “flying” was to work. I had brought in an “expert” who had flown Elton John and his piano into the air a few months earlier. This guy harnessed himself to the wires which connected over the truss to Gabriel. He climbed to the top of a tall ladder on stage left, out of sight and waited. On my cue, he would leap off the ladder and because he was the counterbalance, up our artist would go. I did the cueing only because I had no other real job, having finished my critical job of literally running around hallways closing doors so no breeze would alter the course of our stage fog.
I sweated the cue because if I got it wrong, Peter would be mid-song and everything else would fall to shit.
Well, I thought I nailed the fucker, but I was maybe a second too soon, and all hell broke loose. Peter went up fast and sadly, crookedly. His left shoulder was at least a foot and a half higher than his right. In his surprise, he dropped his live microphone launching it forward, onto the stage, where it rolled into the explosions from the gunpowder pods. It sent the blast sound directly into the huge audience speakers. Lord knows how many of the punters, who had the misfortune to have been standing near them are now deaf.
Meanwhile, some asshole had opened an outside door, so all my smoke was blowing backward towards the dressing rooms leaving the mayhem clearly visible.
The flash pods, ( we were later to learn from the fire dept.) had been way overloaded thereby becoming perhaps the first incident of actual cannon fire ever, during a live show, in the history of rock.
Peter’s mic sound, as my luck would have it, also went through the band’s stage speakers. Tony Banks, the keyboardist, I saw out of the corner of my now tearing eyes, was in the center of the stage hitting Geoff, the explosion roadie, over the head with a tambourine, screaming “I am deaf, you made me deaf.” All this was happening within a nightmare zone of about ten seconds.
So let me recap, seeing as we both have come this far. I have Gabriel nearly horizontal, fifteen feet in the air, with no microphone and a black cape dangling from his foot. I have the keyboardist pounding a roadie as the hapless bastard is desperately trying to extinguish the residue flames still pouring from his canisters. I have an audience in a state of stunned mass trauma, and I have smoke filling up the dressing rooms. So what was the absolute last thing this God could think of to do with me? The front curtain would not close.

In my mind’s eye, even today, this was not a tidy episode. To their credit and my forever resentment, most of the audience hung around to watch us try to cut Peter down. It took such a long time.
Steve Hackett confirmed it was 19.2.75, The Ekeberghallen, Oslo, Norway!
In the 1991 Documentary, Genesis A History Tony, Mike, and Phil remembered it with Phil Collins saying “I turned around to the tour manager and said YOUR FIRED!

%d bloggers like this: