GM036. They found us in Italy, asleep in a water fountain. People drove us, dressed us, apologized for us. I got so fucked up in Denver we sent out a surrogate. Nobody cared, neither did I. The show always went on. Always. If there was bad press, we didn’t see it. Fans read our rider like it was literature. Our handlers had handlers. Our green room had a green room. Everywhere we went, there they were: our favorite nuts, our favorite cheeses, our favorite baby vegetables. The ultimate in luxury. We let go the one trainer when the second record bricked. Each of us was particular about mineral water, until they told us we couldn’t be. Fifty people became fifteen. We started using tablets on stage, which was embarrassing. Tours got longer, shows got smaller. We stayed at the houses of old groupies, with their husbands and dogs and children. What happened in Indiana is not worth getting into. Everybody knew it was over, even strangers. Outside a steak shop in Philly, an older woman approached us. We thought she wanted money. Instead she had a message: Eat shit and die.