[Keeping It Gimple]

The Secret Diary of Billy Corgan - aged 29 and 1/4
by "leafboy@ihug.co.nz (John Trenwith)"


Sunday.

Woke up. How very alienated I feel. The world in general, and MTV in
particular seems to be incapable of recognizing the full potency of my
creative genius. "1979" had a mere 47 airings today, and I feel my career
slip-sliding downhill. Hit on the idea of writing a quadruple disk free-form
operatic masterpiece, and James suggested I call it "The Singing Toad and
the Fourteen Manic String Balls Veering Happily Towards the Purple Lights of
Morning". Mental Note: Never let James write another song. Or for that
matter sing. I have been meticulously training Bugg Superstar as a backup
vocalist to compliment my whining style.

Monday.

I have decided to fire Flood and hire the Dust Brothers to produce my new
album. Flood sulked even harder than Butch Vig, but I stood firm. I must
uphold my image as an impulsive, artistic type. I have also ordered a
truckload of Macintosh computers, a few dozen drum machines, and some
synths. The fate of the rest of the band has been decided - James will
cavort about the studio amusing me with his hilarious anecdotes, while
D'Arcy makes the sandwiches and tea. Still, I must find a new drummer and
keyboardist to convince the punters that I am not a solo artist...

Tuesday.

My drummer auditions began in earnest. When I woke up this morning there was
a queue of earnest teenybopper beatmeisters winding its way down the street.
At the front was Dave Grohl. His happy-go-lucky nature deeply offended me.
As did his diatribe about me being "the next Kurt Cobain". Kurt Cobain has
nothing on me - I can play more than four chords and know how to use a razor
and shaving foam. I dispatched Grohl with a swift swing of my Epiphone
before he could launch into "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and subsequently
demolish the forty-eight tom and cymbal drum kit I had so gratuitously
commissioned for Jimmy. Speaking of Jimmy, he had the gall to show up around
midday, with a bogus English accent claiming to be Ringo Starr. You don't
fool me Jimmy - Ringo never had a crew-cut that bad...

Wednesday.

Canceled the keyboardist auditions because James rang saying that he heard
from a guy who was going out with this chick whose brother is friends with a
Van Halen roadie that Eddie might want to jam with me today. Naturally,
these things are bound to happen when one reaches the forefront of the rock
community. Gibson in hand, I tried to look as nonchalant as possible as I
strolled over to his house, but when I opened the door, some old bat
answered, and before I could get a word in she said "Don't worry dear, I
know what you're going through - I had a sister who had leukaemia..." Then
she handed me $20! The nerve of some people...! "I don't have leukaemia", I
answered crossly, "If you must know the truth,I'm going bald..." So she
handed me another $20 and closed the door. Is it any wonder my lyrics are
ridden with grief and despair...?

Thursday.

Found I had a spare forty dollars in my coat pocket, so I bought a bottle of
Rogaine. Courtney came over claiming her visiting rights over to Lily the
cat. I still can't believe that thing went to court. Think how many songs I
might have written had I not been wasting my time with lawyers, judges and
other similarly uncreative people. Felt a bit moody, so I picked up my
acoustic and four-track and wrote a few songs for my forthcoming boxed-set
"Superfluous Crap I Didn't Put On Mellon Collie" Of course, Mellon Collie's
been out for nearly a year, but no-one will ever know. I am so prolific even
I can't even keep track of how many songs I have. Courtney came into my room
while I was recording a fourteenth reprise of "Tonight, Tonight" and tried
to impress me with the caterwauling she's going to put on her new album. I
pretended to be interested, but the
truth is so obvious. She's only famous because she hangs out with the likes
of me, and Kurt and that Reznor guy. Perhaps he'd like to be my new
keyboardist. But then, I get enough of face-painting and animal sacrifices
from James.

Friday.

A lowly record exec calls my lush, but humble abode to inform me that Pink
Floyd want me to induct them into the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. Naturally,
these things are bound to happen when one reaches the forefront of the rock
community. I nonchalantly agree, and try to find something suitably tacky to
wear on MTV. I settle on a punch bowl shirt I bought from the discarded
wardrobe of "Hawaii Five-O". James asks if he can come along too, but when I
tell him about a phony Star Trek convention in Madison, Wisconsin, he gets
on his bike before you can say "Take Me Down". Sucker. Fortunately D'arcy is
too busy stirring a metal drum of industrial-strength peroxide to be worried
about anything important. I roll up to the ceremony about sevenish. I shake
hands with the Floyd, but they seem distracted. Dave Gilmour keeps saying
"Where's Billy Crystal...?" over and over
again. I stand up and rant on about how much Pink Floyd have influenced me -
I was tempted to call Mellon Collie "The Fence", but Flood said it might be
a bit too obvious. Me and Dave play "Wish You Were Here", but I get carried
away and launch into a wildcat solo. I finally stop when I realize the
induction ceremony has been over for three hours.


Saturday.

James phones from Madison, Wisconsin to inform me that Jimmy Chamberlin has
started up a Smashing Pumpkins tribute band with the guy from Radiohead on
vocals. My life is a never-ending nightmare. I write a song about it, then
spend hours trying to come up with an irrelevant title. Some woman comes in
while I am contemplating the mysteries of life, death and overdubbing and
interrupts me by noisily vacuuming the carpet. "Who the hell are you ?" I
demand angrily, "and what are you doing in my room...?" "It's me, Billy -
your wife..." she replied. Oh yeah - I forgot about that. Well, you get busy
playing over 200 shows in one year. I decide to go round to Mom and Pop's
and sing "Disarm" to them to make them feel guilty for my intolerable
childhood. But they give me pot roast, so I just shut up and eat.

The Second Week

Sunday.

Woke up. Is there any point anymore...? The world is a vampire, sent to
drain. Speaking of vampires, some hack on the internet seems to think
I am one. I should hang on to this, it could be a good marketing hook
for my next quadruple album. I go to the bathroom and sharpen my fangs.
Stuck for something to do, so I went round to James' apartment and
repossessed all the guitarist awards that I really deserved. The
wretched fool is still stuck in Madison, Wisconsin. I checked his letter box
and found a copy of "Who's Who in Rock 'n' Roll '96" had just arrived.
Imagine my outrage when I saw that I had been given a measly two inches
of text! Michael Jackson got a double page fold-out, and he's not even made
of human tissue! Anyway, apparently I have a wife called Christine. You
learn something new every day...