Memories Of Rochester (Early August 2010)

It'll take more than an actress in a bikini to get me going in the morning. Cop cars hide behind trees, taunting me to be their next victim, but I know better than that: I've been to Chicago. It's been ages since I wish I brought my jacket, and the drums I yearn for have been converted into bedroom furniture. I blame the cats. Only one of them is mean, but I know they work together. They have to work together to survive. Give them all the staircases they can scoot their asses on, and they'd still rather hate your guts. I tried to impress them with my dance moves, but the whole house had actually been a guitar storage facility the whole time. I couldn't walk one inch without knocking into the progeny of Les Paul and Leo Fender. That's why the rent was so low. That and the neighborhood. Two doors down, a woman with a red face and saggy skin watched us wind up the city with jazz chords and mirth. She wanted to be our biggest fan. If she was a hundred years old, she didn't age well. Oh, we all know the truth. She and her entourage of tapeworms stuck to their porch like barnacles, drinking unicorn pee all day and setting a bad example for children. If you don't plan on using those legs, you might as well donate them to someone in need. I'll tell you a little secret though: As much as I love a good Garbage Plate, I felt ready to put the sword back into the stone and give someone else a chance. After all, I need to clear up that skin rash somehow.