Sunday Confession Time

Um, I don't regret much this week. I was a good musician and crappy at everything else, so it was a pretty normal week. My brilliance on the fretboard and keyboard was matched only by my incompetence at working, breathing etc. I am at peace. Or what passes for peace in the cesspool of regret and self-loathing that passes for my psyche.

I didn't assassinate Rupert Murdoch or anyone in the Administration so I feel a little guilty about that, but hey, you can't do everything, you know?

Also, I ran another tollbooth but my wise and erudite superiors Mark and Fred are more likely to be mildly amused by my idiocy than anything else. Did I mention what handsome, graceful men they are? They seem almost to come from some sort of Super race.

It's nice to serve a purpose in this life, and I guess mine happens to be making other people feel smart. What's really stupid is that I wouldn't even have owed anything, just like last time. But that toll booth starts looming right when I'm in the midst of my Opening For Roxy Music fantasy and it just sort of happens. The crowd roars, I hit that first low E and suddenly I'm in the Fastlane.

So hey, Baby Jeebiz, I guess I'm not really on your list this week; these are minor peccadilloes in the Grand Scheme, huh? Sorry if I've bored your rock-rollin' ass this week.

I love you, Creepus. Sleep well up there. You've got the Pope to read you to sleep now.

Amen, Bobby Lightfoot.