Why We End Rock Bands

Not a pretty sight, this. Never is, never has been. It's entropy, man, in one of it's most insidious forms. And the only thing worse than finding out what the world is all about by yourself is finding out what the world is all about when you're walking around with three extra assholes.

Oh, I'm bummin' your TM session? Mia Mexican Robert fuckin' Culpa. Here's something cool and upliftin' that'll add something to your life instead of sucking you dry of hope and leaving you to the hyenas and fieldmice of th' High Desert.

A wise man once said, "It is difficult to take the first step in a journey that leads in a circle". That's not a bad Spinal Tap Zen Proverb is it? I came up with that crap. All by myself. Just me and my buddy Juan Valdez and his old friends Cream and Sugar. Anyway, that's what you're looking at, Sunny Funkenstern. That's the view from your wrought iron balcony three stories above Futile Street, vato. And each time you come back to the beginning you're a little more worlded out, man. And that plump old harridan Failure on th' other side of the seesaw is a little fatter each time you gamble your god damn nickel. And the first couple times you throw a little something extra into it and you bring that bad girl in an upwards arc but then comes the day when she trumps your ass and it gets tougher each time, man.

Did you have the kind of parents that where super laid-back and sort of yes deared each other for a quahter century or did you have them flashy, plate-throwin' folks? See, a band that throws plates is the sort of band to have, but this is the source of the entropic, um, shit. You look forward to being on stage with these people because it'll be really good and you'll put up with a lot of shit to do it. The yes dear shit isn't going to fly with the rock band that is going to be something great.

And when you're on stage with the Em chord and the TA TA TATATATA it's not that lights-out kissy don't make a fuss yes dear fucking. It's th' one on the stairs where you bust the lamp and bark your g'damn foreheed and she calls you unspeakable things, things no respectable woman would say. And you spend the better part of a day repairing that place on the bannisterrio.

And it can only end in god damn tears. There's only one ending. No Deus Ex Machina need be airlifted into this little fucking Berlin 1945. Whole thing's gonna go up, man. Like a roman motherfucking candle. The only thing you need to find out at that god damn point is if they're going to let you bury your dead outside the castle walls, man. They're going to be picking pieces of your little Nagasaki up in fuckin' Hiroshima, believe you me.

Is it not my particular talent to cull humor from absolutely nothing? Is there but one bad hot dog between verbal nirvana and verbal diarrhea? Do I feel a dire and distant gurgling from the general direction of my posterior ventricule?

Will our heroes encounter peril and triumph or bonghits 'n' Seinfeld? Which way will you go when the Hernia of Jericho crows the call to alms? Ha ha ha ha. The call to alms.

All I gotta say is it's fucked up, man. It's cold when you're out walking in October and you walk past that club where you played with your buddies who hate you. And yeah, maybe you got a dev. deal with Proctoscope rekkids and you're a little closer to your thing but baby it smarts when you put the clamp down. You get a little smaller every time so eventually you fit right on th' cd cover. When you buy a cd that's actually the person on the cover, not a picture.

And the smaller the picture the more times they've succeeded in lifting Old Dame Failure slowly, slowly upwards into the waning dusk.