Make Your Children Say "Sweent"

Let's make our kids say "sweent" instead of "sweet" by saying it all the time when they're around until they start saying it and then we can have a laugh at their expense.

Then we'll feel better.

I made a CD that was a 5 minute loop of the fist-pumping chorus of "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" and snuck it into 14-year old James' walkman.

that was okay.

Once, when he was IMing with his dork friends he stepped away from the computer and I sat down and took over his ID and starting telling everyone how much I loved The Darkness and how cute I think Michael Jackson is.

That was sorta hip.

My Conversation With Colin Moulding

Was him talking about how portly Mike Keneally was becoming.

Look at Mike these days. He is the fuckin' man with that whole thing he's got going on.

I played a few shows with BFD in 98-99 in LA and San Diego and Mike told me and Bryan Beller that he thought BFD was like fiction. "We've both got the overweight, balding guitarist, the wiry polyrhythmic drummer and the buff, charismatic bass player."

Bryan and I dug that. It wasn't Travers on the kit at that point; it was Toss Panos who reminds me wierdly of Buffalo Bill in "Silence Of The Lambs" (in a good way).

George from fiction asked Keneally to give us a quote we could use on promo and he said "if I were on a lifeboat with fiction and there was only enough food to sustain three of us, I would gladly sacrifice myself that they might survive. Their contribution to American music is that great."

DAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HAAAAAA. Cripes is that funny. It's awesome too because I don't think he'd heard any of our stuff. The things I've seen Keneally do with a guitar make me despair. It's like watching someone make love to your girl the right way.

One of my greatest musical experiences was doing this instore at the Sam Goody mega, thing, in San Diego and getting Keneally in on keyboards and this great LA harmonica player Steve Cruse in. That was the good thing about having management and bread.

So our drummer Mike had his kit there and a percussion setup and I played an upright electric bass and Keneally did this Hammond organ thing with Cruse blowing. We did all these arrangement shifts and did all the songs on the record in complete opposite versions and at the end we did a percussion/drum segue and the band moved to our usual instruments and did the full-throated album arrangement of "Gethsemane" and the place freaked. We must have sold 8, 9 CDs. Glory days, y'know?

I met Mike Keneally and Mark DeCerbo in LA at a song pitching session with some A&R weed. I was there with my sis and she was a bit of an icebreaker. This was way back, 92, 93.

Boy, even that was a long way from 1979.

That was a long time ago, man, when I was 14, 15.

I'm 40, you know? My ten years in LA were like a blur of trying to make it. It was like fighting a war. Weird. Like being in trenches. My development is oddly arrested. And the last couple of years were just boardside. Just production. And that didn't even really open up for me.

I'm tellin' you, it's tough. It's a tough way.

Sometimes I have a weird feeling that the best is ahead, even in those terms.

I guess that's how we go on.

Boy, there wasn't much about Colin Moulding in this post.

He's cool, man. He's cool, you know? Awesome 4-stringer right there.

Getting a little chubby, tho.

Here's the deal with Colin- the guy turned down playing bass on a Pink Floyd world tour in the early 90's i think it was or late 80's. C'mon- you have the same Twomie book we all have. It seems like Colin turned it down basically because it would be a hassle.

You have no idea how much I love that. I would put that in my resume if it was me:

1989: Made "Oranges And Lemons" and did asskickin' Loretta Lynn-like radio tour.
1990: Turned down Pink Floyd tour because I thought it would be a hassle.
1991: Wrote "Bungalow".
1992: Put out "Nonsuch" and went on strike.

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The Best Of Both Worlds

I like how B. Neddie Jingo is all sane and measured and I'm all out of my mind shitting invective and gasping with the appallingness of it all. That fuckin' rocks. Classic Little Brother Syndrome.

Gotta say though, folks, lest anyone is fooled by the urbaneness of his prose, that I've seen the guy take off his shoe and fix to clobber a guy who went for my sister in a bar in Bad Godesberg. We're talking NO hesitation. And to use the shoe is so "this isn't going to be some squareoff. This is the most efficient means available to fuck you up in 3 seconds."

Fuckin' Neddie. Can you imagine? Fucking with Neddie? Uh, I don't think so. I'd call that not a career plan. Unless, of course you're looking to break into the shoe eating racket.

Shoe eating. It's one thing to be able to take a punch, you know? Taking a shoe is tougher.

Ma told me he had a blog so I went and read it all and it was great and then I started pushing the buttons. I lurked as a Russian internet bride for a while. I useta post to Chalkhills a few years ago but I'm kind of an asshole and I John Lennoned somebody and felt badly. Lennonesque is great for music; Jingoesque is how one wants to be described in ones dealings with the folks.

Lightfootesque? Lightfootesque is when you've chased a headline and a chart placing for so long that YOU JUST CAN'T SORT OF JUST SHUT UP SORT OF. Lighfootesque is great in small doses but gets a little much over the breakfast table. Lightfootesque is you introduce me to your friends but you time it so you guys split after like five minutes in stitches. But you definitely know the right time alottment, the precise moment when it stops getting funny and starts getting Xanaxy. And vein-pulsing-on-the-brow-like. Definitely someone who is in the more-rockin'- less-talkin' category.

The music's getting quieter, though. I've been writing at the piano instead of the guitar for a couple of years and I got a Rhodes electric piano last winter and it's turning me into quite the impressionist. That and the digital recording thing where you can stack your voice 16 times and make those late Steely Dan harmonies sound like aboriginal grunting. Anybody who reads this crap would laugh if they heard my music. I'd call it aspiring-to-Brian-Wilsonesque but, like, if Brian's Sepultura then I'm Burt Bacharach. A few less hair circles than the Beach Boys used to do.

That's not what I take to the people, though. These days it's all the good irresistible shit from '55 to 62. And Stax. Songs have become like tools for me. I like them based on their usefulness, their balance in my hand, the way people respond to them, and it's the best lesson a songwriter could learn. I mean, on this basis alone you could pretty much just stick with Chuck Berry and do fine.

asdf is when i put the picture up but i don't feel like writing it about it right then. asdfasdfasdfasdf

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Oh, by the way- here's what the Saudi release of "Autoamerican" looked like.

Fucking backwards assholes. Jesus Christ. See what this fucking fundamentalist bullshit religion shit does? Posted by Hello

1980-81: Years of Growth And Ferment Number 8: Elvis Costello (Looking Italian)

Why not talk about 1980's "Get Happy"? Why be complex and instead refer to this monstrous pile of genius that came out in the early weeks of '81?

1. When I was 16 Brother Neddie put this on the other side of the "Black Sea" tape he made me that destined me to a life of adventure, bitterness, poverty and laffs. Not "Get Happy".

2. I think it's a crazy crazy record.

3. "Get Happy" has always been clouded in Apologiaism for the whole Ray Charles/Bonnie Bramlett thing for me, with its R&B vibe. I think that whole incident would be much funnier if Elvis stood by that event to this day.

4. I don't know it that well.



Boy, Elvis took a quantum leap on this cocksucker. It's really dark, you know? "Big Sister's Clothes"? "Shot With His Own Gun"? Holy shit. "Clubland"?

People have mixed feelings about "Shot With His Own Gun" which I'm not sure I understand. This is some crazy music, and more importantly some crazy lyrics. I think this song might have been my introduction to Brilliant Lyrics when I was a kid. When I realized what "His Own Gun" was I about freaked.

Steve Nieve takes over this record, babe. His harmonic signature was never more apparent, his supremacy in the mix never more obvious. I think a lot of the dark tone of this record has to do with Nieve's addition of a lot of juicier and more pianistic chords and voicings than we'd heard before in Elvis' songs. "Clubland" is downright spooky, and the way the middle 8 majorizes the minor motif is so beautiful. I can remember listening to this before I was musical and understanding intuitively what that shift was, and what was going on.

I've referred to New Wave as 60's pop with small innovations in the instrumental attack; "Trust" is New Wave down to the minutiae of song construction and melodic setup. The best New Wave seemed like retro music for an era that never was. That's cool, isn't it? But you know what I mean, don't you? I mean, the B-52's had beehives but who sounded like them in the 60's?

Trust: Growth and Ferment Score: A plus.

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Bobby Lightfoot Opinion Poll For This Sad and Beautiful Day

Who lies more- children or politicians? Posted by Hello


Thinking about Ohio and shit.

When I was talking about that fucking cripple Jerry Springer I hit upon the idea of making a commitment to only bitching about things or people if I had a solution to the quandary or human puzzle myself. In the spirit of thoroughness, and in honor of those innocents who biffed it at the hands of Nixon's feddayim back then, I have gone through all my old posts and come up with solutions to any problem that I have bitched about. here we go:

1. Shoot him.
2. Shoot him.
3. Pop him execution-style
4. Whack her. One inna heart, one inna head.
5. Cap him
6. Cap him too.
7. Pop him through a pillow for low-noise.
8. Shoot him.
9. Waste him and his minions in a fiery melee
10. One upstairs, one in th' chest.
11. Use a silencer for this tricky takedown.
12. Plug him.
13. Wax her. And her little dog. Actually, never mind the dog. In fact, if the dog gets hurt it's off.
14. Shoot him.
15. Hollowpoints for this nightmare.
16. Execution-style slaying.
17. Waste him.
18. Wing him and let the carrion birds finish the work.
19-24. Shoot them.
25. Terminate with extreme prejudice.
26. Take down the leader; the rest will fall.
27. Pop her and roll her into the canal.
28. Plug him.
29. Cap them.
30. Blast him till he looks like a swiss cheese.
31. Shoot him.
32. Shoot him.
33. Use speedloader and don't stop until the ground is awash in smoking shells.
34. Back of the head.
35. Waste her.
36. Waste him.
37. Pistolwhip, expose lies, then shoot to kill.
38. Whack him execution style through an empty Pepsi 2-liter for low-noise.
39. Whack him rub-a-dub style.
40. And finally, blast them both.

I think that takes care of the solutions for all my blog entries.

thank you and good night.

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Been Caught Laughing

Back in '01 when I was bass tech for Jane's Addiction and hadn't gotten fired yet (I was too cool and it made the band look bad when all the girls came after me was the problem) they were rehearsing for a KROC thing at SIR on Sunset. Dave Navarro had a sour stomach and wanted antacids. I of course had Tums in my rig (along with their regular preferred medicines) and laid a couple on the Navarrmeister.

He didn't know what to do with them. He honestly didn't know how these were taken. Wouldn't that be great? To live enmeshed in that degree of Fauntleroyism?

I suggested to this fella, a veteran of some of history's toughest cold turkeys and then clean as a whistle, that maybe they could be armblasted.

He was as amused as Martyn LeNoble was every time I smoked his ass on bass. "Here, dude, your bass is ready."

Wonder why they didn't keep me on.

Next: I piss off the dillweed road manager Frank Stedtler by playing the lick from "Been Caught Stealing" at a festival soundcheck in front of 20,000 people.

Eat shit, Stedtler. I've been yelled at much worse by much bigger guys than you.

Li'l pussy. I see ya again I'll work ya. But we've been through all that. That's probably why you pack heat. Old bass techs gunning for you.

Then- I pick up a bass and start playing along brilliantly one day when they're warming up with "Something". It was like a beggar had grabbed Marie Anoinette's ass. It was awesome. I think that must have been pretty close to the end.

I should have mined this vein sooner but I didn't want to be mr. rock 'n' roll roadie wanker. And sound men- jesus. What tosspots THEY are. With their gay little flashlight-on-the-belt-thingie. People always laugh when I use a zippo to illuminate tight spaces, but I just can't be like that. And no, there isn't any fucking gasoline or compressed explosives in sound gear so don't start w/ that tripe.

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The Taste Police Will Darken My Door This Night

A minor preamble in two parts follows:

1. In my band fiction we permitted each other creative "gimmes", wherein a member who felt very strongly about a point of arrangement or production got their way. These were granted infrequently and based upon the degree of passion of the involved party.

In an earlier incarnation of the band I could slip the guitarist a 20 if we couldn't agree on something. That's funny, huh?

So anyway, I'm taking a Taste Mulligan here. My second point:

2. We all have things we dig that we're loath to admit. Few things make this bombthrower happier than a new, well pressed suit (in a tropical wool a fitted suit will hang with a fecund elegance that could well be the meaning of life). Madonna? Madonna has written some of the most Beatlesque songs of the last 22 years. Also, I love little dogs. In my family Beethoven was the Great Unmentionable. Fucking love the guy. Especially his live stuff. STP is awesome.

So, I love "The Soul Cages" by Sting. There, I said it.

But really, this is one fine-ass record and if there's one thing I've labored to clarify about myself is that I hate talentless shite.

One of the things about "The Soul Cages" that makes it the Good Sting Album is that it is of a piece. No one has done more to take rock back to the pre-Beatles, pre-album ethos of 1960 where LP's where an excuse to resell singles. The Police were the ultimate Singles band; I refer endlessly to the 1/3 transcendentally awesome 2/3 bad formula that they maintained. Nowhere was this truer than on their albums, the whole synchronicity-causality thing of '83 notwithstanding. The sonic imprint of each record was what gave it a unique character rather than any thematic thread.

"The Soul Cages" is almost exclusively an exploration of a father-son relationship. Thrown into this are a hundred examinations of the father mythology, of the son-surpassing-the-father archetypal story, Oedipal stuff, competition, and ultimately several detailed studies on the death of ones' father. Stingie had lost his father and mother to cancer in the late '80s (prostate, breast) so the thematic singularity is understandable. They were in their early and mid- 50's.

These guys, y'know, with the death and tragedy that surrounds them? Lennon with his mother getting offed by a car in '57? Ouch. Breast cancer got Mary McCartney, too, when Paul was a pretty young kid. At least Schwing was a grown man of 39 when he printed this understated monster of a record.

This album introduces the lineup that he would used for the next ten years; Manu Katche on the kit (soon to be replaced by Vinnie Coliauta), the superlative David Sancious on keyboards and Mr. Andy Summers Junior Dominic Miller on guitar. I hear some unfortunate soprano sax in a couple of passages that is probably whatsisname Marsalis, a hangover of Sting's earlier wanking period with his "ethnic shit" (my drummer Dave Barrett's term).

Also hauntingly deployed are Northumbrian and Ulean pipes, which brings me to my next point.

We all know that XTC are the prime progenitors of that sort of mythical maritimish Britishness that they invented brilliantly in 1980. The richness of XTC's gestalt on "Black Sea" and "English Settlement" is a thing to behold; the constant deployment of the oceanfaring metaphor is brilliant, evocative and career-defining.

Now, Sting does this as effectively on "Cages". "Cages". Ha ha.

The foggy, dark, hellish nightscapes of his native Newcastle are the canvas upon which he paints a world of tragic British-Isles-ness that is the Bronze Age equivalent of XTC's Hail-Fellow-Well-Met Elizabethan trip. Ship-building, once Newcastle's greatest export next to coal is always going on in the background as well, all welding torches and hellish giant burning cauldrons. Evocations of heathen, druidic and pre-Roman times are subtle and startling, as are the constant barbs and jokes at the expense of the good old Church of England. Two priests are described "fussing and flapping in priestly black like a murder of crows". Nice language, that. In "Jeremiah Blues (Part 1)" the pope "claimed that he'd been wrong in the past/This was a big surprise...". Later Spling tells us to "take your father's cross/Gently from the wall/A shadow still remaining/See the churches fall/In mighty arcs of sound..."

"Island Of Souls" opens the record with the story of a mortally wounded ship riveter and the hopelessness that haunts his son. Lonely pipes set the stage, followed by a repetitive minor string figure that evokes a misty street that ends in the monstrous hull of a new ship in a drydock. The beauty of the song lies in the hypnotic, simple strophes of the melody which is a welcome return to Police form. Also remarkable and Policeish is the meter, a stately 4/4 that disguises and fights and makes up with a 12/8 undertone that perolates steadily down in the skeleton of the song.

The despair in "Island of Souls" is Dickensian in both depth and Englishness. The child's dreams of escaping with his father and the "brass watch and check" the father receives in the wake of his mortal accident are classic elements of a tragic fairytale, and the ever-lurking ultimate triumph of the boy (Spling) is the only relief, a sort of Deus Ex Machina that lends import to the tragedy.

"The Wild Wild Sea" is the heart of "Soul Cages", a rich, gorgeous, atmospheric tone poem that follows the narrator through a dream into the sea, into a dead calm where "the sky was the color of clay". A huge storm gathers, and with it a ghostly figure appears in the wheelhouse of our hero's ship: "For the ship had turned into the wind/Against the storm to brace/And underneath the sailor's hat/I saw my father's face..."

The specter guides the craft to safety through the storm, and we are left breathless by the drama and the deftness of the story's telling. Archetypal, haunting and cinematic, "The Wild Wild Sea" is a masterpiece of creative music making.

"The Soul Cages" is as much journey as it is record; lifting the needle prematurely disorients and breaks a narrative longer than the songs themselves. A man is exorcising his doubts and regrets in the wake of his father's death and it forces us to confront that which is unresolved in our own worlds.

Much is the pity that Skling never returned to this form; the unified album. It is one of the few times his intellect serves him well instead of poorly; his mastery of the long-form song cycle is a revelation. The consistency of tone recalls The Police canon in a way that is much more compelling than the busy, contrived, kitchen-sinky, pseudo-world music of his other solo albums. Cha-ching has always been able to toe an ultracommercial line while remaining outwardly without creative reproach. It's weird how he does it. "The Soul Cages" was the first time in his then 12-year-old career where he brooded instead of acting like he was brooding. It is a very, very good record indeed, and probably his only one to sell less than 45 bajillion copies. I would encourage anyone to give this record a thorough going-over. Especially if your father is getting on.

Probably don't want to go telling everyone about it though, huh.

Tell 'em you've been listening to Fitty-Cen'.

Yeah, the new Fitty-Cen' concept album about coming to terms with sucking and being talentless and stupid and ignorant and stupid.

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Oh, man- check this out.

has there ever been a band called The Harridans??

Is it just me or is that a really awesome name?

The Harridans.

Um, somebody help me out...

So, I go to these "blogs of note". I see someone talking boringly about their boring day, and there's like 66 comments.

What am I doing wrong? Should I cultivate my inner fucking boring person?

Don't get me wrong- I don't care all that much. My six posters all kick ass.

But i am a little confused. It's like being back in LA and tryin' to "get signed".


Bobby Lightfoot's Recording Tips #1

Maybe I can perform a useful function with my largely ornamental skillset. I'll throw some shit out there from my years starvin' behind the mixie board.

Check this out- you'll love it.

Record your entire stereo mix out to the cassette deck you hain't throwed away yet. Use Dolby if you have to be a pussy. Rerecord that back to yer digital, time-match it with the original and groove to the craziest 70's full-mix phase-o-rama since the Doobies "Listen To The Music".

That's were it's at, dawg.

Also, print those clinical digital drum mixes off onto that cassette deck. Print 'em hot, the way we used to when we tracked to tape like MEN. If you've got a three-head deck, just run 'em through and back. SLAM that needle. Tape can TAKE IT, unlike faggy digital. Analog is the realm of MEN. Bring 'em back to your DAW and revel in that delicious analog tape compression. Replace your original gay digital recording. Do it again and use THAT one, timematched to the first for more TESTOSTERONE POISONED PHASE INSANITY.

Ashley Simpson would NEVER do this. 'Course, she doesn't know what "recording" means, so forget it. I meant her "handlers". She probably couldn't even smoke a spliff without breaking down and crying like the talentless little hankiesmear that she is. Bleagh. "Boo hoo...this stuff is making me see the TRUTH...and it's so...so...UGLY...boo hoo..."


Definitely Not Separated At Birth: Romeo And Juliet and...

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...Uber-Fat Ass Carl Rove and his Big Mac Scarfing Baggage

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Steve Harley and...

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Bob Marley. Ha ha ha.

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Uber-Stupid Fucking Dumb Ass Waste Of Skin Jerry Springer and...

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...The Smart and Fetching in a Dollar-Bill-From-The-United-Gay-States-Of-America sort of way Bertrand Russell

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Deer Baby Crispin Glover

Jeepis! Whattup? Hey- know you're busy, babe- I'll just bullet my pros and cons for this week so you'll know whether to put me in the John Lennon Band or the Karen Carpenter Experience if I die next week.


Oh- first off I take back everything I said this week. Christ (sorry) it feels good to get that off my chest. Catholics are all set with the whole Confession deal! It would be funny if the penitence the priest gave them at the end was actually equitable-

"My child, you must say three Hail Marys and remove your left index finger by chewing...."

"My child, you must say six Our Fathers and insert a glass tube in your urethra and break it..."

Tee hee. I see a reality show coming.

Islam could be good too. If you blow up a bunch of innocent people you get to kick it in eternity with 40 virgin horses or whatever it is. But you don't get to meet John Entwistle or Arthur Conan Doyle. You have to hang out with a bunch of people who don't drink. Gack.

If you don't blow a bunch of people up, though, you have to go without the virgin horses and you have to watch the other dudes get to have theirs. Actually, that sounds sort of like life here.

If I possessed a bunch of sort of boring qualities and a desire to be Big Parameceum in This Petri Dish Earth I guess I could be the Other Way. The Way Of The Boring Quality.

What about that erection pill ad where the woman speaks glowingly of a "quality sexual experience". A "quality sexual experience".

I love that. That is so WalMart. I bet if you compared her idea of a "quality sexual experience" to mine they would be a little different. Or maybe not, though. Mine would just involve less tasteful interior design items from Aisle 3 and more inhalants and some numchucks and a Hemi.

That new K-Y cream they have that warms on contact? Um, what do people do with that? Is that flying off the shelves?

How about a K-Y cream that stops your husband from being a fat, dumb, smelly oaf or one that keeps your wife from being an emasculating harridan? That'd move, man. The new K-Y cream that smartens on contact.

You could use that on the beasts of the forest and then they could talk to you.

But they wouldn't because they don't hang with humans. Humans are kind of assholes. In the natural order we're like the teenagers of Spaceship Earth. Have you ever noticed how wild animals all go out of their way to avoid us? It's because they think we're tools.

Wow, that's sort of funny. Now I'll always be thinking that when I'm incredibly lucky enough to be out in gorgeous, pristine, faultless nature and a ferret or a wild ostrich runs away from me. Someone told me those are turkeys. They said no ostriches in New England. Such limited horizons.

In Tibet when you go to heaven you get to invade China and be all badass. You don't have to speak excellent English in those warm, measured tones and sound all wise. You can get drunk and pick fights and rabbit-punch truckers from Idaho in Tibetan Heaven.

Anyway, back to my confession for this week.


-I rocked your flock over and over. I mercilessly came at them with dopeass R&B and soul from the 50's and 60's including "Take Me To The River" and plently of good Stax/Volt, the way it ought to be. It's all in the song selection, man.

-Yeah, that's about it. Actually I've been recording a couple of my projects and the drum tracks are the best I've produced. So that's a virtue. And the bass so far is snappy and snarling. I like recording bass when you put on new strings, stretch them for a minute, tune them and start rolling tape. I'm not into that whole ancient-string thing. It sounds awesome on some stuff but I think if you track your bass nice and present and precise you have more options later and you can get grungier with the other instruments because you have the basis. Plus you can reamp the bass track out to a mic'd cabinet on 11 and mix it with your direct signal which is just about the coolest thing you can do.


-Well, this crazy house of a woman took issue with me passing her perfectly legally on Thursday morning and she actually got out of her vehicle to swear at me at a red light. I saw her coming in my rear view and I was like "oh, she's not actually getting out of her car to berate me, is she? How mortifying for everyone."

And sure enough she called me a "stupid ass" and all that. What I chose to do amused me because I reached for my glove box and said, "that's it, you cow. I'm going to plug you right now." "Plug you". Ha ha ha. Where did I get that?

Anyway, she ran away screaming and I feel a little bad about that. Tell you what, Baby Gene Crupus- next time I do "Shot Of Rhythm And Blues" I'll do an extra chorus that rocks extra hard. And I'll insert a glass tube in my urethra. We good?

-I'm sort of sorry about the Alicia Keys thing, if only because in the big scheme it gets a hell of a lot worse than her. But I came clean on that.

-Still ruining a lot of people's days in the professional department but what can you do? Embrace Your Fate, right? BE the idiot.

So, Chimpus- we have got to do some raquetball one of these days.

Amen, Bobby Lightfoot

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-I take back shooting Alicia Keys. She's fine. It was just the thing about calling her Mozart's equal because she knows where to put her fingers when she sees Gmaj. was bugging me.

-That's one round less for Alicia. We'll use that one on Springer if we just wing him with the first volley.