Yesterday, I got called an "asshole", a "prick", a "dick", that I "have no soul", that I'm "insulting", that I'm a "fucking idiot", that if I don't "get Prince", then I "don't understand anything about music." Seriously? I have no soul because I don't find this self-righteous little weasel, this arrogant man-child who strutted around with an accessory cane, who, I'm sorry, simply had nothing interesting to say whatso-fucking-ever in his entire fucking life, not a single line of any song that tapped into anything that ever came close to even resembling the ethereal or could even reflect the mere pedestrian level of beauty this world has to offer, as inspiring and as fascinating as you do? A message-less messiah, sticking his tight little ass out like a cat in heat and then having the audacity to preach to others the platitudes of God. I mean, I really wouldn't give a shit, and the man certainly deserves some sort of place in music, but then the little lollipop sucking motherfucker accidentally kills himself and all I see are posts and rants by friends claiming him to be the most important, most creative ARTIST of our time, a visionary, a genius etc,...? Jesus Christ, it makes me fucking sick! How the hell am I supposed to refrain from responding? Once again, you people were bamboozled by a substance-less talent, drugged by a desperate, fame driven concoction of ingredients distilled from the lowest hanging fruit. Why not just go to Giggles and buy a big, fat, veiny dildo and marvel at that? Seriously, what the hell's the difference? His storytelling was some of the most juvenile I've ever heard in song. And if you don't believe me, go read the godawful fucking lyrics yourself. Yes, Colin Cheyne, lyrics aren't everything. The composition of the sound of the instruments is equally important (and I think you're a masterful, highly creative, musician). But if you put 'em in, then you've put 'em in, and you've now put your ass on the line. You're showing what you're made of, what you believe in, what consumes your rotten mind, and just what you've gathered up along this muddy, twisted, beaten up old road called "life". So go ahead, put a goddamn raspberry beret on your fucking head and hop in your little asshole red Corvette and drive that fucking thing like its 19fucking99 in the goddamn purple fucking rain while the doves cry and that psychopath, diseased ridden cunt, Nikki, who probably gave Prince AIDS, masturbates beside you to a goddamn magazine. I'll be listening to John Prine.

THE KITTENS We could barely make ‘em out. But they were there alright. Five little blobs at the bottom of a murky pool. That’s all they were. A big C-5 roared overhead, and a blast of hot wind came along and made us fight for our footing. The ripples finally disappeared, and Scott said with a scared, frail voice, “Why would they do that?” “I don’t know,” I said. And we knew exactly who did it. Everyone did. But you wouldn’t dare say a fucking word. No one in their right mind would. You’d be fucked for good. Not even my brother would’ve been able to save me. A few hours later, I was sitting at the dinner table. My mother was back from the hospital. She looked like hell. A big blue network of veins throbbed across her temple. “So what’d you do today, Philby?” she asked as her trembling hand reached for the salad bowl. She still had her hospital band on. “Philby?” she said again. I was staring at our two dogs, breathing against the window, fogging the glass. It was only then that I was able to piece together exactly what had happened to those poor little kittens, what had to have taken place for them to wind up at the bottom of that pool. They were probably laughing while they did it. Someone had to have gone and gotten the duck tape. These were star athletes, giants of football and wrestling, the envy of us all, the prime focus of desire for all the girls. What were the sounds like of those kittens? Did that not even bother them? “PHILBY!” yelled my father. “Huh?” “Your mother asked you a question!” I turned and looked at her. She had a strange look on her face. It was her smile. Her lips looked like they were about to crack apart. And her entire head seemed to bobble to her pulse. “How was your day? What did you do?” “Nothing,” I said. “Oh, you must’ve done something?” “Not really. I just hung out with Scott.”