S'TAN SENT A TELEGRAM, something about taking my mission seriously. Or else this whole deal might just blow up in your pretty little hands.
A little miffed, I, by that accident in Sydney. The property master profuse in her apologies. Scared out of her wits, poor girl, more by me and what I might do than what had happened--scareder than me. Wearing that ridiculous stovepipe helmet for a costume, the world seemed narrower than ever through the aperture.
My hand is bruised and bandaged. My Marianne lies in convalescence in Germany, barely out of a coma and I know in a way she will never be back. There aren't enough brain cells in the day to withstand the sort of punishment she wreaks. Or is the right word reaps?
Something the old man has got to understand is that the Rolling Stones are not for rent, for nobody. Helping his public image along never entailed letting our show be a charade for his own onstage antics, an attempt to run for election, whatever. And we don't do command performances, not even for royalty. Look, S'tan, we dedicated that record to you . . . play that anthem-apology at every show. . . . What more do you want? I'm just a damn singer!