Hey guys?

My eldest nephew, who is all of thirteen, has told me that he and a friend are starting a band. They said they want to play something "loud and rocking" at their school's talent show next year. He has confided in me that he hopes "to freak some people out".

This sensation down in my stomach..is this what pride feels like?

Rants in the Pants

In this month's issue of Rolling Stone, they made their list of "100 Greatest Guitar Songs of All Time". Of course, with their list, Rolling Stone once again proves they know sweet fuck all about music.

How in the blue hell could Born to Run (or anything by Springstein, for that matter) place better than Freebird, Maggotbrain, Crazy Train, Little Wing, or Born Under a Bad Sign, on a list of guitar songs?

Also, the song Black Sabbath (which Springstein also placed higer than) was the only Sabbath on the entire list. No Paranoid? No Iron Man?

Smoke on the Water wasn't on the list at all, which irritates me in ways I can't even put to words right now.

At least Rolling Stone had a brief moment of clarity, and put some Link Wray on the list.

Horny Old Woman Night; or How to Survive a Cougar Attack.

The past couple of months. i've been spending my Friday nights doing karaoke at a local place. Yes, there is a difference between screaming in a death metal band, and belting out some Danzig (which people tell me i do well), but anything to keep my voice from falling into disrepair.

This one night, there was a woman there. An older woman. Ordinarily, that would be like kryptonite, as i have a thing for older women. Just something about them that just...just...damn, but I digress. In this case the term "woman" is used in a strictly academic sense. She was human, and female. If you've spent any amount of time in bars, chances are you've seen one of them. The kind of woman who looks like a gnarled and worn leather handbag, wrapped around a human skeleton and shoved it into a mini skirt. A very mini skirt.

As the night goes on, my friends and I are having a grand old time. I get done with a song, and head towards the bar, as it was my turn to put down for a pitcher. Out of nowhere, comes the Leather Woman. Honest to god, she ambushed my ass.

She looked me in the eyes, her raspy breath reeking of menthols and bourbon, she asks me: "Where's your girlfriend?"

"I don't have one."

"Are you sure?"

Hmm, I must ponder this. "Yes."

"Are you really sure?"

At this point, i'm starting to feel uncomfortable. There was something in her eyes. I started to feel like she was sizing me up and getting ready to pounce. However, gentleman I am, i answer: "Yes."

"Do you want to dance?"

"I..." Enter the fight or flight response. Panic. "I..have to piss."

That answer seemed to have stunned her, for she paused, and I took full advantage of the situation. I ran. I ran so far away.

A few days later, I was regaling some friends with the story. As I started to talk the crazy look in her eyes, one of said friends pointed out. "Dude, she probably just wanted to rock your world."

Perhaps. But you know what? Those eyes were fucking predatory, man. And I'm the slow guy with the gimpy ankle. If anyone is getting culled from the herd, it's probably going to be me. So, the survival instinct kicked in, and I fled from her presence the way a gazelle would flee from a hunting lioness. Just without the speed and grace. More of with a lurching, slightly drunk stagger.

Regardless, I live to frolic upon the savannah once again.