News / Blog

August 2, 2009

Where's that worker's comp policy?

My dearest friend:

It is DONE. Your pre-orders have been shipped, dropped off at the South Boston General Mail Facility (GMF) last night. If you see some red specks on your package, don’t worry. It’s either blood from the cuts on my hands, or tomato juice from the bloody marys I had to drink to get through all that manual labor. But don’t feel bad for me; I’ll just sit here in the dark and recover. What really got me through was imagining the looks on your adorable little faces as you open the packages, much like I would imagine that you imagine the look on my adorable little face after I process the orders and open my bank account.

It was a lovely little procession at the GMF, and the post office employees kept smiling even when they saw all of those despicable little green customs tags (one world, my ass.) One held the door for me as I struggled with three full tubs of packages, and another even responded, albeit without looking up, when I asked, quoting Joe Pernice, “How’s it goin’?” Post office employees really are the most undeservedly maligned bunch, and I’m not just saying that in the hopes that the 15 tubs I dropped off yesterday don’t get lost in a corner of the airplane-hangar sized building. I really mean it. They serve with honor.

I think we filled these orders without (m)any mistakes. My friend Dave came over to help me. I had a bunch of friends all set to help, because I asked if they wanted to “come over and go sailing,” figuring that when they got here I’d say, “Go sailing? That’s what you thought I said? I said help with a mailing, silly rabbit.” It would seem that they figured it out, probably by realizing that I wouldn’t be caught dead on a sailboat, or any boat without slot machines and a Bahaman registry. Dave was here though, either because he’s a really good friend, or so bewitched by me he can’t help himself. Anyway, if there are mistakes, I’m sure they’re mine, and I will make good. I won’t lie to you. It’s mind numbing work, and I had at least one eye on the TV the whole time, watching Real Housewives of Hingham, Massachusetts. One time, a few releases ago, Joe actually helped with the mailing, but we won’t do that again. Guy knows his way around a bridge, but not a postage meter.

So, those of you who ordered should start seeing packages this week. As noted in an earlier novella, I promised to mail them in time for them to arrive on release date, which I have done, because I may be a liar, but I keep my word. But because I don’t run the post office, I make no promises. Also, because I’ve heard from some of you about plans to frame these things, or wallpaper rooms with them – I want to remind you that they are small – 4.5 x 7 INCHES, not feet, designed to be tucked into your copy of Joe’s book (out Tuesday – test on Thursday). Just don’t want you to be disappointed. Remember always that lowered expectations beget greater fulfillment. If you learn nothing else from me, I will have done well by you.

Please note that the complaint department here at Ashmont World HQ will be closed until at least August 11, because I am going on vacation. When I say going on vacation, I mean I am taking leave from my full time job as twitterer, and my part-time job as beleaguered publicist, to indulge my hobby as the head of a multi-national record company. I will do this by driving around the East Coast with my business partner (Note that I didn’t say friend. That’s why this works.) two Charlestown townie comics and Jose, sometime-bass player, this time-merch person, the sweetest, nicest, most sensitive man in the world, whose willingness to spend time with us stretches the limits of credulity. We’re not nice – none of us in the Ashmont/Pernice Brothers family. You know about Joe. Do you think Bob Pernice is nice? Are you buying that story about him not being able to tour because he’s some fancy-schmancy high-falutin’ scientist? No way. He didn’t even graduate alternative high school. He doesn’t tour because we can’t afford the liability insurance we’d need were we to unleash him on an unsuspecting public. (You stick with me. I will ALWAYS give you the real story.) I think they get it from their father, who I once watched positively MOW DOWN a slippery car salesman who ended up selling us a van for practically nothing because he was so afraid of Mr. Pernice. It’s not their mother. She’s nice. She routinely buries statues of St. Raphael in the backyard so that I might meet a nice man to marry. Her prayers aren’t being answered, but she’s nice. Menck, Belitsky, Pat Berkery – no one that tall is ever nice, or to be trusted. And Peyton only APPEARS to be nice. James MIGHT be nice, but with that accent, I mostly don’t understand what he’s saying so assume he isn’t. But Jose – he is NICE. So if you run into him out there, be nice, because Joe, the Walshes and I probably aren’t being very nice to him, and he could use the support.

Tour dates are here:

To those of you who can’t come to these shows – good news. We’ve never met a shiny gadget we haven’t coveted, and so we bought a fancy new video camera. We’ll be filming and posting some of the shows. (Anyone in Boston have a tripod I can borrow for a few weeks? I will trade swag, and maybe even a ride in my tricked-out Subaru Forester to Castle Island for a hot dog.)

What’s next, after the tour you ask? We’re hoping a new Pernice-originals record in early 2010, though I haven’t seen any activity in the old attic recording studio here in quite some time. Charlie Ashmont does like to wander up there every couple of days with a marrow bone, but I haven’t been up there in months. I have to remember to tell the band before they head back up there that all the bones on the floor are Charlie’s, or they’ll think I am a serial killer who is dismembering bodies and stashing them in the studio.

To those dozen or so of you who wrote and told me that you’d pay extra for t-shirts we had sweat in (see last mailing list missive), please allow me to tell you that you are sick, and I am disappointed in you. Also, exactly how much extra? More of you than ever before have been writing lately, perhaps approaching me with a bit more familiarity than I’ve ever actually encouraged, but since a great many of you are rather clever, and practice good grammar and spelling, I welcome it. However, before you hurt yourself trying to outmaneuver the queen of the backhanded insult, keep in mind that I am probably old enough to be your mother, and, now that you’ve sent us your money, I probably know where you live.

You guys are the best. We’d have you all over for dinner (though Peyton would have to cook) if I had a big enough dining room and any desire at all for human contact.

Your humble servant,

Dorchester, Mass.

Joyce @ 6:10 pm