Last week Eagles guitarist (and Jeff Bridges adversary) Glenn Frey was spotted by TMZ in Brentwood, not far from his house, snagging porn from a local newstand.

Who buys dead tree pornography anymore? One wonders. What's this guy's deal?

Well, you're in luck. Our super secret source close to the situation filled us in. It all began in March of last year:

See also: Why Glenn Frey Is Pissed at Jeff Bridges
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March 2013
Don Henley's Mansion

Scantily-clad flunkies stuff grapes into Don Henley's mouth as he reclines on a divan. A woman fans him while another plays “Heart of the Matter” on a lute. The serenity of the scene is cut short by an approaching butler.

“Lord Henley, I have bad news,” he says. Henley waves off the flunkies, and the butler continues. “The legal team has reviewed these documents with a fine-toothed comb, sir – seven times, actually. There's no way around it. You're contractually obligated to include him in the 40th anniversary tour.” 

Henley is deflated, “Get my phone.”

Credit: Miami Spice II

Credit: Miami Spice II

Moments Later
Glenn Frey's Bungalow

Frey is unwinding in his Self-Love Nook – a large room overflowing with adult films, magazines, and bizarre wall hangings. He's furiously pleasuring himself while listening to “The One You Love” cranked at full volume. There are mid-'80s adult VHS tapes strewn about, as well as the case for his current choice, Miami Spice II.  

He's just about reaching his, uh, crescendo when the phone rings. (The ring is, as always, “Take it to the Limit.”) Frey looks around, pauses and reluctantly answers, “Heat is On. Frey here.”

“Hey, Glenn, it's Don.”

Frey pauses for a moment while this registers. “Holy Shit! Hen Man! Hennosaurux Rex! What's shaking? Hey, look, bro, can I call you back in a sec? You caught me right in the middle of scouring the ol' power tower.”

Henley winces. “Look, Glenn…you're in. 40th Anniversary Tour. History of the Eagles.” Frey is speechless.  “Just get yourself ready…no bullshit this time.”

Dial tone. 

Frey is ecstatic. 
[August 2013
Somewhere in Iowa

Glenn Frey is driving his bandmates crazy. In typical Frey fashion, his near constant masturbation has reached unsafe levels, for both himself and those around him. What was once a small, personal, Self-Love Nook has now taken over an entire section of the Eagles' tour bus. It looks like something out of a suburban mom's nightmare: Hustler, Cheri, Finnish Horse-Lover spreads, German Shemale glossies, Slovakian Armpit retrospectives, and untold numbers of befouled gym socks. 

Joe Walsh, Timothy B. Schmit, and Don Henley have had enough. 

“Look, Glenn, you promised…” Henley begins. 

“What? Gotta keep the pipes clean boys. Who knows what kinda pelt we'll score on the road. I mean, c'mon, you guys remember Dusseldorf right?” 

“Yeah, we all remember Dusseldorf, Glenn,” Walsh butts in, shuddering. 

Henley: “You're done. Next rest stop, this mess is gone.” 

An ugly scene follows, as Frey is tackled and restrained by his bandmates. He sits  helplessly as they cart away and burn his collection by the side of the highway. Riding the crests and valleys of his withdrawal over the next few days, he shrieks animalistic  sounds and questions his own sanity. Somehow, he survives.

Fall 2013
All over America

A few months pass. The band continues to tour. Everything goes smoothly since that awful day in Iowa. Frey stays focused and the Eagles continue to smooth-rock legions of delusional mid-50s fans across the nation. Throngs of smug, grey pony-tailed types take in the renewed vigor of Frey's stage presence. He has changed. The band has changed. 

January 8, 2014
Los Angeles

The band returns home. As the bus pulls off the 405 into West L.A., Don Henley takes Glenn aside. “Look man, we made some changes at your bungalow. We had to. Stay fresh, though – we've got six nights at the Forum coming up. We don't want to have to keep an eye on you.”  

Frey is confused but compliant. “You can count on me, Hen Man.” 

Later that Day
Frey's Bungalow

“ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKERS!”

Glenn stands before his now completely empty Self-Love Nook. They cleaned it out. Every single piece of illicit material. Right down to the velvet Donkey Show wall art. Empty. 

He crumbles into a pile of tears, remaining there for hours, weeping into his leopard print chamois and glasses of cheap vermouth. He remembers that his Prodigy Online account is long gone. His trusty Compaq 486 hasn't worked in months.

Then it hits. He remembers. Marck's Brentwood News Stand. His old standby. He curls a wry smile. 

“Jackpot.”

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