Little Boys On Crystal Meth.

Sometimes, all you wanna do is get drunk and fall asleep fully clothed in the bathtub while the TV is on in the next room playing reruns at full volume of America's Most Hilarious Police Beatings On Animals That Attack Tommy Lee, with a half-eaten pizza and an empty can of Pringles as your pillow, and a wet pair of underwear as your blanket, all the while ignoring the neighbours pounding on your front door who are complaining about the noise. It's okay, though: they practice voodoo, which means that they are heathens who cannot be trusted, and quite possibly could be hallucinations brought on by drinking that Neo-Citran that expired in January of 2003, so answering the door would just be a bad idea. They might have knives, y'know, or worse: bibles.

Sometimes.

I might not be posting for a while, as there are certain things that demand my utmost attention, which means that I cannot spend every night shimmying to Ween's 'Friends' any more. I gotta 'cowboy the fuck up', as they say. So, quickly: the new Frank Black Francis Charles Thompson Fat Guy From The Pixies ("Bluefinger") is the album we've all been waiting for since, well, the Pixies broke up the first time; the new Iron & Wine ("The Shepherd's Dog") actually has a funk tune on it and it's good; and the new Weakerthans ("Reunion Tour", those cheeky devils...) is strangely disappointing, but I'll take an album of half-hearted Stephen Carroll songs over most radio tripe any day. Also: WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME THAT MODEST MOUSE WAS PLAYING?? WHAT THE FUCK, PEOPLE??

It's 6:00 a.m., and I'm not nearly drunk enough, so I'm gonna go to bed, because I have to work later on this afternoon, and my head's gotta be screwed on right. Who knows: I might even rub one out before I fall asleep, because sometimes a man just likes to be touched.