TONIGHT, DOWNTOWN: Those Butthole Surfers, live, on a stage, going apeshit. I want to go. And then, oddly, I don’t want to go. Bit of a weird one.

Luckily, I got to see them at the very start of those ’90s, and then a couple times more, and still have flashbacks from that fucked-up strobe light thing they had going on that one time at the Latin Quarter in Detroit. I got to see Gibby Haynes walk out on stage with a fucking shotgun and shoot out blanks or something into the air. Shirtless, even. I saw Paul Leary crossing his eyes for whole songs. I even saw them in goddamn Val Du Lakes, the summer we moved out west. 1993.

So twenty years later, there’s those Butthole Surfers, at it again. It’s like I have to go, or something. Like a funeral, or a wedding or something. Mandatory attendance, you know?

My name is Aaron James Draplin and I am a fan of the Butthole Surfers. Leigh, grab yer jacket. We’re going. See you down there, you beasts.

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TEXAS, YOU BIG SONOFABITCH: Three National Treasures: Gibby, Willie and Roky.

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A LETTER TO A FRIEND: Mick writes to his buddy Andy in New York about the design of his latest album: “…and please write back saying how much money do you want?”

So good. Transmissions from icon to icon.

From an incredible blog called, “Letters of Note.” Bookmarked, for future time wasting, entertainment and wonder.

(Thank you, Derek Schille and Chuck Prophet. Seriously great link, fellas.)

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HEAVY MATERIAL FOR A HEAVY WORLD: Here’s a documentary that is as sobering as it is completely scary as it is sad. Not for the faint of heart: At The Death House Door.

Down with the death penalty.

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ON THE TONIGHT SHOW WITH CONAN, LAST NIGHT: Those Flaming Lips!

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ON THE PLAYER:

01. Butthole Surfers - Locust Abortion Technician
02. Butthole Surfers - Hairway To Steven
03. Butthole Surfers - Double Live