I Am A Shitty Guitar Player

I’ve been at it for ten years now… actually, closer to twelve now that I think about it. No, ten. See, I started with the bass and puttered around with the four-string for a couple of years before dropping a hundred and fifty bucks on a piece of shit pawnshop no-name electric six-string. It was black and vaguely strat-shaped with no pickguard and a Jacksonesque headstock. Hair metal residue. It was crap, but what did I know? I couldn’t even play the thing. I remember the strange looks I got when I tried it out in the store, with my repertoire of little more than the bass line to Green Day’s ‘Longview’. I wondered why it didn’t sound like the guitars on my favorite albums. Turns out there were these things called distortion pedals and I was gonna haft to get one. Pronto. Of course, I didn’t even get myself an amp for another year, content to hammer away unamplified within the confines of my bedroom. My parents didn’t seem to mind.

My first amp: a Peavey 10 watt solid-state crap box with one 10″ speaker and a — praise the lord! — gain channel. The distortion was somehow thick and thin at the same time, a fuzzy sort of belch that would make Greg Ginn blush. It was cool by me. Around the same time, one of my friends picked up an equally crappy drum kit and together we began fumbling around making some of the worst god awful racket ever visited on the ears of the innocent. It wasn’t even fun at first. Depressing, yes. Frustrating? You bet. But ever so gradually we started to produce something that resembled music in the loosest sense of the term. There was a beat, oft times uneven and herky-jerk, and there was, well, guitar. An atonal, out of tune squall, but you couldn’t say it was not produced by a real musical instrument. And that was something, by god!

Then came the day I discovered the joy of the power chord. A three-toed sloth could finger a power chord and have it sound half-decent beneath a thick blanket of fuzz and, hell, I had two more digits than those lazy, tree-dwelling bastards. So ha! Now I could play punk. Punk fucking rock!

And we did. And it sucked.

But we kept at it. Eventually, I forced my brother to pick up the bass and, lo and behold, we had a band. Of course, we never moved beyond the living-room, but we managed to hammer out a few passable covers of ‘Cinnamon Girl’, ‘Pretty Vacant’ and ‘The Magnificent Seven.’ At the time, I thought we sucked, and we probably did, but listening to the tapes now, well, I’ve heard much worse. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was a better guitar player then than now.

Sure, sometimes when I pick it up, ideas flow freely from brain to fingers to pick and strings, but most of the time I just want to firmly drive it into the nearest wall and set fire to my amp. This would, perhaps, make for an interesting performance art piece, but it has already been done a million times and, besides, without the validation of an audience, would come off as nothing more than another nervous breakdown or, at the very least, a silly little tantrum.

Besides, I need my damage deposit back.

So I resist the urge, calmly deshoulder my axe, switch off my amp and skulk away, hoping no one has heard me playing.

Jon Bon Jovi Rocked My Face And, If You’re Not Careful, He’ll Rock Yours Too

“I’ve seen a million faces — and I’ve rocked them all!”

- JBJ

He came at me out of nowhere, leaping from his steel horse, flowing locks flying in the breeze and, with a shout of ‘I’m a cowboy!’, proceeded to rock my face without consent — expressed, written or otherwise.

Now, I was minding my own business, going about my day as I saw fit, moseying down the street, keeping to the sidewalk and making as little eye contact as possible with my fellow pedestrians. I was thinking about stuff. You know, life and my place therein, what I might have for supper and how I would really hate to see Jon Bon Jovi right about now. And bam! On cue, there he is hurtling headlong towards me. I freeze. Petrified. Maybe I’m not his target, maybe there’s some poor soul behind me that has tickled his fancy instead. Maybe I’m just hallucinating again.

But no, I’m his intended and this is as real as it gets.

I have since banished the ordeal to the nether regions of my brain where, someday, it might be leeched out by deep-probing, regressive psychotherapy type stuff, but I know it must have been a horrible affront to good taste in a maelstrom of denim, leather and hair care products. Just look at the guy, would you really want to be on the receiving end of a face rocking from the likes of him? He’s rocked well over a million faces at this point. Disgusting. I mean, there’s sloppy seconds, but this is outrageous! He makes Wilt Chamberlain look positively Franciscan.

Women, ages 35-60, and gay men: I don’t wanna hear it.

And just like that, it was over.

I was left feeling violated, ashamed. I mean, I don’t even like Bon Jovi, not even Slippery When Wet. Sure, I might have been involved in an air band rendition of ‘Livin On A Prayer’ when I was twelve years old, but that wasn’t even my idea (nor was ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ — but that’s another story). At that age, you’ll use any excuse to make a plywood guitar, even though I didn’t even end up playing it; I was relegated to fake drum duty while Billy MacLennan got to throw guitar hero moves and mug to the crowd, doing his best Richie Sambora with my misshapen axe. Oh the injustice of youth!

But I digress.

Now, where was I? Ah yes, standing in a daze following an unwarranted face-rocking at the hands of Jon Bon Jovi. I quickly reclaimed my bearings, checked my pockets (wallet and keys intact), blew my nose and wiped my eyes free of any residual rock, all the while gaining a gradual awareness of the muffled screams coming from down the street. I slowly turned, bracing myself for the horror.

Sheer face-rocked carnage.

Women and children. Dogs and cats. Even a couple of ferrets. Babies in strollers, quadriplegics in wheelchairs. Renters, home-owners and homeless alike.

All of them bearing the hurt and confusion of a sudden, unwanted face rocking. And he was still at it, jumping from face to face all the way to the end of the block, tossing his victims aside like rag dolls. Then he crossed the street and face-rocked his way back to where his trusty steel steed stood waiting to whisk him away in a blaze of post-rockal glory.

‘I’m a cowboy!’ he screamed, setting off in search of more face.

How many faces are enough, Jon Bon Jovi? Will you ever sate your hunger for face? You had already rocked a million faces by the late eighties. How much face is enough?

These are the things I wanted to ask him, but it was too late. He was out of earshot.

I felt bad. Still do, in fact.

Why didn’t I do anything and was there anything I could have done? These are the questions I ask myself everyday as I look in the mirror at the well rocked face of a person I feel I no longer know. Oh sure, you laugh, but an experience like that changes a man, makes him question the very point of existence. Endlessly.

And I’ve come up with an answer.

Jon Bon Jovi MUST BE STOPPED!

The Saturday Night Cyclist

He’s approaching the four-way stop at a speed indicatitive of a man who means business, a man who has somewhere to go and the clock is ticking. Our bicycle-borne subject comes to a stop mere feet from my open driver’s side window and we lock eyes. There are no cars behind me, and we are the only two vehicles at the intersection. Being the considerate type, I decide to wave him through despite it being my turn. He stares. I motion for him to go, again. His expression turns to one of disdain and he sneers ‘It’s your right of way’ as though I’ve just arrived on this planet and lack the requisite decision making skills to properly pilot a car. Well, thanks, friend, for confirming my theory that most people are just mobile, talking piles of excrement. You try to do something considerate and, yet again, end up looking like a chump. So, I shake my head and exercise my right of way, resisting the urge to yell ‘fuck you too!’ and continue on my way.

But the rage builds.

What nerve. Perhaps he’s one of these militant cyclists who demands to be treated like any other vehicle in any and all situations. Newsflash: you’re not like any other vehicle; you’re small, two-wheeled and dependent on a means of propulsion more archaic than the horse. You’re an ill-tempered Stanley Steamer with none of the collector’s appeal, a pugnacious helmet-wearing dork with freakish calves and a patchy beard. If I wave you through, goddammit, you proceed.

So I hang a right at the next intersection, another right at the next and there he is, huffing and puffing his way down the street, fanny pack swaying left to right in the hypnotic strain of overexertion. It’s early on in the biking season yet, son. No need to ruin yourself this early.

I weigh my options in a flash… then cut hard to the right and launch him onto my hood, over the windshield, airborne onto the unforgiving tarmac as the contents of his fanny pack — loose change and playing cards — spill into the street while his crumpled chariot glances off the curb, end over end, coming to rest on someone’s still-greening lawn.

Braking hard, but not so hard as to leave any telltale skid marks, I slam the car into reverse and back up to where he lay, moaning and groaning like a wimp. Not so tough now, tough guy. But I’m nice about it, courteous as such. I look down upon this twisted pile of lycra, smile and say ’sorry friend, I thought it was my right of way’ before continuing on in search of burgers, fries and cherry pies…

The good things in life.

Flood Season

And so the mighty Saint John river unleashes its winterborne wrath upon a half-suspecting valley. Fredericton has water in the streets, but we’re not exactly talking about a massive disaster. Downriver? Not so lucky. I have no pictures, because the area is closed and, well, flooded, but I would think quite a few homes have been ruined judging by the evening news. Hell, the national news! Yes, yes. Every so often a natural disaster makes the Maritimes newsworthy for a few days and we’re really reaping the benefits: Stevie Harper showed up, smirking and gladhanding around with volunteers, but making no promises of a federal bailout. Too soon to discuss numbers, of course — probably because the Conservatives were already polling well in effected areas. But enough political horseshit. Here’s some pictures!

By yours truly:

Teri’s:

My favorite:

Four Statements

I hate rap, but I love Eminem.

I hate country music, but I love Charlie Pride.

I hate rap, but I love the Beastie Boys.

I hate basketball, but I love Bryant Reeves.

Are all four of these statements equally ridiculous? Removing sexual attraction from the mix, my instincts want to go with ‘yes, yes they are’, but, as always, there are two lines of reasoning one could employ in order to explain such apparently racist nonsense, while also disregarding the fact that statement #2 has most likely never been uttered and would likely be met with a response of ‘Charlie who?’ As well, statement four is more a sad attempt at comic relief than anything else — unless, of course, you happen to be Bryant ‘Big Country’ Reeves’ parents.

But I digress.

The first line of reasoning is simple: how can one arrive at a logically sound value judgment of an entire medium or oeuvre, be it sports, art or contract killing, while completely disregarding any and all of its defining aesthetic or structural characteristics to focus instead on qualities (i.e ethnicity) extraneous to the essence of the object in question? Simple — one cannot without making apparent one’s belief that race, religion or creed is the basis of any essential character. Now, I realize that a firm grasp of logic is no longer a prerequisite for citizenship within a quote-unquote civilized society (and probably never was, outside of ancient Greece), but this is ridiculous. The simple fact of the matter is, if you can utter any of the above statements with a straight face, you are either a liar, a racist, or maybe just someone who doggedly roots for the underdog, perceived or actual.

Dang! That sounds kind of racist.

But I guess we all are on some level and will be until the human brain can no longer distinguish between racial signs. This is not to say that we all wish death upon the ‘other’, but the mere act of assigning value to ethnicity is in and of itself a racist action by definition. So unless one has the luxury of having lived in an existential void for the duration of one’s earthly visitation, it is impossible not to bring the whole of history and ingrained parental/community-borne intellectual conditioning to bear on any racially charged line of thought.

Am I making any sense? Probably not.

Which reminds me, I had earlier made mention of another line of reasoning that would rubbish any notion that these four statements are intrinsically tied to race…

turns out there isn’t.

more

Some more poetry… I suppose if I have a favorite among the few that I’ve written, this is it. So judge me accordingly, because I’m a terrible judge of myself and if the words do nothing for you, a veritable cornucopia of over-punctuation just might.

life is not beautiful;
discussion thereof: clichéd,
confined to highschools,
churches and marketing firms.

enlightenment has been chased indoors
agoraphobic from the noble sun,
beams broken through dust of bygone days,
wrinkling skin and lowering pay.

but go ahead and cast an eye
across this purchased land
of single-serving cynics
hawking sugar drugs and spam,
in the aisle in the mind,
on the screen on the hand

where the cup overflows with bountiful ease;
homogenized milk and processed cheese.
raise it to your lips, but bear in mind
that even bad consumers have to eat…

from inside out they scrape away,
they scrape away ‘til naught remains
but an ulcer of self-loathing doubt –
through which drips the distillation
of our worth to state and nation.

but take comfort friends,
for not all is lost;
we have scanned the figures,
tallied the cost,
laughed at the expense
of the universal boss

mined for gold in bargain bins,
drained the oil from tuna tins;
screened our calls and strained our backs,
riddled flesh with pin and wall with tack.
lived vicariously, wireless hands-free.
taken lovers, husbands, wives –

and when schadenfreude would no longer suffice,
killed a god just to bring it back to life.

Former Glories

BRITAIN STREET
Saint John, New Brunswick

This is a street at war.
The smallest children
battle with clubs
till the blood comes,
shout ‘fuck you!’
like a rallying cry ––

while mothers shriek
from doorsteps and windows
as though the very names
of their young were curses:

‘Brian! Marlene!
Damn you! God damn you!’

or waddle into the street
to beat their own with switches:
‘I’ll teach you, Brian!
I’ll teach you, God damn you!’

On this street
even the dogs
would rather fight
than eat.

I have lived here nine months
and in all that time
have never once heard
a gentle word spoken.

I like to tell myself
that is only because
gentle words are whispered
and harsh words shouted.

- Alden Nowlan

Last night on CBC, due to the annual programming changes that come with the NHL playoffs (namely, the relegation of Coronation Street to merely the Sunday morning marathon rather than the usual nightly 7pm airings — a move which, no doubt, infuriates Corrie fans, but really, with the lame story lines as of late, what’s the big deal? Claire will still be just as annoying and crazy, Liz will still be slutting around on Vernon, and Steve will still be lodging foot firmly in mouth and squandering any chance for romance come Sunday morning. So relax), I caught the Short Film Face-Off which features a number of directors from around the Maritimes facing off in a battle royale of, you guessed it, short films. Before switching over to Jeopardy (sorry CBC, I love me some Jeopardy), I managed to catch Haligonian Evan Kelly’s contribution to the proceedings, a five minute gem entitled ‘Former Glories.’ Consisting of little more than a few people recounting their fleeting fame as youthful amateur athletes, the film really struck a chord with me.

Sure, it’s easy to talk shit about sports, what with the overpaid pageant of spoiled, entitled jackassery that normally clogs the screen of cable TV on any given day, but it’s easy to forget about the positives that come with good clean sporting competition: teamwork, comradery and self-esteem.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I loathe the average jock-past-their-prime as much as anyone else, always rambling on about their glory days as though anyone else could really give a damn about what they managed to achieve in high school, long before they got that chick preggers and settled into a life of clerical oblivion, but there’s a common misconception about the participants of any given sport: not everyone is a ‘jock.’ Some of us just love the game and feel no need to embrace any of the usual signifiers of said activity.

But as a kid I was a generally lousy athlete, too busy worrying about what others might think of me rather than just relaxing and having fun. As a result, I always hated the regimented atmosphere of organized sports and, instead, gravitated to pick-up games with my friends. Free of pressure from any coaches, I flourished and turned into a pretty good hitter in baseball and a capable 2 on 2 basketball player with a wicked hook shot who knew how to work the give and go.

Basketball was my thing in high school and the source of my only good memories from that period of my life. Every noon hour, my friends and I would walk to the courts in the south end of Saint John and engage in spirited games of half-court 3 on 3 amid the fumes belching forth from the since-closed Lantic sugar refinery across the street. I looked forward to these games everyday. Sure, there was never any mesh on the hoops and you had to be careful to avoid the broken beer bottles, but that court of cracked asphalt and grime had a certain indescribable charm that people from posh neighbourhoods would never understand. The rim we always used had been bent down to facilitate dunking and although I never managed to rock the rim myself, I was on the receiving end of more than one Upper Deck moment of dunked-upon shame courtesy of Tyrone, one of the few guys from St. Malachy’s (the “Catholic” school and my school’s chief rival) who would venture down every day for a game. Tyrone was a hell of a player. Explosive speed, ace ball-handling and passing skills, with a wicked base-line jumper. Plus, he was a nice guy. I haven’t seen him since then. Last I heard of him was the time he got stabbed by a Guatemalan sailor outside a local bar and, were it not for the presence of mind of one of the waitresses who held his intestines in, nearly died.

But my greatest sporting moment had nothing to do with basketball and had none of the drama of a near murder.

A few years after high school I decided to join an orthodox softball league at the behest of one my former basketball compatriots (who was, in actuality, one of my best friends during both middle and high school). As previously mentioned, I wasn’t much of a little-leaguer: I was always too nervous to settle in at the plate. However, in the intervening years, I had played a form of baseball every night in the yard of my parents’ house, using an orange hockey ball instead of a baseball and a hockey net in place of a catcher. As such, I developed into a wicked power hitter in my own right, never quite settling into a consistent batting stance, but switching between that of Robin Ventura and Frank Thomas as my mood suited me — I was a White Sox fan at the time, for whatever reason.

So when I took up fast-pitch softball, I was a threat at the plate and, most satisfyingly, playing against the same guys I had embarrassed myself against during little league (which my lone memory of remains as a fat lip I suffered upon being struck in the mouth by a bad-hop grounder during a pre-game fielding practice). I earned a spot as the number three hitter in the lineup (which might have had more to do with the lackluster lineup of my team more than my hitting ability, but such things get filtered out by rose-coloured glass) and ended up leading the team in home runs both years I played.

My crowing achievement — former glory, if you will?

Easy. One balmy July night I went 3 for 3 with two home runs, a double and five RBI’s while making a big play in left field that involved a collision with my shortstop and a mild concussion. I remember the home runs clearly, one to left and one to right. The double was down the right field line and just stayed fair over the head of the first baseman. The big play in left field? Well, it was a pop-up to the shallow outfield that I charged hard on (heh heh, he said ‘hard on’) and called vociferously. Nonetheless, the shortstop — a rather muscular, but short individual who could make diving plays, but little else — ignored my calls and tracked back… right into me as I made the catch. His cranium cracked me in the forehead and we both fell to the turf, ball lodged firmly in my glove. I jumped up, admittedly dazed and showed the infield umpire my prize, thus ending the inning. Mr. shortstop stayed down for awhile, but eventually shook it off and made his way to the dugout. As did I.

The coach subbed me next inning and the rest of the night passed as though I was peering out from the rear of my head, distant and blunted.

I don’t even remember if we won or lost, but the handshake at the end was well worth it…

It was, indeed, a good game.

A Friday Pome

Another perpetual work-in-progress from the archives, horrendous formatting and all.

Convenience

Shortened breath sweat beads
condensation on a pint glass –
the collar’s edge a deeper blue.
Doubled over labouriously
calloused hands on knees.
Too much.
Season premieres, Sunday nights.
Dog ends and grocery bags,
Fives and tens, aces and dice;
Bingo daubers and potato chips.
The lubricant of half-lies.
Trappings of life misspent
in the margins of a page
stained with coffee and mustard,
shimmering convenient translucence
beneath the dome light of an 89 Caprice.
Meaning gone,
besotted figures bled
through rage;
crumpled streaked on fake leather.
Blinding lights ringing,
falling damp to the pave
mouthing silence.
The speaker-bound voice
Finds no answer.

Good Manners And The New Radicalism

In these times of institutionalized rebellion and state-sanctioned nonconformity, what are the last true radicals to do? There was a time when sticking one’s fingers in the air was an act of defiance, when dying one’s hair or cutting it at odd angles was edgy and cool, a display of bold individuality. No more.

Tattoos? As risky as Wednesday night A&E and with all the character of the average dumpster full of consumer electronics waste.

Poor spelling and grammar? The new vernacular of a generation raised on pop-up ads, perpetual pornography and Ritalin.

Punk rock? Co-opted by the mainstream, churned through the marketing/focus-group machine and polished to a blinding sheen, fresh faced and freshly inked.

‘Intelligent’ discourse? Dead: everyone thinks they’re a genius these days, spawned by overindulgent parents and nurtured by a society that would rather bomb another country into oblivion for their natural resources than risk offending a stupid person by calling them ’stupid’. Below-average IQ? Don’t fret, with the right name and enough money, you too can become leader of the free world.

Balaclava-clad, fashionably cause-oriented activism? The domain of upper-middle class kids who want to kill some time between backpacking around the developing world and their eventual admission to law school and consequent life in party politics and gated communities.

You could always chuck a fire bomb through the window of a Wal-Mart, but they have no windows and, besides, our obsession with ‘terror’ has nullified any romance once attached to the venerable Molotov cocktail. After all, what’s the point of doing something if the thrill is gone? Blow up a Wal-Mart and you’d just end up with Target knocking on your door, looking for an endorsement and some marketable bad vibes, maan.

So what does one do to shock and unsettle in this age of shit?

Be polite.

Now, hear me out.

Manners used to be associated with the stodgy establishment, the genteel-accented upper crust that kept us in our place with regimented language and social codes, and perhaps they still are in some circles, but this matters not, because the fact is, most people are too busy chasing a dollar to pay attention to the courtesy rituals they were raised to value. Ignorance is bliss, after all, and my god are we an ignorant bunch.

Common courtesy, taking the lead of its cousin common sense, has become a thing of the past, confined to dusty novels and Rockwellian scenes of whitewashed domestica from an era predating the cell phone. Manners are the ivory-billed woodpecker of daily interaction; people do not know how to react to them anymore. For example, here is a recent exchange I had with a coworker during lunch break one evening:

Me: <buuuurrrp> Excuse me.

Him: What?

Me: Um, I burped, so I said ‘excuse me.’

Before wandering away, he stares at me with confusion intact for another five seconds as though I had sig heiled or told him I had a thing for twelve year-old girls. What the hell?

Ok, fine, perhaps he was caught off guard by my belch — it slipped out before I could do anything — but really, is this the state of civilized human interaction, circa 2008? I burp, I say ‘excuse me’, then you say ‘certainly’ and everything is peachy… no awkwardness, no strife, no regrets. A good system, no? Apparently not.

And just try holding a door for someone.

Most every Saturday, I walk to the local farmer’s market to get a donair, a few wontons and maybe a German pastry or three. The market is usually quite busy, with constant heavy traffic through the doors which I invariably end up holding for upwards of five or six people at a time. Do I receive a simple ‘thank you’ for this service? Maybe one time in ten, if I’m lucky, but at this point a simple acknowledgment of my presence would suffice — fleeting eye contact, maybe even the hint of a smile. But no.

So, fuck the world. Eff. Tee. Dubbleyou.

I’m gonna be polite even if it kills me. I’m gonna flaunt my good manners, say ‘please,’ ‘thank you,’ and ‘excuse me’ when I expell gas. Hold doors, smile at people in the street, help the elderly at crosswalks and laugh at jokes even when they’re dreadfully unfunny (Dane Cook notwithstanding).

It’s all I can do, until someone decides to replace the anarchy symbol with a happy face and figures out an effective way to picket bad manners. But until that day, brothers and sisters in righteous decency, all we can do is join hands, raise them to the sky and scream in unison until someone hears our cry…

COMMON COURTESY NOW!

Throw Your Hands In The Air and Wave Them Like You Just Don’t Give A Shit

Depression: with one hand it giveth, with the other it taketh away. Wild mood swings have been a constant companion/foe of creative types for, uh, a long time. In fact, most of my literary heroes were manic depressives who battled with addiction and depression for most of their lives. I’m no different, although I highly doubt that I’m anyone’s hero since I haven’t published anything. In fact, I’ve never finished so much as a shitty short story, let alone a lame-ass novel. Half-assed, high school poetry? Yes, guilty as charged. It’s not that I’m devoid of creative verve, but every seemingly good idea I get is instantly dashed by my rigid doctrine of self censure. This urge to stifle my own output is often spurred by my chronic guilty conscience, which doesn’t make any sense from a stereotypical point of view since I come from almost wholly Irish protestant stock — mostly unpleasant sounding, Catholic-hating Presbyterians. So much for hereditary structuralism; my love is of Irish catholic descent.

But I rarely make sense anyways.

You see, most of the time, words flow most freely from my fingertips when I’m in a rotten mood (see my previous post for an example thereof — I don’t necessarily want to shoot anyone, but sometimes I like to put myself in the shoes of someone who would pull the trigger in a heartbeat. Is that so wrong?). Simply put, and to quote Eric Burdon, oh lord please don’t let me be misunderstood.

Fuck.

You know what I hate more than almost anything else? Pretentious, self-absorbed losers who do more living within the confines of their own skull than in the real world and consequently feel the need to act tortured in a public forum to draw attention to themselves, hoping to deflect criticism with the shield of artistic license housed in a useless degree or diploma.

So, I guess I must hate myself.

Not exactly breaking news, but why is this so? I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember. Was I savaged by critics in a previous life? Or was I merely a shiteating sellout?

Again, more hubris run amok. If previous lives are even a possibility I was probably a farmer or a basket weaver somewhere in the north of Ireland (and no, I’m not a Buddhist — such a peaceful, serene religion… right. Ask anyone who crossed the Japanese during the first half of this century what they think of Buddhist pacifism and you might be surprised to hear a different story than that put forth by the likes of Richard fucking Gere or The Beastie Boys — who in all honesty should hang up their Uptowns before they become an outright embarrassment to their craft. To The Five Burroughs? Holy shit, lads, talk about a disappointment of epic proportion. I mean, I’d seriously rather listen to Cut The Crap or that shitty Kiss disco album… and my hate for Kiss is on par with racism and parsnips).

But who cares? I have no answers. I don’t even have the right questions. So, I’m going to bed.

Night. Rather, day. But I can’t tell the difference anymore.