in a bag #2

well i have...
i've got one memory
that has always been with me
and it's my dad would always get up to go surf
like 4:30 or 5
and sometimes i'd hear him and i'd go out in the living room
and he'd be gettin his board out
out of the closet
like right in the dining room where he kept his board
and one day
i remember the waves were really good
and um
and it was really cool just getting up and going down there

the wind was off shore

and i just remember sitting there watching my dad surf
and from that point on
i always kinda like
felt
i was a surfer
you know
i always knew that i'd
definitely
be surfing forever

crossroads

the doktor is difficult under the best of circumstances and certainly so when the drug consumption is not coordinated.

previous engagements required a late day meeting at 55 and 84...there sits a small bar with shit drinks and poor atmosphere. i spoke with the doktor via secure land line on three separate occasions prior to reconnoiter at the bar and he was completely belligerent. i had to hang up on him each time, providing valuable information in microbursts before he rained down ‘fuck’ words on me. my best guess at that point was that he’d been all hopped up on some rare nazi speed and rotgut whiskey…all of his symptoms and behaviors seemed to suggest so, you understand…and me and this fat dude had settled into a serious session of madden and some deep dub on the stereo.

i told dr. asshole to be at the joint around sunset, and although he told me i was ‘a fucking douche bag’ and that the bar was so ‘lame’ that he ‘ain’t’ coming anywhere near 'it' and ‘awww fuck i ripped off the steering wheel,’ i was fairly certain that he would arrive somehow. me and the fat dude waited in the parking lot for the doktor. across the road, about two dozen kerry supporters had gathered, waving placards and getting cars to beep their horns. on the other side of the road, about a dozen or so bush supporters had gathered and a car was dropping off a few more. doktor fuckhead pulled into the lot and crashed into a dumpster…he didn’t even shut his door…came storming to our car, opened the door, saying ’let’s go. i’ve got my nixon mask.’

he walked into oncoming traffic and took his place on the bush side with his fucking nixon mask on that bulbous head of his. me and the fat dude went to the kerry side…not for any necessarily ideological reasons, you understand…but mostly because they had chairs and refreshments. not that there’s anything wrong with that. doktor nixon immediately hit it off with the supporters, grabbing a placard and screaming to oncoming motorists, ‘go fuck yourself! bush cheney in 04!’ the bush side were suddenly a pack of panicked animals, scurrying about, muttering…then yelling and pushing. the fat dude stood up, but i wasn’t worried…the doktor stopped his chant after about ten minutes of their verbal abuse, resorting to merely shooting the finger intermittently to passing motorists. perhaps because he had the sign and the mask, they let him alone. kinda helping their cause, i suppose. maybe simple confusion…i mean what the fuck would you do if you went to take a piss in the middle of the night and a fucking komodo dragon was in the tub? whatever.

the fat dude sat back down.

the doktor struck up a conversation with some of the females in attendance on the bush side. bad vibrations and strange rumblings here…the banshee shrieks for buffalo meat…world war, paranoia, hate, fear, and power…some yin-and-yang unity…the two groups mixed, warily…sharing at the waterhole…festivities under a full moon…newer strangers…not here, you fool…keep it private…same on both sides…the structure is set you’ll never change it with a ballot pull and maybe we don’t realize…caught, same game, no connections.

right. the doktor had not won over any of the males in attendance on the bush side, and during conversation with some from that camp, they expressed disappointment over the doktor’s actions. which is perfectly understandable. imagine how disappointed the doktor’s parents must be. ha ha…woooooo. my efforts to diffuse the situation…cuz really brother, if you can stand toe to toe then you can see eye to eye…were going nowhere and the fat dude was eating and the doktor was ignoring the high signs i was trying to give him. i mean, i guess there was potential for some real ugliness here, especially since i was revising my earlier opinion of the doktor’s drug intake. in addition to the nazified speed he most assuredly popped like tic-tacs, i was also suspecting cheap pcp and malt liquor of being on the bill. at that point, i did what any rational adult would do in such a situation: i called the police. the doktor needed arrested and locked-up, and i hoped to christ they had a taser because those things look really cool on cops and the fucking doktor needed it…right in the fucking eye.

then the fat dude is all like ‘dude…what’s doktor got in the trunk? there’s all kinds of people standing around his car.’

‘doktor, you asshole…the police!’

‘reconnoiter in fifteen,’ and he ran across the highway right into the crowd by his car, stutter-stepping towards a few, acting like he’s going to run into them. they split like the grease in that dawn commercial and he was out of there.

seemed like a good time for me and the fat dude to split too but he had to get some chicken wings wrapped in a napkin first.

for your perusal...

spread the motherfuckin' word...

the drive-by truckers
http://www.redmusic.com/video/DriveByTruckers/NeverGonnaChange.asx


cody chesnuTT
http://launch.yahoo.com/artist/videos.asp?artistID=1098772

...follow the video link sucka cuz, shit, mothafucka i'm smooth, with attitude and ego to spare...



support a movement dammit!



[ i would like to take this time to thank you jesus for my momma and thank you bitches for my money]

flashback: tuscon

[anyone who has done some serious lsd will recall with joy the shivers that slide up your spine when the trip is coming on. recall…yeah, the recall is fun…but when the shivers hit for no apparent reason when you are not on it, well…that can be very different. so when the chills came on recently, i wondered: are they around? were they on this same highway? were they watching me? would they be back? did i say that? could they hear me? were they listening? perhaps we passed in the night…i bet it’s what omniscience feels like…i felt it then, and i just felt it a little while ago, and that’s why i’m recalling tuscon.]



DATE: APRIL 21, 2003 FROM: DR. JOHNNY ST. CLAIR, ESQ. SUBJECT: TUSCON: NOTES ON A MEETING WITH REAL AMERICAN MONSTERS...THEY WERE RUTHLESS AND SNEAKY, AND SHOULD HAVE BEEN CHOKED...BUT THEY WERE, AFTERALL, FEMALE.


some sleazy motel in tuscon on the way back from tijuana…we got in around sunset and loaded up…there was a movie on about skinheads that chased us right out of the motel room and into the streets. the plan was to find a bar with outdoor seating and while away the hours taking in the natives, getting into the thick of it all while getting out of our heads, see what happens, you understand. the doktor managed to maneuver two girls to our table…one ‘a friend’ and the other younger one – a newer stranger – vaguely mexican or puerto rican.

i turned my back on the doktor…indulged his little game, allowed it to go on. i shouldn’t have turned my back on the drug.

bad idea.

we had a grand time for a while, loading up on alcohol and ether…then they went to work, plying and persuading me and the doktor with:

stories
tales
lies
exaggerations
bong hits of pcp
threats to inform the dea, cia, fbi, and tva
whispers of violations from rabid weasels
promises of monkey torture
pee-wee herman videos
reruns of the bachelor
oprah

they even had a life size cut-out of george bush, whose mouth had been cut-out and somehow made to talk. cruel, wicked bastards. we were forced to rob a string of convenience stores while they drove getaway. if we refused, they said they would use their ‘aura,’ and i fuckin’ believed it. these bitches were mad niggerish yo. and that was only the beginning…i vaguely recall a trip to a zoo, a last call at a place called the ‘manhole’ and a blood-promise to vote republican, but these events cannot be verified and i loathe to dwell long on that evening. i eventually blacked-out, most likely as a defense mechanism, and the doktor still refuses to believe any of this happened [we all deal with shit in our own way, don’t we, mr. manhole t-shirt owner…]. we awoke many hours later in that same sleazy hotel room to the light jazz of the weather channel. they had taken everything of ours from inside the room: our supplies, a mirror, the remote control, my new guitar cords, and an old skateboard. all of our clothes, all of the money. our car, graffitied with ‘scumfucs’ and ‘honky lips’ in fluorescent green spray paint. the doktor accused me of stealing all our gear and selling it to a mexican gang for three fresh adrenal glands, and he promised if i didn’t share 50-50, he was gonna go nuts. i was glad he was tied up in the shower curtain, because he threatened to kill me if i didn’t give him a gland to chew on or get more ether, and let’s face it – it’s tough to hit the streets in tuscon in search of ether or organs when you’re only wearing boxers. you know what, scratch that last part about organs…

they left behind a locker key, a bootleg CD, and a stack of polaroids…mostly of me and the doktor engaged in armed robbery. the polaroids were burned, but i’ve got the key, baby. do you like CD’s?

they remain a puzzle wrapped in an enigma encased in a shadow of i-don’t-know-what-the-fuck. what vile and foul creatures had we encountered? had they sought us out, or were we only the recipients of bad, bad luck? perhaps they are the yin to our yang, the day to our night, or the dang-a-lang to my lang-a-long-ling-long.

i am left to wonder: do we want to find them again?

or worse…what if they find us?

all the way live #4

jeans and grease, tattoos and leather, world war, paranoia, hate, fear and power…i had a cold feeling about the social distortion show way before dr. j ripped off all those bush / cheney signs. it had all the trappings of a great band’s last fling, and for a while, i thought it could be mine as well.

yes…start the evening off right…and ugly. load up and head off, behind the wheel, out of my head and into the dark. right. police were everywhere as soon as we left the hideout. speed traps, traffic stops, routine patrols. greasy johnson complained about my driving – my lack of speed – but it couldn’t be helped. i remember at least three separate occasions soon after we departed where i was traveling on familiar roads that twisted into something dark and secluded and strange. no idea where we were going or what i was doing, but push on anyway. there was work to be done.

i would have none of hemingway’s advice during times like these…i needed somewhere dark and dirty to drink. a beer and a proper shot. and then some. clear my head…let these waves of paranoia wash away. would some vile consequence be set in motion this evening? some foul occasion whose end on this night doth depend? note to self: lay off the grass.

we took the circular route to the gig, dr. leaking johnson insisting upon stealing every pro-bush sign he could find from the front yards of the white and privileged. i thought about the theft…not only of the signs, but also of these persons’ freedom of speech. was the doktor denying their american right? quickly dismiss that thought…those fuckers get what they deserve. i found a comfortable place to park, plenty of room and all – you understand – and doctored johnson began to place the signs around the car. a dozen or so in all. our little republican cabana. the fans in attendance didn’t get it.

they were a bunch of fairly humorless fucks, those social distortion fans. it didn’t have to be that way. this is the same band that had the balls to bring the supersuckers out on tour with them the last time i saw them play. did you hear me? the supersuckers! and if there is a band known for festivity, it has to be the supersuckers. plus social distortion was notorious for its heroin intake and alcohol consumption. i don’t know about you or your mama [ok…i admit…i know about your mama] but nothing says a good time to me like junk and booze. mike ness is an institution and his band nailed that tough guy punk thing back in – when…1987? – when ness dropped the eye make-up, slicked his hair back, and started singing songs about jail and outlaws. the fans have taken it as much to heart as he has i suppose, and apparently a few have even scored reality television programs on the discovery channel about motorcycles. i really like those shows. especially the one with the fat dude.

i paid to hear two songs and i got them plus a handful of others. heard “prison bound,” “ball and chain,” “under my thumb,” “makin’ believe,” “when she begins,” and “telling them.” others too, and they were the old ones [good thing]. i don’t remember anything from “white trash…” but i was loaded, so who gives a fuck. good show, solid tunes, but a bit too much on the harry hardwick side of the tracks.

dripping johnson picked up on the vibe early, whispering in my ear about violence and 'sharks to blood' and other such maniacal ramblings. he was and often is disgruntled…and there were far fewer females in attendance than i promised there would be. when i sensed the show was about to conclude, i rushed the pit and began dancing with my elbows in the air, randomly forearming big dudes in the back of the head and punchin suckas in the gut with my keys. got my nose bloodied…don’t cost nothin’. but in the larger scheme of things, i managed to get a wholesale brawl started amongst the aging skins in attendance and the whole horde of jocks who picked up on the rock thing when “alternative” [whatever the fuck that means] hit the airwaves. the homoeroticism in the room was almost palpable…you could have cut it with a pair of ben-wa balls. i covered my head with one arm and my ass with another and got the fuck out of there…made straight to the parking lot…nothing more to do here. out in the country and most definitely on the radar of some outback law enforcement, the only way out is to get on the highway and drive the wrong way.

in a bag

from listening to records i just knew what to do
i…i mainly taught myself
and you know i did pretty well
except
their were a few mistakes
but…uh…
that i made
that i have just recently cleared up

you know
i’d like at least to continue to be able to express
myself as best i can
[a mystery]

you know i feel like i have a lot of work to do still
you know
i’m a student of the drum
and i’m also a teacher of the drum

all the way live #3

[alright you filthy pigfuckers...you asked for it...the much anticipated republican rally review]

"alright you filthy pigfuckers...have at it!"

"and don't come back...mace won't be all next time."

oh wow…the ‘rockin’ republican rally’ was a complete debacle, a wild success and most assuredly put the federalés on our ass. mission accomplished. ‘sweaty teddy’ nugent was supposed to arrive and entertain those uptight assholes with some ‘shock and awe’ propaganda. we didn’t stay long enough to catch his act.

i got us backstage with some ‘authentic’ press credentials before the show began…people were still arriving, milling about, sipping coors light and pinning bush buttons on each others ass. the good doktor gets on the mic to welcome everyone to the event, you know, get everyone’s attention. i imagine there was a few hundred in the room already. then he thanks them all for coming out, rocking the vote, and murdering jesus. i fired the whole shitload of rats into the crowd. he yelled something about a bigger rat in the whitehouse, but by that time, they weren’t listening. the ripple effect of the rats in the crowd had quickly reached the walls. there was an exodus – an exodus of imbeciles, if you will...or won't. what fucking ever. see if i care – and the doors were flooded…people trying to get in, people trying to get out. rats all over the fucking floor. i saluted the stage crew and event organizers. then sweaty teddy comes all up on stage and he goes like this he goes he says "what's the capital of thailand?"

and then i said like this i goes i goes "what?"

and hes all like "bangkok" and punches me in the nuts.

and i'm all like "amaoatahaearaafauacakaeara" and i fall off the stage.

we got maced but it was worth it just for the mouth-breathing look of bastards beaten at their own game. we ran out an emergency fire exit for good measure.

“you know, we must take this act to the whitehouse.”

right on, brother, right fucking on.

dateline: toldeo, ohio

[henceforth, al coholic will be referred to as dr. wayward johnson. considering his recent exploits with the judge’s daughter, his new moniker is way more appropriate.]


while colonel dickhead [a.k.a., you guessed it, wayward johnson] wrapped his greasy paws around the judge’s daughter, i had to proofread her friends’ freshman english essays. that’s freshman: college and not freshman: high school. knowing dr. j’s reputation as a profligate, licentious, and immoral creature, i will forgive you. honest mistake.

for my time, effort, undivided attention, and unsurpassed ability to weave words like a river bends [dig it, baby], they invited me to a ‘rockin’ republican rally’ on the local campus, sponsored by the school’s young republicans.

i swear to god i got a boner.

i summoned the doctor at once, for there were many supplies necessary to cover such a musical event. we headed to the local strip mall and it’s pet store. our plan was to purchase as many live and frozen rats as possible, a simple plan for sure. what made the pet store semi-unique was its pair of angry ass-monkeys and a goat. the monkeys – maybe…but a goat is not a common sight in a strip mall.

dr. johnson made a comment about feeding the goat to his dog. the store manager overheard dr.j and demanded an immediate apology. there were a number of kids within earshot, and i suppose the manager was looking out for their best interest.

“excuse me, sir, but i think you owe these children an apology.”

“for what?”

“for your comment about the goat. he is practically a legend in this community…”

“you’re absolutely right. i do owe them something. can you hang onto this for a minute?”

and with that, dr. johnson handed the sack of frozen rats [you know, for pet constrictors] and the large carry-all of live ones to the teenage clerk behind the counter. that’s when i realized that the possibility of physical and mental breakdown was now very real. no sympathy for the devil, keep that in mind. buy the ticket, take the ride…


i could feel what was seething and i got his dog out of the car without speaking and walked with that foul beast [and the dog] back into the mall, past clusters of bewildered shoppers, families eating ice cream, old ladies on electric scooters. most stopped and craned their necks and a few followed at a comfortable distance. in such situations, it is best to walk at a brisk pace but not too quickly. walk with the purpose befitting the occasion. do not look anyone in the eye but do not look away. remember, you are a professional…

dr. j’s dog had no name and that was just as well. it was trained and well cared for, responding viciously when provoked and brutally when commanded. dr. johnson continued into the store while i stood on the side of the counter with the dog, his eyes fixed on the manager’s crotch.

“what are you doing? you can’t…”

all i had to say was “nixon.”

the dog pulled at the leash and raised his chest, all bared teeth and slobber, hell-bent on freedom and the manager’s nuts.

“make one move, fat man, and i’m lettin’ the dog loose.”

dr. wayward johnson was removing every animal from it’s cage…he didn’t fuck with the fish though, for chrissakes, this man had a heart. finches and parakeets, chinchillas and gerbils, scorpions, tarantulas, pythons, geckoes, hermit crabs, iguanas, dogs and cats living together…total anarchy. you name it, he was lettin’ it loose.

a crowd was gathering that included the mall cops, but come on, they’re only mall cops. all they could do was call the real cops, and unless a cruiser was driving near the entrance, i figured we had at least fifteen minutes before the cops arrived. besides, i was nearly drunk with power. i felt like – i don’t know – one of those gangster rappers or something. i had this fucking angry pitbull who dr. j trained to go completely nuts whenever someone mentions a republican. i paced in front of the store, givin’ bitches looks like they were the next one to get punched in the fuckin’ face. i even sicced [verb – to urge or incite to hostile action…past tense] the dog on the goat, but i only let in nip it in the ass. the goat broke free from its enclosure and butted a few old ladies in the rear before it ran into the mall, followed by – you guessed it – the security guards.

wayward dickhead brought the satchel of rats to the counter, you know, to let the manager ring them up. but all the fatman could do was splutter and blubber. he must have caught the fear…thought we were capable of some serious violence.

perhaps…but what he learned is that the doktor is utterly incapable of an apology.

all the way live #2

al scored tickets to a john mayer show in cleveland…so why not? it would allow us to do what we do best…like creatures in their natural habitat, if you will.

well? will you? you know…come on, don’t be stuck up. you know you want to.

right right…do what we do best. i find john mayer to be entirely unenjoyable and thoroughly devoid of the capacity to rock. his music is a lighter shade of dave matthews vanilla and his lyrics reveal an astonishing level of mental inertness…just the kind of gig that would no doubt attract hordes of young females. digging claws into this type of music fan is exactly what attracted al to the show. i went along because the venue was huge with a big parking lot…sure to attract surly types peddling all kinds of fantastic chemicals. or at least some cheap acid.

when you pull into these joints, some high school kid is making probably $10.00 an hour to tell you how and where to park your car like a sardine in a crushed tin. fuck them. al stomped the brakes and gas, cut the wheel, and slid in sideways, immediately cutting the engine and laying on the horn. when they threw a fit and threatened to have us towed, he said the car was in disrepair and would be impossible to start again at such short notice. some nonsense about a clogged manifold, flooded radiator, and a blown ‘o’-ring. besides, there was a chain of cars snaking it’s way behind us, and these parking morons probably couldn’t wait to join their mouth-breathing brethren for the evening’s concert. they looked like the type…and the jedi-mind-trick of an argument left them scowling and walking down the line to park the next hump.

we needed the sideways space to stretch out and throw garbage.

after five or thirteen drinks, i began to solicit [quite vocally, i might add] for narcotics. al had been doing his thing since he fell out of the car, but quickly fell into a dark and violent despair over the lack of his type of woman [read: females over 20]. annoyed with the slim pickings, al began to berate me about my lack of “couth and gentlemanly etiquette.” he believed it was my call for drugs that was scaring the girls away and not his stained paints, unlit cigarette, or foul and fetid demeanor. really, who wouldn’t want a ride on the slow-motion trainwreck that is his life? filthy bastard…

no booze for him!

he felt it necessary to repeatedly heart-punch me at erratic but frequent intervals. my speed and grass intake turned me into a blithering hyperactive paranoid and i was certain – certain i tell you – that my heart would be thrown into some kind of defibrillation by this ham-fisted scumbag. at that point, i did what any man would do when faced with a situation that could bring a real shitstorm down on an unsuspecting populace: i locked him in the trunk of his car until i could find something to call him down. i flagged down a wild-eyed mexican kid who had nine hits of paper that he assured would “trip my face off.” i was sold…this was just what al needed.

while i's taking a leak on the trunk of his car, i heard an ungodly groan and a maniacal banging from within the car. good god! i wondered…could he have taken someone’s hapless daughter with him into the trunk? certainly not…he had merely managed to kick out the back seat and was crawling his way towards the steering wheel. time to go!

so, if you want to find out about john mayer, don’t. from what i recall, the audience was dressed horribly and behaved miserably…all types of fratwear and sandals and hemp necklaces, which – by the way – do not get you stoned if you rip it off someone named Tad’s neck and smoke it.

one hit

cody chesnuTT – eric burdon [from the headphone masterpiece record]

guess what i just heard…”eric burdon.’ take nine.” i probably listened to this tune a hundred times or better and that’s the first time i ever heard cody chesnuTT [capitalize, please] say it. but so what. i probably listened to it 25 times before i knew what the title was. that’s how deep it is…you don’t even want to stop listening to the song to come up and check the title. just cody and a guitar, a backing vocal, and his mojo. the song has two undeniably catchy parts which my severely limited music-critic vocabulary can only describe as a chorus…not one, count ‘em, two motherfucker. get this now and find out why this site is called “pressurepressure.” forgive me god if i'm nothing at all without my mojo.

on the record #2

drop what your doin’ because i'm about to ruin your record collection…that’s right, i said it. it had to be said…your record collection sucks anyway, what with all the dokken and savatage albums, but if you don’t own a record by the truckers, well, i'm not sure how to finish that without cursing. that’s right…and i think i'm letting you off easy when i said “a” [which means less than two]. so, right now, go out and get a truckers record.

i'll tell ya about the first one i stole.

the drive-by truckers - the dirty south

do you know who john henry was? how about carl perkins? no? mary alice? george a? manuel or danko? john wayne and the sands of iwo jima? don’t worry, the truckers will school ya. how about buford pusser? oh yeah, you know buford pusser. BA-YOO-FURD PUSS-HER, c’mon say it with me…buford pusser. that might just be the best name since johnny knoxville, or brock landers, or yail bloor, or turd ferguson. motherfuckin’ buford pusser.

buford pusser is the sheriff who spawned the legend of “walking tall.” and fuck buford pusser anyway, but goddamm if that name ain’t the tits. i love to say the name and the truckers got two – count ‘em – two tunes about buford. one of them starts off with patterson hood warbling about some dude caught “smokin’ grass.” that’s gangster, and goddamm it if from now on i ain’t calling it grass. no more weed, chit, michu acan, buds, dope…it’s nothing but grass, baby.

great, great lyrics that tell about “the duality of the southern thing,” through the eyes of some wild characters. something spoke to me…maybe it’s this chip i've carried about growing up unwealthy and white [trash]. not in any predictable way, like rebel flags and shit, but i guess that’s part of their thing too…the whole “duality of the southern thing,” which is kinda deep, man, especially if you’re smokin’ grass. you know, to be completely serious and completely full of shit at the same time.

so get this and immediately listen to “never gonna change,” at ear-bleed volume. but keep the blood off of the carpet, because if there is one thing i know about, it’s blood, and it’s a motherfucker to get off of any kind of fabric without leaving trace evidence behind that some smart-ass lawyer picks up on and tries to use to tie you to a homicide, but fuck it man, i was out of town that night…i was framed and i ain’t never goin’ back behind the wall…NEVER!

no doubt...best thing i got all year. “southern rock opera” and “decoration day” would be well worth your money and time, but not as worthy of your money as me. send it in sacks, please. i do, however, have an area of concern. my suggestions for improvement? band name. they would be huge – and so, so much more on the mark – if their name was the drive-by motherfuckers.

it's the awesome return of...

[delivered via homing pigeon]

al is not eating [only drinking] to keep the fear up, but fuck all that, there’s enough of that down here to keep the eyes wide at night. i am on the road not by choice but by impossible circumstances, and nothing could have been better for me. i would advise you to do the same…business is not healthy here, or there, or wherever you are.

so run. unplug. and run. go anywhere, but just go, because it’s coming on. it's right below the horizon like a black sun and it’s creeping up on you and the only thing to do is to run and keep on going so it never shines it’s search light on you.

that's right, mama, i'm talking about the man. that's right, the man. uncle charley. mister bossman. el jefe. the head something-or-other in charge. the man, motherfucker, the man.

you think i'm paranoid? ok, ok. oh, i know…i can tell by the way you are looking at me. but what would you have done? well? tell me! that’s what i thought. stop looking at me!

look, all i can say is that it involved a cop, an axe, a chicken, and his dog. say no more.
so while i am on the lam, let me regale you, child, with stories of corruption, crime and killing, yes it's true. greed and fixed elections, guns and drugs and whores and booze.

message from johnny

johnny is on the road for a while after a mishap with a local k-9 unit. he left this message on the answering machine:


"i wanna be free!
i wanna be free to do what i want to do!
i wanna be free to ride my machine without being hasseled by the man!
and i wanna get loaded!" [wild cheering in the background]


your guess is as good as ours.

stop asking for johnny. he ain't here. we found this address in his wallet and he told us to update as necessary. whatever that means.