Mistah Crass, he dead.

Looks like, in my efforts to reclaim the blog name on the top of the page by changing my template, I have succeeded in destroying all my links and erased all previously-stated comments. Sorry, folks - Phil Nugent's comment from today was quite a funny one, too.

Well, hey, in lieu of compelling new content, howzabout a bittersweet outlay of evidence in re: how prolific I used to be? It seems that my ex-employers at Lollipop magazine were kind enough to construct a page containing links to most of the features I, my rock-crit pseudonym, my pseudonym's nonexistent 14-year-old brother, my pseudonym's pseudonym (and, in the case of the haiku reviews, my pseud's pseud's pseud), composed for the mag during my last two years of quasi-gainful employment there. And shock/horrors, not a whole lot of it sucks outright. Some of it's even pretty good. There are some embarrassments as well, but I'm not telling you which ones I think they are. And I do find it most interesting that I composed a piece filled with the purest self-loathing and anguish during what comes to mind now as my peak-to-date of productivity and creativity. Anyway, poke at these aged entrails if it suits you.

Okay, I'm back, sort of. Probably not best to give too many details about the elapsed time 'twixt posts (not when prying eyes are smiling) - suffice to say, the kidney stones that attacked me a week and a half ago served as light entertainment by comparison to everything else. (When your cheeriest recent moment involves you lying supine, pharmed-out to the max on Percocet just enough to reduce the burning pain in your side to Zippo-strength, and ruminating on what a great band name "Renal Colic" would be, well, that's just nutty.) But fear not, gentle reader - any further entries in this slowly-rolling web log will be free of self-pity, corked whine and primal screech. The byword here - hell, the very mandate - is now and shall forever hereafter remain simple, unadulterated, capital-F lowercase u-n Fun.

Which we'll get to soon. I'm ten minutes late for my daily self-flagellation and psychological auto-abuse appointment, then it's an hour of lacrymose wailing before work. I'm a busy man.