There's no 666 in outer space

Greetings from the underside:
Saw Hella play last night. I am suprised and saddened to report back to home base that the show sucked: they sounded unlike two-person Hella that I've come to love; they sounded unlike five-person Hella (which is to say 2nd rate Mars Volta, or Mars Volta with jobs (maybe that's 1st rate Mars Volta and Mars Volta's been Volta'd)). Instead of any of those acceptable outcomes from their expensive amps and mutilated drums, I got crappy sound and a bunch of small-town American Apparel employees leaning tuff against the wall trying to figure out why just because everything '80s is new again doesn't mean you dress as though you're actually still live in the '80s. (Hate those guys.)
I'm dying to get tattooed again. The me in the crow's nest spots some dates in late July for a new sleeve, but I don't think I can wait that long. It's too long, right?
It's been so long since I've posted on here. I bet my readership of four has dwindled to me checking back on my own blog to see if anything's happened since I've been away. Sadly, nothing usually does.
I bet Matt Salusky has had a kid by now. Mark Thorsby, too. Drop me a line, anyone, if you've got a minute between term papers and doinkin' that special someone.

J