Pick up the phoneI'm here aloneOr make a social callCome right in, forget about himWe'll have ourselves a ball

Those Japanese are crazy.



The shingles suck.

There is a lot of pain involved.

Exercise, at this point, is an impossibility.

As is sleeping for more than an hour, or sitting in one position. I stood to watch the Sopranos last night. Speaking of which... Holy. Shit. That was more intense than Ted Nugent's live album, Intensity in Ten Cities, which is surely in the top ten for all-time album titles.

Seriously, this final season is a masterwork. Actually, screw it, I'm gonna lay it down- it is the best television show of all time. The Wire is the only thing close in drama. The only other show I enjoyed as consistently as the Sopranos was Seinfeld. ((Little Jerry goes down in the third round of the main event. Thanks, Kyle.)) Also, the Sopranos and Seinfeld are the only two shows that hold up to repeated viewings. By way of contrast, I probably couldn't (((wouldn't))) sit through an epsiode of Cheers or MASH.

Even still, I get jacked on Sunday, about two hours before the Sopranos starts. It is like an event.

This Sunday is the last one. Me and my shingles will be parked in the perfect chair, or perhaps pacing in pain as I watch it.

I am writing about television. It is sunny and gorgeous. The rivers are raging with runoff. There is snow on the peaks and the foliage is as green as it gets in Montana. Somewhere, as I type, a trout is rising to take a fly.

Hey, Jesus?

This stinks.

I am laying blame squarely on the shoulders of that venomous scorpion for lowering my Constitution by 2 points. (((((Anyone have a twenty-sider? I'm gonna slap this thing back before the poison takes hold.)))))

There is no AC/DC on Itunes. That's bullshit. I had a hankering for some Bon Scott. All I have here is a couple from Brian Johnson. Granted, Back in Black is no slouch ((((((I am listening to it now)))))), but a little High Voltage or Highway to Hell would go down like some sweet, sugary Kool-Aid right now.


Or Dirty Deeds.

I don't care what you say, it doesn't get any more rock and roll than that.

I think I may start some type of internet petition to Bill Gates or Tom Cruise, requesting that the AC/DC lightning bolt be added as a key to keyboards worldwide. It should really be there, and you know it.

Do we need this: ~?

~I don't think so~

I'd much rather lay down the AC/DC lightning bolt there.

Maybe Oprah could get it done.

Maybe she could turn back time and roll him on his side, so he didn't asphyxiate.

Then again, suffering begets great art.

And, verily, undeniably, indubitably, indisputably... this is great art:



Truer words have never been spoken. And check Angus, bobbing his head in lock-step with the high-hat and marching along with the bass drum. Dude.

I defy you to find someone who rocked harder than Bon Scott.

(((((((Led Zeppelin circa 1972-1978 is excluded, on principle. Thanks for asking.)))))))

You can throw a Keith Moon at me, but if I had five bucks and there was a cage match rock-off between Bon Scott and Keith Moon?

The smart money is on Bon Scott.

With all due respect to Oprah and Bill Gates [and Britney Spears], and their water-into-wine powers, Bon Scott died, and AC/DC replaced him with this guy, and recorded this song, this album:



I don't know where you were in 1981, but in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, that shit was blaring out of every Camaro in a 60 mile radius.

Back then, I wasn't even sure what my groin was for, or much less, how to use it... but those guys gave me a pretty good idea.

And for that,

I

Salute

You.

Concrete Shoes.

Cyanide.

TNT.

Neckties.

Contracts.

High Voltage.

High voltage, indeed.