It's a day off from work that sucks my black little soul dry. To replenish, I've been doing work that fills my black little soul with love and joy: writing. All fucking day long, Saint Vitus and The Southern Death Cult blasting as I feebly make my way through multiple writing projects, with occasional breaks to read from Lawrence Lipton's excursion into koolsville, The Holy Barbarians.

I'm fucking fried. In a good way. In the best possible way.

Last night, I finished up T.S.O.L. front man, Jack Grisham's amazing memoir, An American Demon. Do yourself a favor and read it. Whether you're an OG punk rocker, or someone whose love of punk goes no farther than that stupid distressed CBGB's shirt you bought at Urban Outfitters, you'll love it. Like Patti Smith's brilliant, Just Kids was for me last year, I'm sure this one will be my favorite book of the year.

Like I said, I'm too fried to write much that's coherent. At least I'm not writing a blog like the one I read this morning in which the asswipe author pissed and moaned about people who post less than expertly-shot-with expensive-equipment photos and videos on the internet. Fucking wanker.



Hail Satan.