Howdy, folks, just finishing off an evening of pub-crawling here in Dogpatch. Tonight was apparently Her Majesty’s Eighties-Trash Night in the Old Country, and every song the bars played reminded me of sweaty, fumbling encounters in the back of somebody’s brother’s car with a hopped-up cheerleader and a bottle of Boone’s Farm. The eighties were a sweaty, fumbling time for me, in the Biblical sense, as it was for the entire world, on a more philosophical level. Ah, good times.

So, I’m finishing up the evening, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and water, while honey-baby is sleeping off the spins in the other room. Going through the iPod, I found some old INXS tunes, determined to extend the roller-rink vibe. Man oh man, Michael Hutchence, he had it all. Fame, looks, talent. Inspiration for such songs as Disappear, Listen Like thieves, the Devil Inside. Then, he died of asphyxiation while masturbating, hung from the neck by his own leather belt. There but for the grace of God, I thought to myself, then drifted off to sleep.