About me: Garcia, Joplin, Weir, Danko, and Robertson
My plan was to keep moving. Never slow down. Keep the car aimed
straight ahead through the rain like a cruise missile....I felt
comfortable. There is a sense of calm and security that comes with
driving a very fast car on an empty road at night....Fuck this
thunderstorm, I thought. There is safety in speed. Nothing can touch
me as long as I keep moving fast, and never mind the cops: They're all
hunkered down in a truck stop or jacking off by themselves in a
culvert behind some dynamite shack in the wilderness beyond the
highway....Either way, they wanted no part of me, and I wanted no part
of them. Only trouble could come of it. They were probably nice
people, and so was I -- but we were not meant for each other. History
had long since determined that. There is a huge body of evidence to
support the notion that me and the police were put on this earth to do
extremely different things and never to mingle professionally with
each other, except at official functions, when we all wear ties and
drink heavily and whoop it up like the natural, good-humored wild boys
that we know in our hearts that we are..These occasions are rare, but
they happen -- despite the forked tongue of fate that has put us
forever on different paths....But what the hell? I can handle a wild
birthday party with cops, now and then. Or some unexpected orgy at a
gun show in Texas. Why not? Hell, I ran for Sheriff one time, and
almost got elected. They understand this, and I get along fine with
the smart ones. *RON PAUL 2008*
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I edited my profile with MyPimpSpace.com, you should too! - Myspace Layouts Warning: getimagesize(Enter Image URL) [function.getimagesize]: failed to open stream: No such file or directory in /home/mps/public_html/layout-editor/getcode.php on line 216
The lyrics were written by means of a method derived from the Baccalieri children's use of a Ouija board in season four of The Sopranos, and, further, a mention of Scripts for the Pageant in an article in the Windy City Times. What this means is as follows. Between seven and eight in the morning the brother in the band would pretend to ask a Ouija board what his sister would like to sing about. He would then pretend that the Ouija board gave him various answers. After this was accomplished he would pretend to write the answers down.
This strenuous work of the imagination, or Imaginary Work, could occur as many times as once a month.
Or sometimes, in the afternoon, the tapping table might tell the brother to stare across the room at a book that looked, for example, like a bible. "Imagine what it said," it said, it seemed. The strict subjugation of an imaginary bible to an imaginary board game could have produced the lyrics to, for instance, the title track.
The sister's job consisted of this. She would clench in her fists the names of selected lady magazine authoresses from the years 1968-1976 and, extending out her index fingers, type up what the old ladies “told” her. Or rather, “told” them, meaning her index fingers. She'd then send the notes to her brother, who would modify and add to them according to what he imagined were their "secret intentions." If the sister objected, the brother would assign responsibility to the Ouija board.
In a word, therefore, to sum up, the lyrics were caused, so to speak, by:
1. Ads, for instance, at back of design magazines from the early seventies.
2. The cultural pages, if any, of local community minority or alternative lifestyle newspapers.
3. Depictions of grieving children using the aforementioned Ouija board.
THE MUSIC
The music to Widow City was composed by the brother in the band in the following manner. In his right hand, he would hold the broken jewel cases of scratched, and therefore discarded, Van Morrison cds, while with his left hand he would play the piano.
Alternatively, he would stare at the Atlantic labels on Led Zeppelin LPs in the dark and write down the tunes inspired thereby, also in the dark.
This procedure left much to chance. The tunes to Widow City ended up not much like Van Morrison or Led Zeppelin. Instead, they sounded, to the brother, as if engaged in some sort of general Paul McCartney-izing, though with a different drummer.
The drummer on this record is Robert D'Amico, 37, who has played live with the Fiery Furnaces the past two years. The personality of his playing is patently present on this particular platter. The disposal of his talents across the surface of the album makes the most obvious difference with past band product.
The Paul McCartney-izing mentioned previous must have to do with how simple and schematic the tracks are. Simplicity and schematicism are most successfully exaggerated in "Clear Signal from Cairo." The words to this song, unlike many of the others, serve to further emphasize, rather than hide, those characteristics.
By the way – Eleanor especially likes, and especially her performance on, "Navy Nurse," especially since it does sound something like Van Morrison or Led Zeppelin. Sort of; and "Navy Nurse" has an oblique relation to an earlier Fiery Furnaces' tune/ditty.
By the way – as for comparisons with other records/acts, Bob "Wicker Whatnots" D'Amico once wrote to me that the stuff reminded him of King Crimson's Lizard album and Larry Harlow's El Jardinero del Amor. He has also repeatedly "whispered" to Eleanor that "Restorative Beer" is a hit single. The mastering engineer (the mastering engineer on all the Fiery Furnaces records except the first one) Joe Lambert, when prompted, said that a small section reminded him of Gentle Giant. The recording engineer (recording engineer on the last three Fiery Furnaces' albums) Bill Skibbe said, unprompted, that the song "The Philadelphia Grand Jury" reminded him of Ike and Tina Turner's "Nutbush City Limits". And the imaginary record producer, the producer of the record (see credits) often pretends to be when talking in a talk-back microphone--Jimmy--thinks the record sounds like, "A million seller."
The record's string, woodwind, and brass sounds were played on a Chamberlin. If one doesn't know what that thing is, one can no doubt find out. The brother plays every instrument on the record save the drums. The sister sings every word on the record except a few.
As on past Fiery Furnaces' albums, the backing tracks have a narrative aspect, excuse the expression. For instance, the long 'bassoon' and altered tabla part in "The Philadelphia Grand Jury" might indicate the singer in the song's waiting for the word (verdict). The loud guitar-drums-and-Chamberlin 'thunderstorm' part towards the end of "Ex-Guru" indicates the thunderstorm brought about by the jilted ex-guru. The synthesizer filtering of the acoustic guitar in "Duplexes of the Dead" indicates the odd light that filters through the dirty curtains a duplex of the dead would no doubt have. The swelling melody at the end of "My Egyptian Grammar" indicates the pride that likely swells up in the breast of a blue jay referred to therein. The monkey and cow noises in "The Old Hag is Sleeping" indicate the rooster at dawn. The guitar solo at the end of "Cabaret of the Seven Devils" counts to seven. The train sound effect in "Japanese Slippers" indicates a train. And so forth.
To sum up, the music on Widow City sounds lively, tuneful, simple/schematic, like a variety of previous records, with loud electric guitars, with very over-compressed bass guitars, drum-solo-having, Chamberlin-ized, and storytelling-ish. And again,
Brother and sister act Fiery Furnaces continued to wow critics and consumers alike with their thoroughly original take on literate pop with WIDOW CITY, their fifth overall full-length and Thrill Jockey debut. With lyrics supposedly derived from a Ouija board, and also collected from women's magazines from the early '70s, their trademark skewed wordplay is on full display here, as singer Eleanor Friedberger wrings out every word like vintage Patti Smith. Brother Matthew Friedberger delivers his catchiest, most McCartney-esque set of tunes, and plays all the instruments (sans drums) himself. This mostly consists of the Chamberlin, an old organ akin to a Mellotron or Optigon, whose keys activate sampled tape loops. The results sound like sophisticated, modern pop as imagined by an early-20th century steam calliope band--albeit one with a ridiculously tight rhythm section. Credit drummer Paul D'Amico for this tightness as his years of touring with the Friedbergers have yielded them their most cohesive, energetic record yet. Without sacrificing any of their trademark oddities or experimentalism, the Fiery Furnaces of WIDOW CITY sound startlingly mature, confident, and for the first time, like a full band.
THE BAND,
Matthew Friedberger, 34, and Eleanor Friedberger, 30, are very confident that Widow City will not only appeal to, but find use with, the causal rock-n-roll fan both older and younger than themselves.
The band has no advanced degrees or criminal convictions. Its charitable activities are none at present.
Widow City was recorded in January and February of 2007, often in heavy snow, everyone stranded as if "immobilized by powerful chains of molecules." For further information, see the credits and lyrics on the album packaging or provided in this kit.
WIDOW CITY-Lyrics
THE PHILADELPHIA GRAND JURY
There ain’t no more favors to ask;
There ain’t no petitions to pass;
It’s all in the hands—it’s all in the hands—
Of the Philadelphia Grand Jury now.
More crooked sons of bitches you can’t ever have come across.
Make sure that they notarized my will.
Make sure mom don’t look at the news.
We already know—there ain’t no suspense—
That the Philadelphia Grand Jury strings me up.
More crooked sons of bitches you can’t ever have come across.
DUPLEXES OF THE DEAD
I went on down unto the duplexes of the dead,
Where the shades are drawn and the shadows shut—
Unless you know the magic word.
(Seldom said but often heard, Bite your lip!)
Then spin around three times: On our honeymoon.
My husband sat still
With a look in his eyes and a pen in his left hand.
He wrote on the varnish the magic word.
(Seldom seen and never heard.)
He shushed me then slumped backwards dead asleep.
I went grumpy sitting in the sun by the umbrella stand,
Making every single unreasonable demand.
I covered my head and went to the office pool,
dipped in reverent a re-soled mule
and asked the chlorine fumes if there something they wanted to bring up.
MORE AUTOMATIC HUSBAND
Thanks for asking.
Yes it’s true, we’ve been waiting for you.
We’ve been waiting for you.
Persuade your husband he should stay at our disposal for today and take down everything we say
About the new school bus assistant snuck in charge of leaving seven sleeping children in their seats, in a trance, induced by air-conditioning.
So I went back up to our room
And told my husband to sit down on the end-table
and that he was getting very sleepy
and when his eyes went out I put the pen back in his left hand.
At phases 8 and 31 the Four Faculties are done, but the Principles are some. The solar period, if you look, is like the bishop in the brook, so it says in this book,
Writ by the new school bus assistant snuck in charge of leaving seven sleeping children in their seats, in a trance, induced by air-conditioning.
And don’t forget the imaginary map
Of the Manifestations of Murder-Making
Owned by the undertaker’s office
(Otherwise known as the Cadaverous Cosmeticians)
Local # dead-as-a-doornail in a church mouse’s chin.
Or so said the birth-chart I sent away to New Mexico for.
It was made by a special commission of Navajo basketball coaches and blonde ladies.
EX-GURU
One of those blond ladies had a certain hold on me.
I went to all her seminars by the Airport in the Double Tree.
I even let her use nephew’s seaplane in the Bahamas for free.
But she means nothing to me now.
I tell myself that everyday:
She means nothing to me now.
I tell myself every single day,
I’m quite convinced I escaped her sway.
I burned all my clothes with eucalyptus juice;
Ripped out the floors and painted all the platforms puce;
And I went so far as to sacrifice a second snake to Zeus,
So she means nothing to me now.
I tell myself that everyday:
She means nothing to me now.
I tell myself every single day,
I’m still convinced I escaped her sway.
But when she mopes in the moonlight on her mesa in March,
Does she kick up a thunderstorm
When she thinks of my betrayal?
She means nothing to me now.
CLEAR SIGNAL FROM CAIRO
It’s a clear signal from Cairo: calling me back to your arms.
Desert winds are strong but they’re not strong enough, love of my life.
Desert winds are strong but they’re not strong enough, baby doll.
MY EGYPTIAN GRAMMAR
I never thought it could have happened to me.
But on the morning of my eldest daughter’s Second wedding, I blacked out. They said it was it was just stress, but I didn’t think so:
I couldn’t remember the 15 minutes before.
A white-haired half Samoan girl from Darwin
Gave me a ride, it seems; she let me the car in.
But what it was she said, I couldn’t say.
Now, that clearly didn’t happen. I consulted my Egyptian Grammar.
On p. 333 was the hieroglyph for motorcycle helmet.
I combined this with a leather-back’s shell as I was I felt instructed.
I Xeroxed it and posted it down by the bike lock-ups at the Oriental Institute. Maybe a nether-world entity would see it and pass it on to the responsible.
That kind of thing must happen sometimes.
Now that clearly didn’t happen. I consulted my Egyptian Grammar.
On p. 4428 was the hieroglyph for French Canal boat.
I met on the Midway someone channeling up a whatever it wasn’t:
There are 17 sections of cymbals in the orchestra of the oversold, it said.
Your youth is lost and doesn’t it now seem you can’t make smoke—only steam? Now that clearly didn’t happen. I consulted my Egyptian Grammar.
On p. 5566 was the hieroglyph for a blue jay.
THE OLD HAG IS SLEEPING
My Baby’s angry. He’s always so angry;
He smiles only when he can give me abuse.
What’s the use. What’s the use?
The church bells are busted again.
And at cakewalk class I’m out of sync.
I peek at granddad’s watch and take a drink.
Linen being pawned on a eclipse.
Pack the swatches in the pony-cart.
Before the gate he squints and’s ready to start.
My baby’s angry—he’s always so angry.
At best he ignores me and don’t curse and stare.
Despair, oh despair!
He gets pink roses sent by:
The Other Woman now lives upstairs
(You think she thinks he really cares?)
I go and retire by nine.
He’s in the Kansas City cabinet today;
Pretend I’m asleep and I hear him say:
The Old Hag is sleeping! Now Old Hag, stay sleeping:
If you never wake up, it’s heaven (as it were):
Widower! Widower!
My Baby’s angry, he’s always so angry.
He smiles only when he can give me abuse.
What’s the use? What’s the use?
JAPANESE SLIPPERS
Down at the shell shed the boys are pickin’ at their pearls.
The hole in my mitten lets the rain get in.
I bought 22 ounces from the petrol park, waiting at the light;
I’m never gonna make it back in time
So Geraldine and me can begin
Before Mister Raymond and his Japanese slippers comes creepin’ in.
I sit with the fan on my face and sip shandies all day.
I learned to sleep standing up so I don’t have to make the bed.
No tobacco for my rolling papers, warm water in my cup—
I’ll have wait all morning
Before Geraldine and me can begin;
Before Mister Raymond and his Japanese slippers’ll come creepin’ in.
Loaded up with turkey carpets and green glass diamonds
I drove back and forth for five long rolling moons.
And everyday and every night I thought of back at home
And I couldn’t get the notion out of my head:
That before Geraldine and me could begin
Mister Raymond and his Japanese slippers’d come creepin’ in.
Everything is always a little late;
Trippin’ on those Japanese slippers seems to be my fate.
It was my job to cut down all the poplar trees
And I’d sit on the stumps and listen to the finches.
And look out at the field and eat honey out of the jar
And wonder why it always seemed
Before Geraldine and me could begin
Mister Raymond and his Japanese slippers would come creepin’ in.
NAVY NURSE
I got warnings from jealous friends;
Cases of borrowed clothes
And a vial of Dramamine from my mother.
And she said, “Forget what mom likes ‘cause things have changed”;
Taught me how to make booze at home:
call it “Old Uncle Zeke” and drink it early next week.
Now, if there’s anything I’ve had enough of it’s today.
It’s nice to go nautical when choosing a doormat.
Oh so nice to go nautical when choosing a doormat:
I trust my navy nurse smile will put them on their feet again;
I know my navy nurse smile will put them on their feet again.
Save a glacier name for my daughter
For when the snow turns red when the train pulls away.
Listen to them whisper:
(She’s alert, she’s open-minded, she’s involved)
(She’s alert, she’s open-minded, she’s involved).
So on a warm winter night—
On a worry-free winter night
(Still a woman who enjoys feminine props,
like a filmy sky crowded with filmy white clouds)
In parrot green and lemon yellow—
Appeared champagne’s daughter
(Sitting in a blue lacquered chair
With wide gypsy stripes).
Now, if there’s anything I’ve had enough of it’s today.
For it seems no matter whether I weekend in Nice or Newark,
As it were, I get no peace.
“So you shirk
The excursion and watch them remove from the hold
This year’s champion Dwarf Marigold?”
But as there’s no snakeroot anywhere on the vessel,
Or at any of the scheduled landings,
And certainly no leopard flower—
At least he’s a first-class gold brick.
(She’s alert, she’s open-minded, she’s involved)
(She’s alert, she’s open-minded, she’s involved).)
Took the velvet-caped me (let me tell you) from the golden slope.
Riding the golden gulf weave,
Park this Florida houseboat
On the rocky coast so I can see.
Sit side by side beside myself me.
On a ninety inch sofa and matching loveseat,
Listen to them whisper:
If there’s anything I’ve had enough of it’s tonight.
UNCLE CHARLIE
Listen, I’m so unbored;
“The magic word is relax”.
I’ll rub Ho-Toi, his god of happiness,
The one that came with or without boys,
And Make my wish for the day:
No more revenge cobbler or whiskey pie.
My cheeks will be the color of dead jellyfish lying on the beach.
Let me tell you how
Many 18th Century grandfather clocks can you squeeze into your neighbors’ niches.
(If only I knew.)
I offered: become a collector of small objects.
Make my wish for the day:
No more revenge cobbler or whiskey pie.
My cheeks will be the color of dead jellyfish lying on the beach.
Was I a senior junior appraisal appraiser at Mistie’s Auction Hut in Centereach? Or was I a low level high level appraiser of appraisal at Snugaby’s
Crazy Quilts and Collectibles Collection in Hempsted Hollow?
I can hardly remember.
Last year Uncle Charlie sang a different tune:
“The two words I hate most are ‘good enough’.”
Flipped through the sliding slack racks:
“Look at what it says on my red-patched pocket:
If you’re going to be something, why not be something special?”
Pull out the loathsome weeds.
Don’t worry big girl;
He sat me down on his handmade Mexican Mountain chair
And showed me his calendar for the next six months.
Now make my wish for the day:
No more revenge cobbler or whiskey pie.
My cheeks will be the color of dead jellyfish lying on the beach.
To locate my ex-boyfriend check the Yellow Pages under plywood.
We lived together under a Sears Bellissimo Bedspread.
RIGHT BY CONQUEST
If you wish to wait until dusk I respect your policy.
But by all means, my liege, lay siege, lay siege,
or whatever otherwise you might want to call it. We
Would only be restoring to the rightful from before the migrations of the peoples, you could put it,
Or, and I’d prefer, Right by Conquest.
Are the defenses, then, to be let down tonight?
Yes, or maybe, or not quite?
Just a rickety old stockade, I heard,
Half diorama plaster and half recovered water-damaged sheet-rock,
in which is interred….
It’s all that stands in your way, if ‘stands’ is the right word.
What will you do?
Carried off to decorate your bordello!
The person who told me believes
That the guard, though formerly in the service of Duchess of Kent,
Is an Italian Greyhound bitch that loves thieves.
So you might sing,
“Well Rebecca, get your basket, let’s go down to the wood,
You might not pick any berries but you’ll come back feeling good.
Well, all right then.”
If you wish to wait until dusk I respect your policy.
But by all means, my liege, lay siege, lay siege,
or whatever otherwise you might want to call it. We
Would only be restoring to the rightful from before the migrations of the peoples, you could put it,
or, and I’d prefer, Right by Conquest.
Are the defenses, then, to be let down tonight?
Yes, or maybe, or not quite?
Will you quench these blushes of mine by present practice?
Will you, being invited, crack this Glass?
Here’s poison, and here’s gold.
Quick children! Before you get old!
“Well Rebecca, get your basket, let’s go down to the wood,
You might not pick any berries but you’ll come back feeling good.”
RESTORATIVE BEER
She tells me about last night and her 103rd first date (she counted).
And she counted her pairs of pants again.
I’ve only got 53, minus the ones I’ve got on.
I want a restorative beer
So I can take my mind off these tears.
I want a Restorative beer.
Get the Catalog free from Desert House HG-3 Box 111111 Albuquerque.
Talked on my 25-foot phone extension cord about Needlepoint therapy blues. And then I knew
I want a restorative beer
So I can take my mind off these tears.
I want a Restorative beer.
WICKER WHATNOTS
Emma was walking with Mandeep and JingJing on the second day of Spring. Emma was walking with Mandeep and JingJing on the second day of Spring. She said she was sick of her porch pillars and golden axletrees and silver snuffers and all that sort of thing,
‘cause out of the corner of her eye she saw one cherub ten cubits high.
You can immolate all those oxen, you can sacrifice so many sheep.
You can immolate all those oxen, you can sacrifice so many sheep.
You can be surrounded by your four hundred pomegranates and your bright brass shovels, but you still can’t hardly sleep,
when out of the corner of your eye you see one cherub ten cubits high.
How do you arrange a room around a baby grand piano?
In the Arabian-tented library guest room;
In the two-tabled dining room art gallery.
And here’s one for your party room:
An emergency cigarette behind glass.
An emergency cigarette behind glass.
On a sliding slack rack hangs the Calcutta necklace.
And the unique stone rubbings I can decorate with giant jacks:
With wicker whatnots.
With wicker whatnots,
In prettier prints with masses of chintz
And candy box fabrics.
Or the “True Meaning of a Name”
With poem in a frame.
Where blue means fair; pink, rain;
Purple, variable conditions.
Give me mirror magic in the maxi mood
And I’ll throw away my Hollywood chin band.
Ulyana, Phoebe, and Alan knew to say, “We’re here for Lucy’s Birthday
in the Rivoli Bar area lounge,” but were worried they might be late.
Then Lucy messaged, “My PA Ms. Gill will kindly deal with your queries between 6:30 and 8,
unless out of the corner of your eye you see one cherub ten cubits high.”
She was accepting cards and small gifts (before the photos) between 9 and 11. She was accepting cards and small gifts (before the photos) between 9 and 11, when Gharzi, Ovi, Roger, and Rachel presented her with something that just sent her to heaven:
one cherub ten cubits high that she could see out of the corner of her eye.
CABARET OF THE SEVEN DEVILS
Disregard for how and where and with whom
You amuse yourself encourages bad behavior.
The Duke, as was appropriate, held himself in high regard,
And therefore considered himself in need of encouragement.
He expected the people of Madrid render him this service.
And as convenient setting for the achievement of this end
He established the Cabaret of the Seven Devils.
This is what happened:
Sick and tired of what passed for diversion at the Carnival Palace of Don Diego de Cordona—
So lucky to have him there in the first place,
And he certainly was in the First Place—
the Duke of Medina Sidonia, himself,
Made up his mind.
When he must go back to the ‘capital’,
Which was soon, “And which I hate,”
He would take his exercise in the town.
The evening in question was a moonless Monday.
And carrying his own purse,
With only one valet (only one—but by far his best swordsman)
The Duke marched into the least auspicious tavern,
Tossed his silver bag at whom he assumed was the proprietor
And said, or barked, rather,
“This establishment will now serve my purposes.
And I should like it to be known as the Cabaret of the Seven Devils.”
1234567
PRICKED IN THE HEART
Listen, these are not drunken as you suppose.
It might not be 3 o’clock in the morning like it seems:
The little children will be prescient.
And your young men will see shows,
And your old men will dream dreams.
I found a typescript double-spaced,
Printed out on a daisy-wheel (so all femme).
In the former Treatise (dear friend Theophilus) it was placed,
Written by Lisa which was present at the doings of them.
I gathered all the tokens of her passion, people,
waiting for the promise of her father (“Whereof you heard of me”).
In the past
John baptized with water; now, with wine.
But don’t weep, he’ll make sure:
Pricked in the heart the Wednesday after last.
In a cash and carry next to Mt. Olivet (and all around),
Megan, Mary, Lisa, and Kenisha gave it out, “Stick with me.”
Or you’ll reap the reward of iniquity,
Cashed out and carried to possession of a plot of ground.
Well, the vapor of smoke came up from the earth beneath,
Outside the bodega called Beautiful. When it was whom
With Su and Kenisha, under a silver-leaf wreath,
Called not fit to sit: might as well have come halt out your mother’s womb.
I gathered all the tokens of her passion, people,
Waiting for the promise of her father (“Whereof you heard of me”).
In the past
John baptized with water; now, with wine.
But don’t weep, he’ll make sure:
Pricked in the heart the Wednesday after last.
A light shined in the lodge and the chains slipped off her hands,
So to speak: she packed up her things and she sailed off to Cyprus,
Sending greetings from Felix with a please to put Paul on.
Misunderstands
Me, she, and her all went home (gave up the boast) and left Lisa to type us.
WIDOW CITY
Antioch agent wrote a letter per usual
Dated it’s 100 degrees perpetual,
Sent via the swift dromedary
traversing her ways
On the odd and even days.
It said the lion’s come up from his thicket
And they’ve managed to void, “My lottery ticket.
Drunk on wormwood in Widow City,
Widow City’s drunk on wormwood.
Tomorrow night when the sun sets at nine
I might need tangle myself with the degenerate plant of a strange little vine.
And foxes on the mountain, girls!
There’re foxes on the mountain, girls.
So to negotiate the deserts and pits
You can’t rely on your dimwits.”
Wag your head and clean your clocks;
Ready for the rendezvous with the sticks and the stocks.
Taught the wicked ones the ways, said what was sent via the swift dromedary traversing on the odd and even days.
Drunk on wormwood in Widow City.
Widow City’s drunk on wormwood.
Tomorrow night when the sun sets at nine
I might need tangle myself with the degenerate plant of a strange little vine. They’ve made my chain even heavier—if you can imagine.
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Who I'd like to meet: Ram Dass formerly Richard Albert http://www.ramdass.org
Page McConnell Of Phish
Champion of the CONSTITUTION- Ron Paul
My Complex
"An artist is someone who produces things that people don't need to have but that he - for some reason - thinks it would be a good idea to give them." Andy Warhol
so on that note , here is a reminder to all U U's out there in myspaceland ..........incase you didnt know
or receive the cordial invitation ............. our new little debut EP "Phazes" is out and available to U
for a limited time free dowload ! ! !
it is 4 your listening Pleasuah
:> VV
PS if you already have downloaded or have a copy, then thanks a gazillion, and thanks for being a power animal
Travis Weaver broke sprocket bolts and I climbed his right rear and barreled rolled it down the front straight. My wing ended up in the grandstands, it hit the light pole at the end of the straight away and I started flipping at the flagstand. It was a doozie.
