art.
Of course I had. I always did. Even Karl trusted me to take care of business at
least that well.
As soon as I clicked through to read the message, I had
chills. That guy—Ian calls him my own creepy stalker fan—had either been in
Bergen or had a contact there. I looked for the alias he was using this time—JessesBoy.
It was him. If he didn’t use an alias like LostSon2 or BadBro, then he left one
of his favorite lines in every message. “This week my brother is in…” or “The
fortunate son has now…”
I could ignore the bizarre expression of fraternal rivalry. What
bugged me was that he delivered news to fan sites as if he were behind me,
looking at my plane ticket, listening from the next table, tapped into my
phone. I was at the Family Wash in Nashville, talking to the Pete at the bar. Pete said, “This is The Wash. This is the yin to the yang part of your life. And there’s no grey in yin/yang, right? There isn’t, is there?” Then the yang part of life returned when my stalker posted a minute-by-minute report on a woman I met at The Wash that night, including her name and phone number and what we talked about
(that night’s Carpetbaggers Local 615 show with Jamie, Pete, and Reeves). Most
of what he posted was fictitious, but Karl had to harass the Internet service
provider to remove all traces of her personal information, and then he had to
arrange for her to get a new phone and paid her expenses for all the bother
that dating an infamous bad boy had caused.
The same stalker who had posted, “I would have hit her too,”
and spawned the last year’s nightmares.
The detailed news about my business started after I was
busted with Uncle Beau, when Dominique began outing me as the son of my famous
father. I accused her of leaking my life to the Internet, but then details
appeared that she couldn’t know, unless she paid someone to follow me. She
wasn’t interested in me enough to bother to do that. The morning after
Dominique called the police on me—which resulted in them threatening to charge
her if she ever lied again—I wasn’t out of jail long enough to log on before my
stalker reported to the world what she screamed at me when the police showed
up. Therefore, technically I can’t blame her for how the rumor started, aside
from the fact that she created the foundation circumstance. Still, she hasn’t
done anything to counter the stories from my cyber stalker. When the tabloids
picked up the so-called news from fan sites, Dominique should have denied it.
Between my wife and my stalker, they couldn’t have done a better job if they
had worked together to invent the story of Jesse Rufus’s son, the wife beater.
JessesBoy: The new songs show how much happier my brother Jason is now that
he’s free of the Dragon Woman. When Jason is doing well, I’m happy too. We were
pretty miserable for a while. But when you hear the new boots, you will hear
how much better we are doing.
This time, I did what I shouldn’t have done. I replied while
logged on under my lurker alias.
Sebastian: I was in Bergen, too, and this song isn’t one of Jason Taylor’s
better efforts. It’s not in the set list for other shows for good reason.
Right then I vowed to myself that I’d revise the song, change
the words, and take a different tack on the music, just to prove my stalker
wrong.
In my own email box—which only a handful of people use,
together with my special spam friends who want to help me get out of credit
card debt and also get a bigger penis—was a short note from one of my Americana
friends. I refer to the kind of Americana that needs disambiguation on
Wikipedia. I started a forum under my lurker alias on No Depression years ago.
Then I moved it to a blog, where the discussion threads have been a haven since
life went sour. My lurker-alias blog is obscure enough that it attracts only
the most serious about exploration of roots music, like people writing graduate
theses. Nothing gets
Of course I had. I always did. Even Karl trusted me to take care of business at
least that well.
As soon as I clicked through to read the message, I had
chills. That guy—Ian calls him my own creepy stalker fan—had either been in
Bergen or had a contact there. I looked for the alias he was using this time—JessesBoy.
It was him. If he didn’t use an alias like LostSon2 or BadBro, then he left one
of his favorite lines in every message. “This week my brother is in…” or “The
fortunate son has now…”
I could ignore the bizarre expression of fraternal rivalry. What
bugged me was that he delivered news to fan sites as if he were behind me,
looking at my plane ticket, listening from the next table, tapped into my
phone. I was at the Family Wash in Nashville, talking to the Pete at the bar. Pete said, “This is The Wash. This is the yin to the yang part of your life. And there’s no grey in yin/yang, right? There isn’t, is there?” Then the yang part of life returned when my stalker posted a minute-by-minute report on a woman I met at The Wash that night, including her name and phone number and what we talked about
(that night’s Carpetbaggers Local 615 show with Jamie, Pete, and Reeves). Most
of what he posted was fictitious, but Karl had to harass the Internet service
provider to remove all traces of her personal information, and then he had to
arrange for her to get a new phone and paid her expenses for all the bother
that dating an infamous bad boy had caused.
The same stalker who had posted, “I would have hit her too,”
and spawned the last year’s nightmares.
The detailed news about my business started after I was
busted with Uncle Beau, when Dominique began outing me as the son of my famous
father. I accused her of leaking my life to the Internet, but then details
appeared that she couldn’t know, unless she paid someone to follow me. She
wasn’t interested in me enough to bother to do that. The morning after
Dominique called the police on me—which resulted in them threatening to charge
her if she ever lied again—I wasn’t out of jail long enough to log on before my
stalker reported to the world what she screamed at me when the police showed
up. Therefore, technically I can’t blame her for how the rumor started, aside
from the fact that she created the foundation circumstance. Still, she hasn’t
done anything to counter the stories from my cyber stalker. When the tabloids
picked up the so-called news from fan sites, Dominique should have denied it.
Between my wife and my stalker, they couldn’t have done a better job if they
had worked together to invent the story of Jesse Rufus’s son, the wife beater.
JessesBoy: The new songs show how much happier my brother Jason is now that
he’s free of the Dragon Woman. When Jason is doing well, I’m happy too. We were
pretty miserable for a while. But when you hear the new boots, you will hear
how much better we are doing.
This time, I did what I shouldn’t have done. I replied while
logged on under my lurker alias.
Sebastian: I was in Bergen, too, and this song isn’t one of Jason Taylor’s
better efforts. It’s not in the set list for other shows for good reason.
Right then I vowed to myself that I’d revise the song, change
the words, and take a different tack on the music, just to prove my stalker
wrong.
In my own email box—which only a handful of people use,
together with my special spam friends who want to help me get out of credit
card debt and also get a bigger penis—was a short note from one of my Americana
friends. I refer to the kind of Americana that needs disambiguation on
Wikipedia. I started a forum under my lurker alias on No Depression years ago.
Then I moved it to a blog, where the discussion threads have been a haven since
life went sour. My lurker-alias blog is obscure enough that it attracts only
the most serious about exploration of roots music, like people writing graduate
theses. Nothing gets
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