Those god damn things.

O.K., this one I came up with is for th' fellas. I like to call this "Determining Whether Old Ladies Turn You On Or If You're Gay". It's really simple. Just rate th' following pictures as to whether they get you worked up or not:

Picture 1:

Hot or not??

Hot: You are turned on by old ladies.
Not: Odds are good you're gay.

'kay, let's roll another:

Picture 2:

Hot or not?

Hot: odds are excellent that you are of the homosexual persuasion.

Not: equally likely that old ladies make you horny.

Hey! It's fun! And revealing!

Picture 3:

Hot or Not??

Hot: You are aroused by the elderly.

Not: You are a gay person.


Next up:

Picture 4:

Hot or not?

Hot: you are a first-rate butt pirate.

Not: You get a woody from th' aged.

Let's move on to number 5!!!

Picture 5:

That's too confusing.

Picture 5:

Hot or not??

Hot: You're a wrinklefarmer. The Russianer th' better. Freak.

Not: You're what Oscar Wilde called "Musical".

O.K, last picture:

Picture 6:

Oops. I just emailed this to my bowling team by mistake.

Hot or not?

Hot: You're queerer than a football bat.

Not: You'd just as soon see a really old, old ass. An old Russian lady ass.

So are you gay or do old ladies get you going?

Up With These Things I Simply Cannot Fucking Put.

Alright, alright. I know when somebody climbs aboard th' fucking Judgement Train it's never pretty. I'm going to dis something that somebody loves, they're going to think I'm a dick, etc. etc. Here's th' thing, though: there's things we all hate. These just happen to be some of mine. It's not my fault that they suck as hard as they do. It's not my fucking fault. My days on Planet Earth are ever-so-slightly darkened by 'em, so if I want to go off a little bit then just, I don't know, go read some happy sunny shit about how fucking great everything is. : ) : ) LOL, tee hee hee. LO fucking L.

Look, here's some shit I love that you probably hate, so you won't feel all god damn put upon:

Bryan Ferry, scandinavian salt licorice, women that don't look like fucking scarecrows, sleeping until 3 pm, digital reverb, wretched, pushy, flea-bitten little dogs. Shitty cars. Fucking LOVE 'em. I had this girl once who would ride up th' 405 with me and
recoil at shitty cars. Fucking little android consumer. I was like, I plan on driving my vehicles until they fucking fall apart, sugar cookie. Small, riceburning, horrid, boxy little cars that have really good mileage. Oh, that god damn extended ram van, though. That was a hideous thing indeed. I needed it for work, though.


'Nuff motherfucking said. These things are simply the most wretched, tool-of-Satan fucking things around. If you have one of these I'm really sorry, but you're about as mis-fucking-guided as you can god damn be. I can not POSSIBLY IMAGINE how someone could think this would somehow be a cool thing. If you need to have an ass tattoo I would suggest that you HAUL ASS, don't walk, to the nearest MentalHealthMart and buy EVERY FUCKING SELF-HELP BOOK YOU CAN FIND AND READ 'EM QUICK, QUICK, QUICK. TOOT MOTHERFUCKING SUITE, my poor addled child. And maybe, just fucking maybe, something will stick and you'll take out your self-loathing on something healthy like self-medication or organizing your fucking closet for Jesus.


That big fucking cock God.

I've gotta man the fuck up right now and put this out there before I puss out. Look, God's a class-A asshole if there's any truth in what I've been "led" to "believe" about this little shitskin.

According to my extensive reading on the subject of this smegsucker, I am led to believe that there's this big thing called Th' World, and all these people live in it, and if they act a certain way they go to one place when they die and if they act another way they go to this other place.

Well, excuse the fuck out of me if I deign to bring up th' memory of that great American heroine Mssle. Parks and how she sat down on the fucking bus AGAINST this kind of shit. We're
expected to take our place at th' Table Of Man and then if you take Santa Christ as your Personal Trainer and Financial Consultant you get to sit in front and if you don't it's some sort of Celestial Jim Crow shit? That's the best you could do?

You're like an absentee father, is about the best I can come up with for you, cocck. You are guilty of th' Silent Treatment thing on a cosmic scale, like a prissy little resentful schoolmarm. Blow me.


Weak, lousy plumber classic-rock amateur garage bands that bring a million friends to a club once every three months and play for nothing.

Let me tell you what it is I'm going to do, fellas. Here's the plan from me to you so you'll know what to expect: I'm going to start going around and repairing people's fucking plumbing for FREE so that YOU'RE out of fucking work, o.k., you fucking idiots?

Do you realized you're killing live music on a grand scale? You guys are as bad for this shit as those fucking idiots Great White. They had to write a whole new fucking regulation book after that fucking Bonfire Of The Inanities to make sure it was an endless fucking HASSLE to fucking play music for people.

There's this place up in Orange, th' fucking route 202 Roadhouse or some CRAP and I took 'em a kit to see about installing Lightfoot up there some balmy December evening. Fucking asshole comes back with $225. "Well, the Shit Heels play here and they bring like 300 people and the bar makes like 3 grand and I give 'em $225."

I honestly don't know who's the bigger idiot, the fucking guy or Th' Shit Heels. These idiots should be shot in the extremities and their instruments should be donated to real musicians. You can tell the REAL musicians 'cause their gear is all beat up and from like 1978 because they're suffering AT YOU FUCKING HANDS.

Look, we all have to play for 225 sometimes. Just don't fucking walk away from ANY gig with that kind of shit when the club has made three thousand dollars. You're hurting people when you do that. Don't do it. Don't. I'll kill you. I swear I will fucking work you like an old shirt. This is the Sweat Shoppe Principle that we're all suffering for all over the world. Don't be a part of it.

And speaking of which: don't be tempted to buy that Behringer crap. O.K.- you can have one piece of Behringer gear. One. That Behringer crap is the sweat-shop-iest shit this side of the goddamn Triangle Building, canus. Those little folk toil over that shit at the business end of a cat-o-nine-tails for about a nickel a fucking year. I fucking kid you not.

If you realized just how many lives are ruined, how many dreams shattered so you can have that fucking 60 dollar condenser mic, you'd eat your own forearm. You would wear a hairshirt from that day hence and you would drink your own urine like a dog forgotten in a basement.

Fucking plumber bands. And their goddamn wives with the ass tattoos.


God damn teenage girls.

What a fucking nightmare. And this isn't just because of the torture of once having to have been a god damn teenage boy. These little creatures have done more to ruin the planet than any boardroom full
of wheezing, Satan-worshipping robber baron scumbags ever, ever, EVER possibly could. Oh, my sweet fucking Gautama. Oy fuckin' vey, old girl.

The insatiable, ravenous, selfish, mean, consumeristic hideousness of these little bitches cannot be measured. Impossible. It was attempted in 1997 and all instruments were smashed and mangled past recognition. Horrible, deceitful, bitchy, arrogant, mean, stupid, clueless. These are but a drop in the ocean of th' plethora of adjectives that apply to Teenage Girls. There should be some sort of huge celebration when teenage girls reach womanhood and start to behave just remotely like human beings. Before that, man, they're just not team players, man. They're just not. Down, down, down with teenage girls.


Those most cocksuckingest of cruddy things, CELL PHONES.

Yeah, I know, everybody fucking has one. I fucking have one, I'm profoundly, profoundly ashamed to say. I have dashed more of these evil, soul-sucking, useless, stupid pieces of shit against more brick walls than I feel comfortable saying.

They don't work, guys. Have you noticed the little thing about them not working? The way, when you're like using them, they suck? And they don't work? Would you drive a fucking car that only ran in certain counties? Would you watch a TV that fucking went out every ten stupid fucking seconds?

And how disgusting it is to watch some idiot weave around th' road and drive 20 and sit at stop signs because they're attempting to get one of these fucking things to do what they fucking paid good money for it to do?

And how putrid it is to watch someone talk on their idiotic cell phone when they're trying to order coffee or something? And the other person is just like their little product-dispenser but not really occupying the same world?

That fucking disgusts me. That's disgusting. It's about the rudest thing I've ever seen. I wish brain cancer on that fucking repugnant individyool.

Crappy cell phones. Shameful little ripoffs that we all fall for.

Having one in your car for safety if you blow a tire at 1 AM in Ashuelot New fucking Hampshire? Yeah- great. Like it's actually going to WORK. It doesn't fucking WORK in remote places where you'd want it to have your fucking back. Sorry. It only works in places where there are regular god damn phones every two feet.

In little pieces at the foot of a brick wall is the only place a fucking CELL PHONE belongs. Or up someone's ass in the fucking coffee or movie line. Sploop.

There's some other shit but I just had this awesome idea for another post.

Tasty coffff-fff-eee to-n-night..


Bobby Lightfoot's Greatest Hits #8: The Only Way I Ever Made Any Headway In The Pop Business

This goes back a ways to one of th' lower ebbs of my manic depression Lite. I appreciate the horrible beauty of randomness the older I get because I have to. Here's one way I like to give myself a break: I look at the fact that I wasn't the one in a million to actually have a great career as a songwriter and I transpose those odds to mean I won't be the one in a million to perish of dick cancer.

I think that makes sense. See? You get to carry the odds.

It's sort of like The Algebra Of Failure.

And just like that, my dear co-passengers on this great Spaceship Earth, my next album is named.

The only way I ever made any headway in the pop business was by taking every person that I ever came in contact with by the collar and shaking them and telling them how great I was until they'd perform some obeisance so I'd stop. That's exhausting, because you sort of have to believe it yourself, and your very behavior will soon disabuse you of feelings of greatness. L'dissonaince Cognitevueax, the Freedom call it.

And any time I'd stop grabbing people by the collar and shaking them and telling them how great I was for even a day or two, the whole thing would start to slip back downhill.

It was like trying to push a lead bicycle.

And it dawned on me that this is exactly what famous people do. I mean, professionally. You know how rich people are basically greedy, selfish leeches that sit around and suck their teeth and figure out ways to turn 10 dollars into 11 dollars instead of making anything or creating anything or helping anyone? Well, famous people are sort of like that. They usually have to make something but they kind of get divorced from the creative part of their lives because the "career" demands that they spend 99 percent of their energy jealously guarding how fucking great they are and convincing YOU of that, and it becomes more and more difficult because, well, they're NOT. At least not anymore. And it dawned on me that what separated the famous from the diseased and flea-gnawed, aside from talent in a few cases, was this constant, unflinching, psychic puffing out of the chest. And it dawned on me that spending a month to try to get enough people into The Mint on West Pico was interfering with my music.

And I've been extremely prolific ever since. Done my best work, in fact.

It's taken a little while to own the fact that very few will ever care, but that never really was the point for me. I just loved music. Music is a delicious alchemy that turns math into emotion. I just loved putting it together, like a fun project on a rainy day. With drugs. It's what I'll miss when I'm dead. It's why I want to be alive.

You always have to remember why you started doing something and reconnect with that, because sometimes it's the only remaining nondelusional thing when everything gets fucked up and you get confused. I would always get confused because I was supposedly a musician and I was spending all my time doing other things, sucking ass and kissing feet and grabbing people by the collar and doing stupid interviews and saying the same thing over and over and poring over radio playlists and driving to fucking Victorville and opening for fucking Blink 182.

I never wanted to be a stahhhhh. Anyone who has known me for any period of time will tell you that I never went on about being a stahhhh. I went on about music. And I just wanted to make enough for 3 squares and a packa smokes and some Patrone on the road 'cause it's tough sometimes when you're going 1-2-3-4 months. Unfortunately, to make even that much you have to be a stahhhhh.

And as I leave my commercially viable years I'm horrified because, well, I really suck at everything else. Really bad. Like, buffoon bad.

Do you know there is no Plan? Do you know you can't really be anything you want to be if you work really, really hard? Do you know that what is right now is pretty much what will be? Do you know that The Way That You Make It, That's The Way That It Is? Do you know that you'll never be young again? Did you know that lives are lost and wasted? Do you know that "Visualizing" your "goal" is not going to make it "happen"? Do you know that all the good you do doesn't guarantee you a seat at Baby Jeezis' right hand? Do you know? Do you?

Do you know how beautiful that is?

Rufus Fuckin' Wainwright live: Calvin Theater, Northampton MA 11.4.05

Lori and I saw Roxy Music at th' Greek Theater in LA in '01 and I remember seeing Rufus' name on the posters as the opener. Great, I thought, must be swell to have famous parents so you can actually have a shot. This was, of course, before I adopted my dad Gordon and realized that nowadays the only way interesting artists get any play is if they have famous relatives, i.e. Jeff Buckley, Michael Penn et. al.

Yeah, we had a nice room in Santa Monica so we skipped th' nepotism fest and made the scene when Bryan and th' boys were kicking into "Remake/Remodel". I didn't know from no goddamn Rufus. I'd seen him and his band do an in-the-round performance of "Danny Boy" from his first record on one of those "Austin City Limits" shows and thought it was O.K.

A year later I was desperate enough for new music that wasn't utter fucking ridiculous, insulting fucking tripe that I sprang for "Poses", which we all know is an utter masterpiece. It's the unfettered ambition of it. Love it. Love the Pierre Marchand production, the complexity, the emotional rawness, the level of musicianship, the everything. When he sits solo at the piano, as in "In A Graveyard", his performances invoke an unexpected American-ness, a statelyness that recalls Frost and Whitman.

Last week we got a chance to right a four-year-old-wrong, and found ourselves at th' front of the balcony of the Calvin where I used to go see two-dollar movies in the early 90's.

What a very not-disappointing show this was. Interestingly, my friends, Rufus is green. This I did not expect. But when one realizes that I was already treading th' boards when he was nine and I was eighteen, I guess it makes sense. I did not expect a green performer. But it was a pleasant surprise. I do not say green in a deprecating way; I mean it as a description of an artist who hasn't quite got his cruise-control thing switched on yet. He will, eventually. He'll have to. But for now his voice cracked, he stopped songs in the middle, he made caveats. It was charming.

But for me, at least in th' beginning, it was excruciating. Excruciating. Because I know how it feels. You're up in front of a couple of thousand people, a lot of people are counting on you, you miss a note, the world goes out from under you. You can't leave. You can't disappear. Time stretches out in front of you like a road of slow pain. And the epic head game that is singing under pressure begins. It's all it is- a head game. Mind of matter.

You'll never, ever see me make a mistake on stage. It'll never happen. I'm not saying I'll never make a mistake, Christ knows. But you'll never see it. I'll do something with my hand or my ass or my ax and it'll be like when a magician fucks with your head. You'll know something happened, but you won't know what. I'm not saying this is a good thing, insofar as any artist becoming a professional ever is. Rufus hasn't built his escape hatches yet; he has no way out of a note that he maybe can't hit that night. And he constructed his set in a way that exposed him almost masochistically to the danger.

He began the sickeningly difficult baroque pastiche "Little Sister" alone at the piano, blew a chord, started again, blew a chorus, started again, made it half-way through and blew a note. Made it through. Fine. Problem was, he'd followed "Little Sister" with the epic "Go Or Go Ahead" which features the highest sung note in his entire opus. I remember hearing this Want One song and thinking, "man, he had to wait for a really good voice day to get this one". And it does it over and over.

He managed to carry off the song by sort of whipping his head away from the mic on the tough note and thereafter rallied like a motherfucker. He referred to his voice as a "victorian engine that takes a while to get going" and asserted that it would "last forever" which means he's concerned about its longevity.

Something Rufus doesn't know yet: he has nodules on his vocal chords. Takes one to know one. He's the same age I was when I got mine; early thirties. If you know his work you know there's a scratchy area in his range about a minor third wide. Them's nodules. No biggie; they can be a wonderful addition to th' vocal arsenal.

Anyway, I want to get away from this because I want to give him the glowing review he deserves. I think it's awesome that Rufus is green and a risk-taker. I've always asserted that his greatest selling point is his bravery and this was confirmed. Concerts are tough for me because I have to overcome the crippling jealousy of watching someone do something I could be doing better if I'd taken a right up La Brea at 3:34 PM on August 23rd 1996 instead of a left. And overcome it I do; why ruin my musical experience because the world is shit? It's not my fault. All those fucking years confirm it.

So after getting over my let's see what you've got Mr. Built-In-Gay-Audience-Famous-Parents-Van-Dyke-Parks-Scored-Your-First-Record thing I was able to settle back and enjoy this brilliant, self-deprecating, green genius. Rufus' band, featuring Jeff Buckley alumni on bass 'n' drums, is a tight little machine. And once Rufus won the singing headgame he was a fucking nightingale. The highlights of the show were "14th Street", a predictably fantastic "I Don't Know What It Is", an operatic and sweet "Poses", a solo, stately "This Love Affair", a groovy full-band arrangement of "The Art Teacher", and perhaps the best song of the evening, a solo take of his "Foolish Love" from th' first record.

Rufus' first two albums were scarcely represented at the show. I would've loved to hear some of the early stuff in place of some of the padding from the Want albums ("Peach Trees", "Beautiful Child" etc.) but this is a minor complaint.

So, 2/3rds of the way through the band busts into "Old Whore's Diet" which is the only Rufus song I despise. Awful song. Thing is, they leave the stage to recorded tracks, the lights go down, the piano is moved. I was angling for a cig break but I could see something was afoot. So, the band reenters stage-left, all dressed in robes. Fuckin' Rufus comes out in a robe and a crown of thorns, followed by two roadies dressed as centurions and, natch, dragging a cross upon which Rufus is, natch, crucified. One of them straightens his crown and he gets this creepy half-face mask.

Oh, wait- wait. Before this, they do a fucking hilarious Bugsby-Berkley dance routine to the canned music. It's fucking hysterical. Hysterical. Must have taken forever to learn. Awesome. I thought my ass was going to fall off. THEN Rufus goes up on the cross and they do "Gay Messiah". Fucking brilliant. You know how much I love to lampoon all this Christer shit.

So they go off again and Rufus performs the entire encore set in a bathrobe.

What a great writer, singer and musician. I'm really glad he has famous parents. Guy would've been FUCKED. Trust me on this. I know.


An Update of th' Rogers/Astaire Thing.

O.K. most of us are too young for this crap, but there's that saying about Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers: "She gave him sex appeal and he gave her class".

So, in our kooky modern world how could we play with this li'l comparative device? I'll tell ya how:

Like this here:
Kurt and Courtney:

He gave her a career, she gave him a headfull of buckshot.

George and Karl:

He gave him a job, he gave him 50 pounds and 50 I.Q. points. Lookit that fat big asshole.

Dick Cheney and Scooter Libby (all pictures of them together have been removed from the Internets. Google it. You'll see. )

He gave him a job, he gave him a hands-free blowjob.

Brad 'n' Angelina:

She gave him class, he gave her...well, let her tell it.

Siegfried 'n' Roy:

He gave him th' best years of his life and 6-7 pounds of flesh, he gave him a skilled and tender reacharound.

Who else?? Who else?? Audience participation time.


Bobby Lightfoot's Greatest Hits #7: "So I'm A Character Now".

Not sure when it happened. Probably around age 28. Around when I stopped giving a good god damn. Around when I realized that people weren't going to remember me for my striking violet eyes or my luxuriant pompadour. It's fine; it worked out pretty good in the showbiz thing aside from the eventual crashing and burning and failing and leaving a quahter million dollar hole in the pockets of those who foolishly believed in me.

It was tough when I had to get a secret clearance for this I.T. gig I had in San Diego. It was awesome. Apparently people here in Northampton got a "visit" or two. Old employers and landlords and whatnot told me they'd had conversations with Men In Grey Linen Suits. I love that. I went out there to do music and supported myself with computer crap and everyone here thought I was like going to assassinate Gorbachev or some shite.

I'm not really the tiresome guy who has to make a joke out of everything? I'm not that guy. I don't like having my conversation mined for funnies by some fat wank. I am a deep believer in Listening. Within reason.

I'm more like the guy who is unbelievably chaotic to straight people. Artists have no problem with me at all but The Straight, the second I'm out of the room they're like scratching their heads and looking quizzically at one another. Quizzzllllquizzlllley. And I think in the workplace they sort of enjoy having me around because my chaos and my long nights of rock make me a little larger than life to them. yeah, I hope it works out in the end.

If stuff like worked out in the end it would be the dopest. If I was like a Christer I could just relax and sink back into the sophoroophus rose hip soup of mental indulgence and know All Was Fine. I'd probably be a lot happier. yeah, that's what i'll do i'll accept Jeekers Crispie as my parsonal lard and slavier. Then when I'm all at church praying on my knees to Monstanto I can feel all peaceful.

Instead of wracked with fear and always sore in the stomach from laughing.

Laughing is going to be my personal savierre. The laughing is going to get me through. For each year I lose from worrying and living without sleep and smacking the cageritte I will gain 18 months from laughing. I laugh every fucking day at least a hundred times. If it gets to bedtime and I've only had 99 I take down my pants and look at my ass in the mirror.

If I go substantially over it's fine but every now and then I'll hold one back just to stay in the ballpark. It's usually when some nimbskill tells a joke that I'll stare blankly and when they get offended I'll explain that I've got 6 or 7 laughs on credit. They seem to understand.

Because I'm a "character" now.

I like to drive my "character" car and speak in my "character" voice. My political views are "character" political views because I just want to fill the white house with vast truckloads of all manner of unctuous shit and whatnot. Things redolent in pustuality. Fucking tell me that wouldn't solve some problems. I'm about "action" the way a "character" is.

I'm not the guy flippin' the bird at the company picnoc snipshot. I'm more like the guy that goes and rides the swanboat thoughtfully for hours. Pedaling, pedaling and broody characterishly. I did that on a company picnoc snopshit once.

So, I'm a "character" now. Why? Well, because I like to amuse people and lighten their load. And I like to think really hard. And I don't believe in living too far in the future. Haven't you ever seen dead people? They're all, "I should've taken that painting class" and "I should have fucked that girl in accounting she was way into me" and "why didn't I ever go to Sandusky". Ha ha. Why didn't I ever go to Sandusky. And I want to do things that are out of the ordinary every day. It is extremely important to do things that are out of the ordinary every day. I have no idea why. I mean, I don't. Nobody does. For long. you get yer days where some shit goes down and you write a Pucciniesque masterpiece about having your heart break forever and hearing her voice in the rustling, coppery twilight and about the labyrinthine streets of Venice and the windblown maroon fastness of Mars and suchwhat. Then you get the black X days. The days you mark on the calender with a black X.

I don't do that on all the days on my calendar. Just the ones where I don't do anything out of the ordinary.

Then, when I'm on my death bed I can look at all those X's and curse the clappering bells of Saint Aloysius of Chippendell for the waste.

Until then, I'll have to address my tendency to assess life from the vantage point of imminent demise.

Oh, O.K.- I'm done. It's because I'm a "character".

I'm not, like, the guy in school who gets stoned and does an interpretive dance at the basketball game. I'm not the guy with the "Don't Blame Me I Voted For Alfred E. Neuman" bumpersticker. I'm not the guy with the maximus mandibillius morphicum who da te com te la ambrus nokium telemarketus nobisquitum. No furnicating way, canus.

Let's call each other "canus". It'll be so money. We'll be the hoppiest of the hip hoppers with the "canus" shit. "Yo, canus". "Whattup, canus". "Here's some bullets for yo' head da's wh'am sayin.............canus".

Anyway, you're more like that guy. Yeah, that's it. You're that guy. Not me. So you're that dude. So I'm not.

So I'm a character now.

But I'm not that other thing because that's you. The other thing. It's cool, you know? The other thing is cool. You're fine. Don't get weird about it. You'll get chicks being that other thing. Chicks love that. Where you're all "I'm that other thing that isn't a character". What chick likes a character? Character's not going to bring it home. character's not going to be on time. Character's not going to have a big nestegg socked away for that all important domicilius suburbus. People who go through a quarter mil of other people's money don't have the big nest egg. They'll have a story or two but that's good for 5 minutes and a crippuccinio.

Crappincino. Cappiciana.


Great, it's only a quart past midenit. I can still ply the piano for 5 hours.

Try to make it not a black X day.

Y'all try too, now, y'hear?


Just Wanted To Run This By You Guys

So I got this offer to front an R&B band that does all th' casinos and all that crap and make tons of scratch.

I just wanted to run it by you lot and see if it's O.K. because it's just so surreal that I'd really like to go ahead and do it. I know I'd been talking about it in my "Sacred Soul Promise" post so I figured I'd do one of these auditions and I just stepped outside myself a little and slowly lifted the roof off this fucking club in Hartford. I could see the bandleader and the outgoing singer looking at each other out of the corner of my eye when I hit that two-bar-long-high-A on the last verse of "Summertime". Sometimes I don't know if I'm going to be able to get that A and then I just remember Paul talking about singing "Long Tall Sally", about how he had to think about his voice coming out the top of his head to get those notes. Then I think about the starving and the disinfected and it just comes out.

The music's real good and I sing this crap all the time anyway. We're talking Sam 'n' Dave, Urethra, Al Green, Stevie, Otis, all my favorites. And you must understand that we're talking "fronting" in the strictest sense of the word; no instrument to hide behind. This would be all about being a stage-stalkin' bottle blonde white soul twirling cheetah.

I could have my Fender Rhodes up there too if I really wanted. They said. If I felt alone.

Fuck it, man. I'm doing it. I always wanted to be Bryan Ferry in 1977 anyway. Y'all cool w/ that, right?

It'll be funnier than shit and I'll be good at it. And I'll take my revenge on this shit. And on this execrable mucus.