Ahhh...

So, after months of absence, I finally return to the clubs, dragging my good friend Jean kicking and screaming (and paying, because without me, she'd never have any fun) Well, the club, anyway. My old stomping grounds at Blue keeps on truckin'.

...it's good to be back
good to be back...

Turned out a hell of a lot diff'rent than I expected, that's to be sure. Stumbled upon a few friendlies, like my good buddy Andy, whom I haven't seen since January and was terribly pleased to see, as well as the only Minnesotan I know, she who is currently dubbed Crazy Woman and, of course, that notorious gangster from Tatooine.

So I got down. Many of the old favourites were there, including "Face to Face," "The Chauffeur," "The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove," and, your favourite and mine, "Black Heart."

Get down!

So, after all that, Jean is stinking drunk, threatening me with death by Honda and later, breakfast in like, eight hours. I tried to explain to her that I need twelve hours of sleep, minimum or I'm useless for anything that doesn't involving pelvic thrusting, but she wouldn't hear of it, so I'm typing fast so I can hurry my ass off to bed and get the sleep while it's there.

Unfortunately, tragedy struck when I came to the computer.

Lane Staley is fucking dead.

God fucking damnit!

This really bums me out.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

Why can't useless musicians die?
Pass me a drink, will you?