Why do you forsake me? I give you a perfectly good outlet to let the world admire and envy your passionate outbursts, your scandalous romantic endeavors, your grandiose tastes in automobiles and housing once the royalty check comes through. I give you a pedestal on which to stand high above the unwashed and say, "Yeah, I did it, so what? I'm a rock star; I've got a record contract and a fancy van -- I've got a license to act like a total jackass whenever I want, and you all will totally admire me for it. Afterward, when I'm a washed-up drunk who spent all his money on strippers and legal fees, you'll feel sorry for me and buy me drinks in hopes that I'll tell you 'what really happened.' I won't."

And you shouldn't, my friend. That's my job.

But this gift I have graciously and unselfishly given to you goes disgustingly unused. Why? I'll tell you why. Because there seems to have been a memo sent out that I was not privy to, a memo explaining the meaning and application of the phrase "off the record." I HATE "off the record." And now, whenever any of you tell me of some deliciously bad behavior, you preface it with those three wretched words because someone sent out some blasted memo, and I'm powerless. Talk about crapping on your own parade!

You want to see it in print, or else you wouldn't tell me! The female frontwoman who threw a class-A hissyfit at the Crocodile after a show, demanding more money for her new band -- which opened for two very well-known and popular headliners -- when she should have been happy with just having played to a sold-out crowd? I can't name the radiantly ungrateful bitch here, because the story was told to me "off the record." I hate you.

Or what about the young and inexperienced band member, thinking he's Too Cool for School, who recently was badmouthing a rock critic who had given his band more good press than it probably deserved? Unbeknown to him, the dinner party at which he held his oratory was hosted by the critic's ex-boyfriend, attended by two of her closest friends, and -- Jesus Christ! Look around -- there were at least five photographs of her on the walls of the room in which he was dining! But I can't tell you who Mr. TCFS is, because the whole sordid tale was told to me "off the record." I hate you, too.

Can I tell you just exactly who it was that stole my cab after the Sub Pop anniversary party? Fuck no. The answer is hilarious and ironic, but I can't tell you because it was blabbed to me "off the record." What about the REAL reason Death Cab for Cutie's Chris Walla was playing guitar for Saltine the other night? Love to tell ya, baby, but I can't. Once again, it was "off the record." The real reason bassist Travis left Juno? Or how about which local producers are totally embarrassed to have their names on the finished disc of the proud band who hired them? Here's a juicy one: Which singer's wife is going on the road with her husband because she doesn't trust him around the female member of the band he's touring with? Each and every one of these breathless questions has an enlightening, entertaining, and above all, SCANDALOUS answer, but you know the drill: OFF THE GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING RECORD.

Why do you do this to yourselves? It hurts you as much as it hurts me. Set fire to that memo. Scrub "off the record" out of your mouth with Dr. Bronner's Castille lavender soap. Please, for the love of God and all that is holy, people -- give me something I can work with!