Tool Fans Blamed For Drummer’s Medical Emergency


Blair has posted the latest Tool newsletter, in which he sarcastically blames ‘negative energy’ from Tool fans for the band’s drummer Danny Carey recently suffering from health problems. Read the full newsletter below:


In the last newsletter I warned readers that the negative energy projected by a small percentage of Tool ‘fans’ could have adverse effects on the band’s current activities. Lo and behold – shortly thereafter – Tool nearly had to cancel their much-anticipated performance at the AFTERSHOCK FESTIVAL due to a medical emergency that involved drummer Danny Carey.

In the same newsletter, I also forewarned that the diarrheaic diatribe of these misguided individuals could potentially manifest itself with unwelcome consequences elsewhere. Besides the obvious as seen on televisions everywhere, I sited a few examples of these disturbances in the multiverse, including the terrible Sedona “Cairn Wars” and the fear and hysteria caused by the recent epidemic of creepy clown sightings. (No, not the embarrassing political buffoonery, but that which is getting to be so serious now, that even lovable fast-food mascot, Ronald McDonald – an American icon! – has been told to keep a low profile!) But even worse than clown threats, is the removal of Halloween clown costumes from Wal-Mart store shelves. Why not Starbucks Rainbow Drinks? I mean really, what’s the difference?

Other tangible effects of some Tool ‘fan’ negativity that I could have included would be the “Block Lives Matter” movement started after numerous Lego plastic bricks were senselessly trampled on and/or vacuumed up, the Zika virus, spiders that use their silk to lasso flies, Angry Birds, Monster Truck Rallies, Rapin’ for Jesus, and Pumpkin-spiced canned Ravioli. The other day I even drove by a “METH CHURCH” (unless the last 5 letters just fell off the sign?). Either way…


I don’t think any Tool fan wants to be held responsible for beached Sea Lions or rampant bark beetle infestations, and, yet, some continue to whine about a new album and such. Granted, this is usually the same six or seven people – the kind of dimwits who would get arrested for the home invasion of an unlocked dollhouse, or for writing hateful messages with peanut butter smeared onto parked cars. Nevertheless, as we are seeing, their actions can have grave repercussions. But, here’s the deal, Toolies: All of this pales in comparison to the nightmare scenario that I am about to reveal in this newsletter! The fact that YOU ignored the above warning and are reading the news anyway tells me something about your personal character.

As part of the fearless few – nay, the crème de la crème of the fearless few – I suggest that you buckle up (choking those pumpkin pie-spiced Pringles down with a glass of “Blood of the Unicorn” ale), and pay very careful attention to what some will consider to be a story that’s totally beyond belief – fitting, perhaps, of the occasion – but which others will realize to be too important to be dismissed lightly.


Our story begins at the band’s loft rehearsal space in Hollywood. Well, kind of sort of – it was at a loft, but… well, let’s just say that I didn’t just happen to be there when a package was delivered. Once unwrapped, this turned out to be a box of Peeps. These weren’t the more familiar beady-eyed yellow or pink sugar chicks, but, rather, a special Halloween version of the marshmallow confection in the form of tombstones that contained silly epitaphs. Oddly enough, all nine tombs in the box had the same inscription: IMA GONE. On the box itself someone had written: “Open’d my eyes. Took a PEEP. Didn’t like it, Went back to sleep.” A note scrawled on the bottom mentioned meeting at a certain cemetery where it never rains on Halloween night.

To me, this package with its cryptic messages wasn’t cryptic at all. It was undoubtedly sent by my bespectacled old friend, Rance Q. Spartley, the maverick entomologist who had expressed his disdain for Peeps (due to a severe allergic reaction) in my news post from June 11th, 2013 entitled “PEEPS FOR PREPPERS IN THE TRUE END TIMES.” However, this new message was the first time that I heard from the “Bug Man’ since he was a no show after a mutual friend of ours was supposed to meet him at a Beefy’s Meat Pie joint in Australia. (Some might recall that, as a joke, he had brought along a box of Easter “Lime-Delight” Peeps). The person in question was actually one of the Tool decoy-doubles, and I now want to make known that he didn’t die tragically from a lightning strike while polishing a church steeple in Kansas as I originally reported. What actually happened is that Spartley – believing the decoy to be a REAL band member – told him something that subsequently put his life in danger. So much so, in fact, that he had to go into hiding in Australia (or New Zealand?) after his death was faked, along with an equally spurious burial in the cemetery in Stull, Kansas.

Such a mix up is perhaps understandable when I reveal the next secret concerning Tool. Known to a select very few, the Tool loft rehearsal space in Hollywood is itself a DECOY, right down to the personalized parking bollards (nice touch!), with the real loft located somewhere near Lawrence, Kansas. The switch was made many years ago, after the word about the first loft got out, and fans began showing up in hope of catching a glimpse of their favorite band.

Today (and for many years now), when people arrive to sneak a peek, what they get are decoy songs performed by a decoy band (albeit, a damned good decoy band). Back when the transition was first made, I referred to this (necessary) deception as a “curve ball.” By using this particular phrase, I was suggesting something unexpected. Interchanging it with the slang term, “out of left field”, I was also hinting at a specific location. Having spilled the ‘beans’, I can also tell you that the broken vintage Pepsi machine was also a sham. Why? Certain band members wanted to move it to the new loft, but didn’t want to arouse suspicion, so we came up with the idea that it had finally died, and needed repair.

When I first introduced readers to Spartley back in the August 2012 newsletter, the world-renowned entomologist was at the loft for a meeting with Tool management to discuss a matter of the utmost importance, and one that required his entomological expertise. When I described him as being an expert on some of the world’s spookiest creatures, little could I imagine at the time that this also pertained to the murky world of government intelligence agents (i.e. MIB-type spooks). It was an ‘anonymous’ email describing “a shlub who looked like a bug’ that initially drew my attention to certain covert activities that he was heavily involved with.

At this point it is necessary to briefly re-visit the contents of the May 2015 newsletter. In this, I followed a series of clues that led me to conclude that Spartley may have been directly involved with – or was, at least, privy to certain highly classified information regarding the Serpo Affair. According to those “in the know”, Project Serpo was an interstellar exchange program that occurred in the 1960s between the U.S. government and representatives of an extraterrestrial race from the Zeta Reticuli star system. As passengers onboard the alien transport (ala “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”) 12 secret astronauts traveled to a distant planet (utilizing wormhole physics) where they spent 13 years with their alien hosts. With a genius that I can hardly fathom, Spartley divulged certain details contained in the Serpo dossier by highlighting a remarkable string of coincidences in a 1960s sci-fi-comedy entitled “Pajama Party.” This was one of the variations of the low-budget surfer subculture “Beach Party” films, and although it shares many of the ridiculous subplots of the others in cycle, there is a significant twist that is relevant to Spartley’s whistle blowing. It turns out that one of the hormone-raging teens is actually an alien in disguise – the advanced scout of an impending invasion from outer space because earthlings will surely cause intergalactic trouble when they grow up (as indicated by the simpleminded antics of the rebellious teens in the movie).

With his military intell background, and being a leading bug authority, writing about this back in 2015, I suggested that Spartley might have been a mission specialist for Project Serpo. From other breadcrumbs that he left behind, his work may have involved insect cross-species engineering, and even included the black budget study of those lithely built, hyper-jittery alien insectoids that experiencers have often described during encounters with UFOs.

Getting back to the message written on the box of tombstone Peeps, when Spartley mentioned meeting at a certain cemetery “where it never rains” on the night of Halloween, he was attempting to throw someone off the trail. As both of us are quite aware – due to its sinister reputation as being the gateway to hell – local legends claim that raindrops avoid the small graveyard in Stull, Kansas. Because of curiosity seekers and devil-worshippers, it is closed on Halloween (when the gate is believed to open to reveal steps leading downward), and heavily patrolled by the local police force. Instead, Spartley was hoping to meet at a nearby café called “Auntie Ems”, where the two of us had met on prior occasions. It didn’t really matter though. For reasons that I don’t want get into, I had no intention meeting with him anywhere at this time. I am, however, willing to disclose a few more things about the Bug Man and the band after Tool relocated their loft to Kansas.

Soon after the band members began to get busy working on material in their new rehearsal space, for lack of better words, all hell broke loose. When I speculated that Spartley might have been engaged with hush-hush hybridization experiments involving mantis-like alien entities – as zany as the idea was – history will show that I wasn’t too far off the mark. The only thing that I had wrong, was exactly WHAT was causing the bizarre movements.

Although the Whataburger state of Texas was the first to experience the flickering billows of the invasion, it wouldn’t be long before a teeming tawny mass moving unnervingly fast would be spotted in the fields of rural Kansas. With a palpable low-basso thrumming, the rolling tide of hideous wiggling continued towards a building. This was the Tool loft. With their strange attraction to electronics, once inside, the twisting things poured out of electrical outlets like a stream of dirty brown water. Within hours they had infiltrated all of the band’s high-tech equipment – thickly clogging up and short-circuiting everything. Making matters far worse, once electrocuted, the slithering dying heaps were releasing alarm pheromones that attracted thousands more that rapidly advanced towards the sparking discharges with their disorganized chaotic movements.

At the time, no one in the band had heard of Rasberry Crazy Ants (named after Tom Rasberry, the Texas exterminator that discovered them), but with the things having quickly infested the loft, they would all to soon realize the amount of destruction that their squirming contortions were capable of. There was a pungent smell like burnt Styrofoam in the air – even more nauseating – as computers and other devices were quickly rendered unusable. As the flickering machines became inoperative, the rooms were soon darkened as the frantic swirls unleashed further madness.

Aswarm with an erratic, twisting reddish stream that seemed to emerge from the sulphorous fiery bowels of hell, outside, poisoned heaps of Cheetos-dust and tainted piles of sugary donut crumbs were used to bait them. But there were just too many. The problem ate wires and circuitry. Spiraling up walls, the problem had not been solved. With the distribution of prime numbers, maybe the problem of the Rasberry Crazy Ants couldn’t be solved? With smoky bluish arcs, the problem ate more wires and circuitry…

When it appeared that the news about a new loft was about to leak out, as a diversion, I concocted a story about there being a fire at the loft in Hollywood, which caused considerable damage to some of the hard drives that contained recordings of new Tool material. In reality, the situation was far worse!

Alarmed by the Crazy Ants’ sheer numbers, their unpredictable behavior, and the calculated amount of destruction that they were capable of while quickly displacing other insect and non-insect species, scientists soon began to take notice of the invasive legions. Drawn to electronic devices in an almost science-fiction manner – even committing suicide in the process, only to switch on a bio-mechanism that entices others to do the same – if left unchecked, the erratically moving industrious networks could have a catastrophic impact (even, apocalyptic) on modern technology (and, hence, to modern society).

Most disturbing of all is the Crazy Ants’ alien nature – the strange pattern to their movements and such. To quote from an article in the New York Times magazine, one Texas resident claimed, “He can’t fathom what the ants want – why they’ve come. They are frightening because they make no sense, because of the utter disarray of their existence!”

What part did Spartley play in all this? It’s really hard to say, but from certain things that he has told me I can’t help but wonder if the ants could have originated in south America and, unbeknownst to the Serpo team, a few crawled into some of the 45 tons of cargo that was loaded onto the alien mothership for the interstellar journey. Once on Serpo, it’s a question of whether the alien environment caused dramatic changes to occur in the stowaways, or if the aliens had willingly tweaked the ants in one of their bio-genetic labs, afterwards surreptiously placing them back inside the equipment (such as a military-style field radio or electric IBM typewriter), knowing fully well what the outcome would be when the astronauts returned to earth in 1978. If the latter, this would be an otherworldly invasion without us humans being aware of its true nature.