Oh My E R

Here's a nice article about the series' finale of ER, one of my favorite television shows of all time. Fifteen years it's been on! It's hard not to think of a television show like a band, with seasons like albums, & especially a show like ER which currently has nobody in the cast who was there when it first went on the air. (Same thing with Law & Order now, too.) I guess with Carter back this season for the end it's the television show that's most like The Fall, although the Noah Wyle as Mark Smith comparison fails or so many levels, starting with a full set of teeth & sliding down.

Also, like many bands, the earlier seasons of television shows ("their first albums") are a lot better than the later seasons. There are only a few television shows that ended anywhere near the strength of their beginning, although some (like Deep Space Nine) don't find their feet right away. But the same is true for bands.

Which is my way of saying I am as sad about ER going off the air as I might be about one of my favorite bands breaking up - but a band that didn't still have all the members it had when it released its best work, & a band that I still listen to from time-to-time - & always get the new record - but that I don't expect to be wowed in the same way I was when I first heard them.

I won't get to watch the episode tonight, though, as the wife's out of town & I have to wait for her return to see it. Luckily Smallville's on! You heard me! I watch superhero television shows too! What're you gonna do about it?

Whither Fortune Telling?

Before I started writing this blog post about this week's Self Help Radio, I was writing an email to someone who is supposed to be helping me on a project but who is totally slacking & so, I kinda drifted off into a slight daze wherein I was writing this person an email & it began, in my head, "Dear Person, I know you're as busy as a weasel just outside Denver..."

I'm not sure where that came from, so I googled "weasels" & "denver" & got a couple of hits, none of which explain my simile, but which are interesting all the same.

One: The Young Weasels, a New Wave band from twenty-five years ago. Here's an interesting sentence: "The group was an opening act for many of the touring punk bands that passed through Colorado like The Teardrop Explodes, Loverboy, and in their triumphant return to Denver in 1983 The Varve." Of course, I am a huge Varve fan, if "Varve" means a sexual act that encourages you to make a noise like "varve!" But what's intriguing to me is not that Loverboy - Lovermotherfuckingboy! - would ever be considered punk, but that they're actually, non-ironically, in the same sentence as The Teardrop Explodes. Whoever wrote this wasn't just working for the weekend - the kid was hot that night.

Two: Weasels Rocky Mountain. The Colorado version of a California motorcycle enthusiast group (there's a Texas chapter, I like them because of their tag line: "A Drinking Club With a Motorcycle Problem."

Where was I? Oh yeah, weasels. As far as I know, the Babylonians, the Greeks, the Romans, or the countless other sick bastards who practiced hepatomancy didn't cut open weasels, but if they had, it wouldn't have begun to explain why, in the middle of composing an email in one's head, one would suddenly come up with a simile like the one my brain invented as I began to write this blog post. Some might say, well, Gary, that's because hepatomancy is an art, not a science, & no one gets trained in entrails-reading any more. Good riddance I say! Well, well, well, Gary, you say, would you then destroy all the Magic 8 Balls too?

(Okay, when I start arguing with myself, it gets ugly. Just slip away. I'm sure I won't notice & if I do, I'll try to stall me. Go! Go!)

Spread Like Summer Butter

Hmm, I don't know what that means.

Here's two things though that would be sweet on bread (or salty, I guess, if I continue this increasingly uncomfortable metaphor): last week's Self Help Radio spun crazily out of control & you can listen to it without feeling the slightest bit dizzy. I encourage it.

Also, I finish March's Self Help Radio Extra if you have the gall or gumption to enjoy some nice songs mixed together without a peep from me.

I save all my peeping for the regular show.

You know what I mean.

Butter!

The Self Help Radio Email Archive Project: Submission Eight

Another flirtatious email, written over ten years ago. I quoted an entire Leonard Cohen song in the email, but I have snipped it here. Please to enjoy my shabby past.

Oh yeah, the email was called "Bum & Bummer." It's nowhere near as good an email title as one that I can't share, which I just found, called "Single White Futile." That's funny!

-----

I don't have any understanding of righteous. I once had confidence, but I lost it to a confidence man. I can't believe that there are togethers, couplings, kisses, or mooning in moonlight. I'll take it under advisement.

FIRST PLAN: Unfortunately I remember everything.

SECOND PLAN: What I want has nothing to do with anyone else.

THIRD PLAN: When all else fails, I turn to art.

FOURTH PLAN: All else has failed, now I have only art.

FIFTH PLAN: Once upon a time, long ago, probably never, a small group of very sad travellers alit on an island, whereupon they remembered their feet tingling when it touched the slightly soggy dry land. They said some sad prayers to their forgetful god, & constructed a makeshift shelter. It was a sort of home, but they found they missed the sweet sounds of the sea. They found that the stars, though they moved across the sky in their usual way, abandoned the twirling & chaotic manner they had become accustomed to on the sea, & marched straight, one side of the horizon to another.

But they got used to it & stayed there.

SIXTH PLAN: When art fails, all is lost.

SEVEN PLAN: Certainty is many-tentacled, & blows bubbles. Certainly, you can love nearly everything & everyone, but self-made monsters deserve pity, not love. One should wear crazy qualifiers like oddball fashions, culled together from here & there like thrift shop shopping sprees.

EIGHTH PLAN: Honesty is a weapon. Honesty is a flower. Honesty is a mistake. Honesty is a good idea. Honesty is impossible. Honesty is inevitable. Honesty is a dog person. Honesty is a cat person. Honesty quakes. Honesty murmurs.

NINTH PLAN: Self-serving Leonard Cohen poems are just that.

TENTH PLAN: Go ahead, ask.

Whither Spinning?

First of all, my apologies for being too exhausted to make sure the link to the Bearsuit KVRX session was correct. It wasn't. It is now. Download away!

Second of all, I don't know why I feel the need to use the phrase "second of all" when I use the phrase "first of all." Oh, wait, I do. It's like when the wife starts to say something, & she says, "One, this is what I meant to say." Then she never uses the "two." I am the opposite of that. If you say, "First of all," you need to continue the list. If you say, "A," please say "B." Etc.

Third of all, there's an old hippie song that I unfortunately have too many covers of. It goes like this:

The cripple taught us how to dance, the blind man taught us how to see
The fallen angel taught us how to fly & the prisoner taught us how to be free

And now we're spinning, spinning, spinning
Spinning, spinning through this magic land
Getting back to the beginning of the end that we once had
We're seeing how tomorrow like sparkling waves of sand
Being washed by waves of laughter, guided by the master's hand

We're dancing now we have no feet
Our eyes are gone the light shines bright
Our wings are clipped and yet we soar
& love runs free forever more

Why not come dance along with me
You'll see what's not was meant to be
We'll fly through space without a care
& free our brothers from despair

Spinning, spinning, spinning, etc.

They bothered a cripple to teach them how to dance? Fucking hippies! I bet they were making fun of him the whole time. Or would that be the slackers? Yeah, afterwards, the hippies got the cripple stoned.

In any event, I'm deeply annoyed by the line about the "master's hand." It makes the song seem a little cultish. Like "the master" (God? Sri Rajneesh? Their roadie?) needs to keep everyone a little dizzy to make them do whatever he (or she) wants them to do. It's a hippy song made almost entirely out of hemp, but boy is it theological unsound.

I know, it's mainly an exercise in a kind of Zen koan-ish play on opposites - we see better now we're blind, we dance better now that we're amputees. But the implication is that "the master" wants it this way, & that makes him kind of a cruel fucker. Also, "what's not was meant to be"? Does that mean they've got a death wish?

The last week's been a whirlwind but I'm entirely responsible for it. Besides, it's more fun to spin because you want to, not just because your cult needs you dancing a little vertigo-go to sink their medium rare philosophies.

Me, I want a merry-go-round! Not one of these. One of these!

Preface To Spinning: Hey. This Is The 600th Blog Post!

Well, then. I don't imagine there's anything else I can add. I mean, my gosh! Six hundred spots! Who knew I had six hundred of them in me? Oh my god. Maybe that's it. Maybe I can't write anything more. Maybe all I had was six hundred posts in me (& good lord some of them {like this one} were pretty crappy) & I'll have no more. Jeez! What happens if you show up to read this blog tomorrow, & there's a giant layer of dust over this site & you're all like, "What happened? Did Gary just have something like six hundred pieces of writing in him, most of them pretty dull & hopelessly self-reflexive in a way that shows that perhaps it didn't have even one hundred blog posts in them?" Would you be sad? Would you just say, "Oh well. The next six hundred might have been absolutely dreadful"? Can I apologize in either case? God, I feel bad that I am writing this at the ass-end of a Tuesday when I totally had time at 5:30 but chose instead to play a video game. This is how I celebrate my six hundredth post! This is how I choose to celebrate what may be the last ever Self Help Radio blog post! & I'm also half-listening to this Charlie Kaufman interview & not even really thinking of what I'm writing anyway!

Oh well. Happy six hundred! For me, at least. For you - I'm sorry. I think I'll end up writing more. Sorry.

Ah! No Self Help Radio Last Week!

I'm sorry, friends, I had visitors for SXSW & was too busy to do Self Help Radio last week. I'm sure it completely ruined your weekend. Or maybe you didn't know there was a Self Help Radio that goes with this blog. I perfectly understand.

However, here are two treats for your tweets.

One is Bearsuit live at KVRX during their 3x5 event during SXSW. You can listen to that awesome session at the Self Help Radio website.

Also, later that day, Boston's One Happy Island stopped by for an acoustic set & a brief, very silly interview. That's too much fun & it's also available for listening at the Self Help Radio website.

So, you can see, a lot of stuff was happening. I only wish I could have warned you sooner.

Enjoy the live radio music! It's happiness!

It May Be Quiet Around Here This Week...

There are people coming by for SXSW - staying with me, drinking my beer, hitting me repeatedly over the head with a plastic mallet. Some of them might even be in a band which I can't WAIT to see during the festival - one of the bands I played on last week's Self Help Radio. I won't tell all until they're back in their respective countries.

So please excuse this empty blog this week. I'll stop by once or twice, but the regularly scheduled nonsense has now been moved to the real world.

A Month Of Somedays

It's the week before spring break at the University where I work, so there are lots of folks leaving. Be safe on America's highways! So many people seem to die there! (It was something like thirty-five thousand last year, although that number was down because of high oil prices.)

As far as I know, no one has died listening to me on the radio. But surely that's not a good enough reason to listen! But here's one: I keep the quality of Self Help Radio consistent so you don't have to! Warning: keeping the quality "consistent" does not necessarily imply that the quality is "good." Let the caveat be emptor.

I am sleepy because I travelled back & forth from Dallas yesterday, & luckily did not die on the highway, although the highway gave its level best. Except when we were going uphill. Then it wasn't so level. Ha ha. I slay me. But I am fully recharging tonight with a bottle of something & a bite of something else that didn't come from a bottle, unless it's a sauce or something, & I'll wake up earlyish tomorrow to deliver another non-lethal dose of Self Help Radio.

That's all for this week. Next week, though, that hasn't even begun yet.

Whither SXSW 2009?

I dunno, something to wrap my head around.

Wrap is not rap, of course, but I do feel a little like doing some kind of wrap rap. I could rap about wraps, blankets, cloaks & capes, jackets & stoles, shawls & all. Or I could rap about wrapping, bundling, binding, enveloping, swaddling or swathing, putting on mufflers, scarves, clothes in layers, wrapping up for the cold, for the night, for the day. Hey! That's another kind of wrapping - wrapping up! The wrap party, where everything is ended, concluded, completed, finished, over, done. The wrap winds it all down. & the wrap-up can summarize, can sum up the run down, can give you the abstract of the real. Still, this rapper doesn't want that kind of wrapper. No sir.

I don't got no app to help me rap
About the crap around my head I wrap
Is it a trap? Be a good chap
& shut your yap. I've got to tap
Into the lagniappe, put on my thinking cap
Make a flap like a speed trap
On a weather map dangling from my shoulder strap.
Zap! I put a cap in your ass while you nap
Dripping like the sap of a tree with the clap
Somewhere in the Cumberland gap
Call your mom & pap, I'll give you the scraps
That should make you happy, snappy.
Peace. & we out.

Preface To SXSW2009: I Think I've Been Doing This For Like A Million Years

I didn't start writing this blog until it was guaranteed to be ignored by even the most learned of non-listeners, but I do recall that I wrote this last year:

I am writing this blog with something just a little like sadness, as this is probably the last time I will get to write about Austin's yearly clusterfuck called "South By South West." I will most probably not be in this city next year so I won't get to play bands that are coming to Austin in order to edutain you about my faves. & surely that is a sadness.

Feh! Fie! I didn't get to leave town, & here I am doing another SXSW show.

Which is weird, because I probably won't attend anything having to do with the "festival" (surely that's a misnomer) unless it has something to do with KVRX or with my friends in Bearsuit, who I hope hope hope make it this year. If only to remind me that the love will never find me.

Oh, time. Why dost thou flow in such a meandering yet predictable course? I am remembering of course the words of the Poet who said, "Surely is time like unto a douchebag who, knowing not his dickishness, doth presume to continue in his annoying fucking manner."

Truer words were never written down. I mean it - they were never written down. I just made all that up. Seriously. I know, didn't it sound like Shakespeare or some other dumb-ass high-school-requirement writer? I can do that ALL motherfucking day long if I want. Oh & I want. I want.

What Can I Add To The Great Debate About Sex Education?

Nothing, really. I had finished my education by the time sex came around. So I didn't even get the reading list.

What I can add to is the list of bands & songs that make up the ill-defined (especially by me) genre of "indiepop." Please listen to the this week's Self Help Radio to find out what bands I consider indiepop between the letters De & Di (or so) in the most recent installment of the never-ending series "Indiepop A To Z." I believe it's the nineteenth installment. That makes it the nineteenth nervous breakdown installment. Or no, no it doesn't.

Friday Ant Talk

Not speaking of ants, should I go see the Watchmen movie? I probably will, but, really, should I?

None of this has anything to do with Self Help Radio, I know. Which will be new tomorrow afternoon, you well know. Just saying.

I describe the little ants that show up occasionally on my desk at work to remind me I'm a sloppy eater "sugar ants," & I think I heard my sister call them that when I was younger because they would, in fact, get into the sugar, but were smaller & lighter than the weird black-&-red ants that made the giant hillocks outside. But this, Wikipedia tells me, is a sugar ant. They are not on my desk. Thank god.

I googled "ants of Texas" to see what I could see & found this page: Some Problem Invertebrates of Texas. I'm all like, I know those dudes! But it's not about losers I go drinking with, it's about bugs, & the number one is not the tiny ant lingering stupidly around some soda bottle cap I need to throw away, but - you better believe it - the Rasberry Crazy Ant. Please note, not raspberry. They don't like the fruit or make the farty noise.

Aha! The ant I am seeing is called a Pharoah Ant. It doesn't say so on the Wikipedia page I link to there, but this page notes, "Also called 'sugar ants' or 'piss ants,' these are some of the smallest ants, about 1/12 to 1/16 inch long, with light tan to reddish bodies." Piss ants? Luckily for me, "These ants do not sting and usually do not bite." Because I feel them crawling all over me all the damn time.

That's all. Have a good weekend!

Whither Indiepop A To Z # 19?

My greatest fear, or my second-greatest fear, because I'm mainly afraid of bugs, is that I am getting the numbering of this Indiepop A To Z wrong. Not that it matters, of course - as long as I don't repeat myself. & I am not. In fact, I am deep in the Ds, which may sound naughty but only if you can explain to me why that would sound naughty.

What's really naughty, of course, are gargoyles. Don't believe me? Have a look at Satan In The Groin. Just try to avoid the photographer's self-portrait at the very end. It was completely unnecessary.

Where was I? I wasn't anywhere. I was somewhere in the middle of a never-ending attempt to make a gigantic list of oftentimes one-off bands (including bands that aren't technically indiepop but that have something about them that makes me think they're influential to indiepop, or influenced by indiepop, or share some of the same spirit of indiepop, or are just too adorable not to include) with virtually no one helping but me. So of course I leave a lot of stuff out. I also put a lot of stuff in that some folks would disagree with. Yet I continue. This hamster treadmill called Indiepop A To Z.

Big names this show include Depeche Mode, Devo & the Divine Comedy. I know you probably don't think two out of three of them are indiepop. Well, nyah. Make your own list. (twee.net has, & I use that, along with my record collection, as the base of my own list.) Make your own podcast! Make your own bed & sleep in it!

But do listen this week. Lists are great. Alphabetical lists are awesome. Alphabetical lists that are pretending to be comprehensive rule.

Preface To Indiepop A To Z # 19: What Would Piet Mondrian Do?

If you're one of the eager listeners who has already consumed last week's Self Help Radio - the one about "generations" - you're not only a member of the Self Help Radio Generation (or Gen-Help!), but you might have noticed how the hungover host, whose name is me, was a little nonplussed at the show's end about the theme of the next week's show. The host (me, remember) said, with something authority, "It'll be about south by south west. I'm sure of it!"

Well, it won't be. Sorry. SXSW '09 happens in like two weeks or something. I'll give my recommendations for bands & shows in the next show, next week. This week, I'm continuing with the indiepop a to zs, which I had planned for the next week, the week of SXSW. Now that week will have something else. Oh my achin' noggin!

Why did I make sure a mistake? Is it all that cough syrup I keep freebasing? I hope not! What would I do without my Robitussin high?

Is it old age? Did I have a "senior moment"? What if I just feel a little sophomoric? Or am I being too fresh, man? Watch, it junior! Puns are for geeks & loners!

It is not my inability to stop misusing over-the-counter drugs, nor is it my impending descent into early-onset Alzheimer's. It's something more inane: I have trouble reading a calendar. There! I said! Thirty days has September, blah-dee-blah, what? Hunh? Take pity on me! The days of the week merge into one, the weeks of the year melt into two, the months of the year blur into four, all the way up to millenia cubed! It's not my fault! Some people are dyslexic. I am calendarlexic. & that bodes ill for planned shows.

But I just smoked some Nyquil, so I'll be able to handle the pressure of this week's show.

Contraceptive Education On A Sunday Morning

Imagine! The scandal! The information! The Hollywood!

As the co-creator & line producer for the hit new religious/fantasy (okay, the words mean the same thing) show, "Contraceptive Education On A Sunday Morning," I am pleased that our pilot episode, "Surgical Solutions For Contraception," struck such a chord with the usually devout church-going Sunday morning sex education crowd. Already, the death threats are pouring in. For example, one Adam C of Pflugerville writes daintily: "You will burn in HELL you SATANIC FAGOT!" He also included a self-addressed stamped envelope for a copy of the show's transcript, which he hopes he can burn in the soonest bonfire his congregation can organize, which should be any day now, since football season is over.

We here at "Contraceptive Education On A Sunday Morning" are proud to announce, barely moments after the first series was cancelled, to creating & filming as we speak a spin-off called "Teenagers! Have Sex Without All The Fuss Of Marriage & Commitment!", a new weekly series airing around the same time everyone in church is either extremely bored or seething with limitless rage. We intend to have "Teen Profligate" clubs in high schools as soon as possible, which will include great tee shirts to counter those of the abstinence-only clubs. In fact, we hope to have shirts that says stuff like "Why Be A Pussy & Wait To Get Some Pussy?" No sexists or homophobes we! We plan for an girl/male homosexual version that says "Why Be A Dick & Wait To Get Some Dick?" It is our great hope that organizations like True Love Waits will engage in friendly rivalries with the Teen Profligates but in case it all goes south, we're also teaching self-defense classes & issuing all members an unlicensed firearm.

So much work to do, & none of it has anything to do with this week's Self Help Radio, which was all about the generations. It shall ring forth through the generations, as well, but for right now, those of the greatest current generation can listen to it at selfhelpradio.net.

It has nothing to do with sex education. I don't know why you thought that.

Your Thursday Treat At The Ass End Of Friday

Now, normally you get your Friday treat on Saturday with the week's Self Help Radio (which of course will drop sometime tomorrow afternoon & which will be all about every generation ever). & normally, a Thursday treat comes on a Thursday. But today I am forced to give you a Thursday treat on a Friday, defying all conventions of polite society & insulting all that is sacred & respectful to those who hold common courtesy dear.

Luckily, it's a good treat. There's a well-respected show on KVRX called The Afro Boogaloo Soul Revue which happened this week to be guest-hosted by my sometime therapist & all-time carpentry helper, Dick Dickenbock. He's proud of the show, which he managed to do despite having taken too many tylenol day-caplets & forced to sit next to a tall kid named Jason the entire time, so he asked if I could put it up for his mother & the rest of the world to hear. I did.

It's around the corner at selfhelpradio.net. Dick Dickenbock says, "You're welcome."

God I hate him sometimes.

Another Special Thursday Treat!

...delayed!

That's right! I had a terrific Thursday Treat (tm) for your sweet tooth (even the sweet tooth in your mind) - but only conceptually! It will take a little bit of time before it's actually prepared. It's like I invited you over for cake, but you got here at the right time only I just had a big bowl full of dough. & while I'm pretty sure you'd just eat the dough (& get salmonella), I can't afford to waste a few hours in the emergency room with you today.

I also can't afford to waste a few hours to (completing my metaphor) make your cake. Sorry! But it would have been a surprise, wouldn't it? You weren't expecting it, were you? Then why do I feel like apologizing? Because - I know you like cake.

I'll have it for you tomorrow. Just in time for the dentist on Monday. Okay, that metaphor has gone too far. Let me rephrase:

I'll have it for you tomorrow. Just in time for the therapist on Monday.

That's better!

Whither Generations?

No, I don't mean Star Trek: Generations. I would never do a radio show about that movie. The lighting on the main deck is so damn dark!

By the way, the IMDb score for that movie is 6.4. That's the same score for The Phantom Menace. Imagine! & Star Wars fans think that Star Trek fans are delusional!

Luckily, they now have to contend with Battlestar Galactica fans. Until the new Star Trek movie. Damn!

As for generations, look. We were once all part of the Pepsi Generation. Before that, I think we were part of the Coffee Generation. Now that we've finished Generations X, Y, XY, YY & Z, we need to take some stock. We need to add more letters to the alphabet. May I suggest dek, el, & doh? No one is using them for their little twelvetoes, so why can't we add them to the alphabet so we can have three more generations?

I know, we may not have many more generations, not at the rate you're drinking whiskey. Not at the speed you're driving. But isn't it just the way? The minute someone comes along, someone called Self Help Radio, & he or she or it (or she-it) decides to name & number & celebrate & commemorate the "generations" that came before, generations stop being generated. It makes me worry, you know, about all those reproducers out there. Did they save their receipts?

It's bad planning all around, frankly. Let's make sure it's badly executed!

Preface To Generations: Spontaneous!

From this page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spontaneous_generation:

Spontaneous generation is an obsolete theory regarding the origin of life from inanimate matter, which held that this process was a commonplace & everyday occurrence. The theory was synthesized by Aristotle; it held sway for two millennia. It is generally accepted to have been ultimately disproven in the 19th Century by the experiments of Louis Pasteur, expanding upon the experiments of other scientists before him. Ultimately, it was succeeded by germ theory & cell theory.

The disproof of ongoing spontaneous generation is no longer controversial, now that the life cycles of maggots & other pests have been well documented. However, the question of abiogenesis, how living things originally arose from non-living material, remains relevant today.

The show this week has nothing to do with this kind of generation, unless someone is planning on calling a group of people born around the same time in the same cultural milieu the "spontaneous generation," which they probably shouldn't.

Instead, I am reminded of a story about a kid who went to my elementary school named Chuck who remained forever infamous (until he disappeared some time in the fifth grade) because he happened to be called "Chuck" when we as second graders had discovered the word "upchuck," a euphemism for vomiting that would later be superseded by the Valley Girl/Simpsons-approved "hurl." Anyway, whenever our teacher Mrs Chumley would say the word "up," those of us too precious for our own good would say, as fast as possible, "chuck." Chumley shut us down after about five minutes of this nonsense, but the boy Chuck showed up around the same time, so we took to muttering "up" to ourselves whenever she called on Chuck.

Chuck looked like he stepped out of a fifties sitcom, but poorer & dirtier. Even though I was probably equally poor, I wasn't unbelievably dumb & didn't sound like a redneck, which, unfortunately for Chuck, he did, & since I sounded more middle class than he did (& was probably also cleaner), I was spared the sort of ridicule Chuck got.

One day, sitting outside school for some reason, I noticed a dead squirrel in the bushes covered in flies & other bugs, & was doing what kids do, picking at it with a stick, when Chuck walked by, noticed me just staring there, & came to look at what I was looking at, like kids do. In probably the first (& last) words he ever spoke to me, he said, "That's how they're made." I said, "What?" He said, "Bugs. Bugs come from dead things." I said, "Bugs lay eggs." He said, "They do?" I said, "Sure." He said, "I thought dead things died & then bugs came from inside-a them." I said, "I think bugs lay eggs."

So Aristotle was alive & well in Garland, Texas, in 1975. As a side note, I wonder if Chuck has ever had any reason to write or think about that time in his life, let alone some fat kid he once saw poking around a dead squirrel. Probably not.