Gentle readers, as G!MME A WR!STBAND! prepares for the party of the century, happening October 24th at the Knitting Factory in Brooklyn, I’d like to share a little bit of my own personal party planning hell. Following is a missive from a certain Mr. Mishlove, manager of indie band Chekhov’s Wig, whose farewell performance of rearranged Duran Duran songs will be the highlight of the evening’s festivities.

Mr. Mishlove

Dear Ms. Amsbry,

I understand you’ve been in talks with Chekhov’s Wig to put together a party in New York City to celebrate the music and sexy moist lips of British mega-group Duran Duran. As I represent Chekhov’s Wig as their manager, guru and body waxer, I feel it is my duty to inform you that you will no longer be able to work directly with the band and will have to run all discussions relating to this show through me.

While the little scamps declined to tell me how the presumably byzantine discussions had been coming along, rest assured that you are no longer dealing with some pink-cheeked amateur any longer. I was, after all, the man who advised A Flock of Seagulls to simply keep folding their hair over and over until it looked like an actual flock of seagulls. While that turned out to be a monumentally bad idea, you should know I learned from mistakes like those and similarly career-leveling advice offered Men Without Hats (I lost their hats) and Frankie Goes to Hollywood (they wanted California; I gave them Florida) and have emerged a shrewd businessman who always has the best interests of his charges at the fore. Which is why I would first like to present to you the standard backstage rider.

(This rider isn’t for Chekhov’s Wig, who will be perfectly content if given a single jug of tepid tap water from which to share and a bit of stale bread with which they will sop their virgin brows.)

 

(file under "blackmail")

MR. MISHLOVE’S RIDER

1. A single dressing room no smaller than 20′X20′. The room shall be draped in gossamer lace with the lurid scent of licorice in the air. That air must circulate by no less than three eunuchs gently waving palm fronds in front of their mangled genitals.

2. Two teenage boys. Plump.

3. A bottle of the third most expensive champagne within a 30-mile radius of the venue. This bottle must be at least half as large as the one drunk by Dallas Mavericks star Dirk Nowitzki after his team won the NBA Finals this year. I’d attach a photograph for reference, but I’m sure you can imagine the fucker was pretty big.

4. A deli platter containing a selection of meats from endangered animals and cheeses from the breast milk of celebrities (Note: ABSOLUTELY NO KARDASHIANS!)

5. A paracetamol and opioid analgesic milkshake.

6. The complete Songbook collection by Rod Stewart and a large hammer. Vinyl is best if they even bothered to release it that way, but CD is also acceptable.

Mr. Mishlove with Chekhov's Wig

7. No less than three armed guards, preferably ex-Mossad. This is primarily to keep my relationship with the members of Chekhov’s Wig civil, though a brief fling with a member of Duran Duran that went sour rather quickly also cannot be ignored.

8. One copy each of: The Bible (King James Version), Jenna Jameson’s autobiography, Fisting for Dummies, Everyone Poops and Chicken Soup for the Soul.

9. Drugs.

I trust your thoroughness and discretion in assembling these items, without which I will not be able to approve the appearance of Chekhov’s Wig at your function. Also, don’t tell Chekhov’s Wig about any of this; they’re very sensitive and prone to extended crying jags (especially Carl.)

Fondly,

Mr. Mishlove