Recommendation post

I am quite literally tripping balls right now, and I’ll tell you why that is!

I just learned that Lousiana Museum of Modern Art which is located somewhere in the northern regions of this godforsaken island, are exhibiting no less than 200 pieces by surrealist painter, sculptor and all-round heavy weight champ of l’art moderne, Max Ernst.

On my top ten-list of best painters ever, Ernst is a solid third only beaten by Francis Bacon (narrowly!) and Vilhelm Hammershøi.
Born in Germany near Cologne in 1881 Ernst was to take part in one world war and no less than two revolutionary art-movements before his death in 1976 in France.
Ernst was not only a prolific painter. He was also an artist on a constant journey towards new dimensions in art. Thus he is celebrated for his versatility and his ability to constantly challenge himself and the audience as well.

I must say that Louisiana have outdone themselves this time, and this exhibition almost makes up for their ridiculously overpriced admittance fees and the fact that they’re located in redneck-country.

It’s open till June 1 and for more info press ‘press’.

Go see it! Go!

L'Ange du foyer ou Le Triomphe du surréalisme - 1937

The master of middelclass dissection, John Updike, has passed away

Prolific author, poet, playwright, critic, commentator and Pulitzer Prize winner, John Updike, passed away last tuesday (January 27). Mr Updike suffered from lung cancer during the last years of his life, but died peacefully at a hospice in Danvers, Massachusetts. He was 76.

John Updike was a ruthless revealer of middleclass mediocrity and hypocrisi – a theme that dominated most of his massive production of novels, plays, poetry and articles. He is probably most well known for his Rabbit-series of novels (Rabbit, Run, Rabbit Redux, Rabbit Is Rich, Rabbit At Rest and Rabbit Remembered) that also landed him the Pulitzer Prize twice and the novel The Witches of Eastwick which was also adapted for cinema. Finally Mr Updike was a household name in the columns of the prestigious magazine, The New Yorker.

Mr Updike was a rarely gifted writer who had a unique insight into the mechanics of everyday life and everyday people that he used to portray the utterly clueless individual coasting through life without making any choices – strangled by a society that promotes mediocrity as the ultimate life goal. His extremely humorous, yet painfully serious, outlook on contemporary society will be soarly missed and there is no doubt that the literary and intellectual landscape has lost one of its greatest minds.

“The refusal to rest content, the willingness to risk excess on behalf of one’s obsessions, is what distinguishes artists from entertainers, and what makes some artists adventurers on behalf of us all.”, Mr Updike is quoted for saying. And he truly was an adventurer and an explorer of the human condition on behalf of the great silent majority.

John Updike (1932 - 2009)

The long-time-no-see + review post

Back again after a couple of totally chaotic months. I’ve been recording and gigging with my band FRANK SILVA and if you live in Copenhagen check us out on January 9 in Råhuset, Vesterbro. Also we’re close to the release of the LEATHERVEIN-record. Twelve tracks of fist-throwing, power-posing and soloinfused hardcore combined with the delights of NWOBHM and again, if you live in Copenhagen listen to LowCut Radio on sunday January 4, 6 p.m. for a sneak-preview.
On a personal note I’m finally back in my own appartment again, and just installed my stereo the other day which of course means home sweet home.

But enough about that.

—————————————-

Review: A magnificently brutal debut
Artist: Dead Instrument
Title: Maksimal Destruktion
Label/distributor: Spild af Vinyl Recs.

Dead Instrument is a four piece Grind-outfit straight out of Copenhagen who used to play under the name Stalk of Death with the somewhat unfortunate acronym, S.O.D. This didn’t fly so the guys changed name and bass-player after having released a scruffy yet very promising demo a couple of years back.
On December 5 they introduced the most rescent outcome of their work together as a trio without bass - a full-length debut Lp intitled ‘Maksimal Destruktion’ (Maximum Destruction, ed.) – at a release-party at Copenhagens, Lades Kælder.

Front-man vocalist Jacob and guitarist Phillip

The release-show was the second time I saw Dead Instrument and what has overwhelmed me on both occations is the sheer intensity with which these guys light up a stage. Tons of people showed up – I didn’t even know that many people are into grind in this city – and the small stage at Lades was turned into a regular slaughterhouse-moshpit as front-man Jacob kept beating his own face in with the mic.

Musically ‘Maksimal Destruktion’ is fast as fuck grindcore in the vein of Discordance Axis and the likes. On tracks like Eyeless Wonder however, Dead Instrument turn down the BPM level and reveal a more heavy-set sound with sludgy riffs and sloppering drumbeats that make you think of kings of slow, Eyehategod.

Songs like Passive Target and the title-track Maksimal Destruktion are faster than anything I’ve heard from Denmark before and still no instrumental or vocal twist is lost in the chaos. The production is excellent and the engineering by Paw Koch pays minute attention to the details of every single sound-track without ever compromising the implicit brutality of the genre.

Maksimal Destruktion cover art by Jason Gardner

Dead Instrument’s demo was more of a chaos-grind project in my opinion (which may just have been due to the cheap production), but ‘Maksimal Destruktion’ really reveals these dudes as the extremely competent musicians they are. Whether it’s Emil’s amazing drumtracks, Philip’s insanely catchy almost rock n’ roll-like riffs or the vocal range of singer Jacob, Dead Instrument are impressive even if you don’t dig the genre (in which case you’re a complete tool anyway).

My advice is to get your hands on this sizzeling slab of vinyl a.s.a.p and remember to buy an extra copy for the kids as well. They might as well learn to appreciate radical stuff now, and that’s just what Dead Instrument bring to the party.

Check up on Dead Instrument here or here.

The Break-up post

Dear readers (Dr. Gonzo)

This is so incredibly embarassing, having to write yet another, ’sorry I haven’t posted in a while but I’ve been busy/been lazy/my cat got cancer’-post. But ok, here goes:

I just got a new job, I’ve started school again (God knows why) and for the grand finally (da-da-dam-dam) my girlfriend(ex) kicked me out. Well she didn’t really kick me out but we split and I’ve been living on a couch ever since. Now, I don’t feel sorry for myself (anymore anyways), but it has been kind of difficult to do anything beyond the basics lately. But rest assured! This is far from the last you’ve heard from me.

So, as always keep a lookout for updates and I in return promise that there will be some in a near future.

Hugs, kisses and teargas, yours

TD.

P.S. On another note, as I am now single again I have revised some of my previous policies and I now openly welcome photos + fanmail of an erotic nature.

The L.A. vs. San Francisco-post

In this week Doomlund referees the all-out battle of the California Tourist Titans.

The cabby redirected all of his attention from the road ahead to me in the backseat, pretty much placing both of our lives in the hands of good fortune and San Francisco’s – God be thanked - linear infrastructure.

- “Ya know, people come to this town on vacation and they end up staying a couple of years, and I’ll tell ya why that is:”, he paused briefly and took a hazardous left turn up Polk St., while I held my breath for a second. “San Francisco is the least polluted town in the U.S. We have the cleanest air here. We have the most beautiful surroundings in the entire country. The water is pure. The sky is blue. We have scenic public parks in the middle of the city. And the best thing is that everybody get’s along with everybody. Cus’ ya know what; the only thing we don’t tolerate…”, he paused again, this time for dramatic effect, “… is intolerance”.

I had been in L.A. and just arrived in San Francisco when I got a feeling that the smog had been replaced by smug. And it wasn’t just reckless cab-drivers either. It seemed to be everywhere I went. From the born-again flower children of Golden Gate Park to the tourist traps by the wharf advertising the cleanest most inviromentally conscientious businesses in the States. Some claim that American values are rooted somewhere in the biblebelt of the midwest. But not out here. In Frisco ecology is God. And it’s diciples never pass on an opportunity to applaud themselves for it.
Now, the town is nice and all and don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with a bit of ’awareness’. I really had a grand old time there. Seeing Alcatraz is a blast, it is a beautiful city and the air does actually feel a bit cleaner. But still.
I had just come up from Los Angeles. L ‘goddamn’ A, where cynicism is in the water and madness in the blood of its people. The air there was filthy. Trafic was murder. The typical big-city buzz bordered on white noise. And still God help me, I loved it to bits. L.A. had swept me off my feet or put more acurately; it punched me out cold.

And I’ll tell you why that is with just a short literary detour:
In his novel The Day of The Locust from 1939, Nathanael West, a native of New York who moved out to California in order to pursue a career as a Hollywood scriptwriter, depicted L.A. and its maniacal alter ego, Hollywood, as the point where western civilization – with all its progress and man-made wonders – would stand its final trial under God. Thus West’s L.A. is a gloomy city where decadence, debauchery and the dogmas of false prophets will one day ensure the wrath of the Almighty himself, and be swallowed up in a pit of fire like a modern day Sodom. The protagonists of the story are all innocent in their own way but they must come to terms with the crooked morals that rule the city, and one by one they all succumb to madness, suicide or an overwhelming urge to kill. All of it takes place under the illuminated Hollywood-sign in the Hills – the symbol of the american dream in the thirties, but to West a dream that has evolved into a nightmare of deprivation and the evaporation of all meaning.

Although Nathanael West preached good Christian morals (i.e. eternal damnation of the soul) he did have a point in so far that the city of L.A. offers total chaos to the unsuspecting visitor. But divine judgement aside, the chaos is what makes the place hold together.  

Because that’s the kind of strange maniacal embrace Los Angeles offers you. If you’ve ever felt like you don’t fit in any where you’ve probably learnt the important lesson that not fitting in anywhere also means that you fit in everywhere which is a pretty comforting thought. In ways Los Angeles is like that to. No generalization fits it adequately – a fact Nathanael West obviously had trouble coping with. No two blocks or neighbourhoods are alike, and that goes for the people who inhabit them as well.
Walking out of my hotel in the mornings I found myself stepping directly onto a regular battlefield of cultures, all fighting to occupy the same space under the swaying palms and the hot-as-hell SoCal sun. The glitz and glamour of Hollywood up in the hills, the Skidrow winos wrestling in alleys over quarters at 9 in the morning, day-labouring hispanics waiting on Alvarado for a gig and finally the remaining millions of people who are millions of other things. Like some kind of eco-system in a perpetual violent conflict with itself, Los Angeles holds them all. Yuppies, poets, bums and bastards alike.

Figuratively speaking – and only figuratively speaking –  L.A. is not a warm place. Chaos does rule, as West pointed out. Everything is scattered about and getting your bearings is almost impossible. It’s a city best experienced from behind the wheel of a cool air-conditioned car. But still being embraced by the chaos of this city feels like a comforting act of solidarity. If you don’t fit in anywhere, you fit in everywhere. And if anywhere in this world is everywhere - it’s Los Angeles. Heaven or Hell is up to you.

Like finding a home in a hurricane.

Yours truly, smog-lovin’, surf’s up rocking, rat’s in palm-trees huntin’,

TD.

Heeeeere’s Johnny!

So I’m back after roughly two months of travelling around the world. Most of July spent on the road in glitzy-glam California. Most of August spent in the desserts of Syria, Jordan and Egypt. A truly strange and marvelous journey from one end of the scale to the other.
I’m currently writing a piece about it, so just hang the hell tight and keep yr panties on till the dust settles and I get a moment to collect myself. You know I’m good for it…

Yours humbly, jet-lagging like a bastard,

TD.

South of Heaven – 20 years of brutality

Heavy Metal is loud and stupid. So is Doomlund. A match made in heaven…

July 5 marks the twenty year anniversary of a metal classic – a little slab o’ vinyl we call “South of Heaven” by the foremost thrash metal outfit ever, Slayer.
South of Heaven was the fourth studio release by these giants of brutal tunes produced by Rick Rubin (associated with everyone from Danzig to Johnny Cash) who helped create Slayer’s landmark record, “Reign in Blood” two years prior. “South of Heaven” revealed another side of the band. A set of slower songs with a previously unheard attention to detail, both song and production-wise. The record wasn’t recieved very well by critics who held it up against it’s predecessor, “Reign in Blood” an instant classic of fast, relentless and hardcore-like thrash metal which to this day still holds it’s own.

Never the less “South of Heaven” is today considered a masterfull album of solid metal and a valid follow-up to an album impossible to top. Guitarist Kerry King has publicly stated that “South of Heaven” is his least favoured album, and blames it’s flaws on his own absence at the time (he had just married and moved to Phoenix). However “South of Heaven” is a stunning display of what Jeff Hanneman (second and more anonymous guitarist of the band) was capable of as main songwriter. Twenty years later songs like ‘Mandatory Suicide’ and the title-bearing ‘South of Heaven’ are still considered groundbreaking work in the world of metal.

Doomlund salutes ”South of Heaven” and Slayer who are scheduled to appear at this years Roskilde Festival in Denmark on July 6. So if you’re going, here’s a little tune to get you in the right headbanging, beer-guzzling and thrash-worshipping mood:

Slayer – Mandatory Suicide

On another note, I’ll be gone the next couple of months. I’m going to California in a week. A friend of mine said; “Oh, you’ve never been?” (I actually thought that refered to Paris??) “Well, you’ll love it! The climate and the general mentality… it’s just fabulous!”, and since I have always been partial to heat and cynicism I decided that it was time to visit la-la land.
I probably won’t post anything for a while, but then again who knows?… Actually, I won’t.

Yours, with flowers in his hair,
TD.

A Total Eclipse of the Brain: Movie-post 1

Doomlund admits to being a sucker for movies. But not just any type…

 

Sometimes when you’re at the movies, you leave the theater with a feeling of having discovered something new. A really good, well-written and well-produced movie can make you look at the world differently. It has the power to make you reexamine your life and your choices. Think about your fellow man or even the well-being of mother earth. From time to time it may even change you fundamentally and for good.

As in my case, however, it might also bore you so hard that you seriously contemplate choking yourself on popcorn within the first five minutes.

I hate serious movies. The movie-format is a stupid medium with a stupid demographics and an even more stupid output. If you want contemplation, existential problems and ultimate enlightenment, read a damn book! However, if you can accept the movie-medium for what it really is – a retarded cousin of the performing arts – then we’re on the same page.

 

Doomlund’s biggest heroes are Ernest Hemingway and Leatherface
 

I love hack ‘n’ slash and blood ‘n’ gore! The more guts that are spilled the happier I am. Why? It’s very simple actually. Slasher-flicks fulfill a primeval desire in us to witness the destruction of our own species. A fascination of and drive towards – yes, you’ve guessed it – death. Man is a stupid creature with stupid delights so this can hardly come as a shock to anyone.

A couple of days ago I saw a flick that met those exact requirements – and thrilled me beyond belief. It’s called “30 Days of Night” and it features vampires and Josh Hartnett. Now, I usually hate both (vampires because they’re always portrayed as gothy, Tim Burton-like wusses and Josh Hartnett… Well, that really goes without saying), but in this movie it all worked out for the better. The vampires were tough as nails, face-deformed-like-freaky-mongoloids russian type guys with blacked-out eyes, animalistic demeanors and razor-teeth. They we’re totally on top of everything – slaughtering an entire Alskan village during a winter black-out where the sun is absent for a month (and that’s the entire plot-line right there). Josh Hartnett leads a small group of survivors as they struggle to wait out the darkness and thus escape when daylight returns. Fortunately the vampires succeed in butchering most of them, so only a couple of clueless idiots survive. The beauty is that Josh Hartnett isn’t one of them.
 

Retarded vampires rule!
 

I really liked “30 Days of Night” and here’s why: This movie doesn’t pretend that it’s better than me. It’s not up it’s own ass with messages, and instead of trying to have a point beyond showing in impressive graphics how you decapitate people with a rusty axe, it admits to being a total whopper of a brain-drain (Josh Hartnett couldn’t be deep if his life depended on it). This movie is the quintessential movie because it fits the medium so brilliantly. If Hollywood would make it over and over again and just change the scenery and cast a little we wouldn’t need any other movie.

In conclusion: Thumbs up to Russo-Alaskan mongoloid vampires and Josh Hartnett’s pitiful acting skills. “30 Days of Night” is an adaption of a graphic novel by same title written by Steve Niles and illustrated by Ben Templesmith. It’s good stuff and comes highly recommended.

 

I also saw another movie the other day, called Indiana Jones and the something something. Here’s a list of things that I found amusing about it:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sincerely, waiting for you by the popcorn-vendor,

TD.

The Identity Post

In this week Doomlund ponders the very fabric of his own existence

 

Who are you? Who am I?
Actually just forget about the first question (I don’t really care); the latter however, now that’s interesting!

From time to time (usually when I’m not watching TV ) I get in an existential mood. I think about why we’re here, what the grand purpose is and whether or not man will ever evolve to a physical state where it’s possible to fellate yourself without having to remove part of your ribcage (which is a painful procedure!).

A couple of weeks ago I found myself packing up all my stuff because I tricked my girlfriend into letting me move in with her (she thinks I’m joking when I tell her that I’m probably the worst roommate in the universe). Because I’m a slob by nature and posses about as many organizational skills as a mongoloid on heroin I had previously piled up all my personal papers in a huge, intimidating stack of receipts, paychecks and random crap accumulated over the past fifteen years. In short, the paper-version of me was an image of total chaos.
Needless to say I spent the following five hours cleaning everything up and organizing all my papers. “I don’t know what the hell to do,” I called my girlfriend and said. “It’s a mess up here. You know that final scene in ‘Platoon’ where everyone gets blown to bits? Well, this is worse.” My girlfriend, being the sound rational pillar of strength that she is, told me to calm down: “Go to a super market and pick up one those plastic briefcases they sell. You can easily store all your stuff in one of those. And when you’re there pick up a bottle of organic orange juice as well, will you?”.

Quite ingenious idea, I thought. I rushed to the market and back again and started organizing everything. And as it turned out it had quite a therapeutic effect on me. I didn’t understand why, but the more papers I slid into that thing the more grown up I felt. Like I was really on top of things – a smooth cat who handles himself with poise and enough self-confidence to wipe out a small African village. As if organizing things around me meant that I was somehow organizing myself. Composing my identity in a miniature file-cabinet. For a second it felt like I had it all together.

As I left my former apartment I ended an era. I had moved in to that place as a pimply-faced, insecure adolescent whose life was randomly piled up in a corner-stack of papers. But I was leaving it a man. And it was all due to that little briefcase in my hand. In it I had my passport, my insurance policy, my tax papers, my apartment lease contract, my BA diploma, my high school graduation diploma, my sailor’s permit (I took the course one summer when I was thirteen and bored of my ass), my drivers license and every paycheck I’ve ever received. In short, I was in-fact hauling around a portable identity.

That and a bottle of orange juice.

 

It occurred to me that who you are isn’t really a solid structure of ‘you-ness’. There is no ‘I’ except the one you choose. Once you’ve organized your paper-based identity in a small plastic briefcase you come to that exact realization: that it is just that. A plastic briefcase full of paper.
I guess, it really all comes down to you and your decisions and what image you want to create yourself in. But the prospect of total freedom in that regard can be truly terrifying. If you don’t know who you are then who does?
At the end of the day I choose to remain optimistic (for once). For what it’s worth at least I know I’m the guy who brings my girlfriend organic OJ.

 

Yours truly, optimist in a blink of an eye,

 

TD

 

 

 

 

Nightlife strife

I hate going out. I really, truly, hate going out. On any given weekend Copenhagen bars and nightclubs are about as much fun as full-blown herpes. It’s impossible to get around, impossible to get a drink much less have a thought to yourself amidst the dance music driven, sweat-spewing nightmare that is Friday night out on the town. But still from time to time I do go out. Why? Because as much as I hate the nightlife, I truly do love drinking. In fact, I am a formidable juicer if I have to say so myself. I’m not picky, I love all of it. If it’s semi-liquid, loaded with alcohol and blows your throat out the back of your neck, odds are I’ll like it. And drinking at home just isn’t the same as the experience you get at a bar – a real bar I might ad. The old school kind that brings a nostalgic tear to your eye. Where the smell of piss and stale beer creates an atmosphere of pure comfort and encourages complete serenity. It gives you a chance to reflect. A chance to slow down and smell the roses. And more importantly it gives you a chance to pass out as you vomit your guts out in a toilet stall that has witnessed more deprivation than a fuck-doll in a catholic monastery.
Really, the only problem is finding the ideal watering-hole – a quest that requires constant vigilance, as you drag yourself from one shit-hole to another.

Now and then you do get lucky and find a perfect, unspoiled little gem amongst the trash. But you can rest assured that if you know about it, it won’t be long till everyone else does too and BANG; a swarm of locusts descends and you’re out on the street searching once again.
However you’re also bound to strike out sometimes. You will wind up in places from time to time that’ll make you wish you were never born, because your friends might not have the same excellent standards and taste in hangouts that you have (they also might be completely and utterly retarded).
Some time ago I found myself in that exact position:

Copenhagen-nightlife: I think the one on the left is having a stroke.

We’re standing outside on a cool evening in the fall. The air is crisp with early frost and my friend and I are waiting in line to get into a place in the city called LA Bar (which quite possibly is the lamest name for a bar on the planet).
From the outside you get a perfect view of the place through a giant panoramic window. The dance floor is packed with horny business majors and middle-aged management directors desperately looking for a bit of extra-marital attention. About a dozen of thirty-something women have found their way to this place all looking for a bit of love – a notion, during the course of the evening they will have to discard as prospects of giving head to some sweaty guy in an alley outside looks more and more like where things are going.
Now, the actual bar is a world of its own. Still viewable at safe distance from the window the giant bathtub-like bar in chromed steel takes up most of the space in the room next to the dance floor, resulting in people fighting for both beer and survival at the same time. The waitresses are perky, teeth-whitened, leather-tanned girls in their twenties sporting huge racks and zero brain-activity. They’re appealing in the same way the idea of sniffing glue is. It’s a ton of fun, but eventually you will wind up a retard.

At the entrance some guy who’s strung out on cheap coke and equally cheap cologne, is the sovereign ruler of a state whose policies border on outright fascism. A state known only as ‘The Wardrobe’.
The guy throws me one single look and yells as to penetrate the thick layer of crappy Euro dance that dominates the atmosphere:
- “You have to leave your coat here. It’s a 100 kr. You can pick it up out back between 4 – 5 am. No refunds for lost items. In or out?”
Contrary to popular belief, I am not a complete idiot. Being patronized by a jack-ass with a snowy moustache isn’t my idea of a good time. So for a second I consider my options: I can act like nothing, and hand over my battered up old jacket that the guy is looking at like it’s the spawning place of the Ebola virus. I can pound his nose through the back of his head, or just quietly leave. I don’t know whether it was because of the looks I got from the rest of the crowd waiting to get in, or the fact that I’d probably just end up hurting my knuckles more than his face, but I decided to split. And like a slain fool with my tail between my legs, I whisked away into the night.

From time to time I ponder if the only solution would be for me to open up my own bar. As I write this a cold shiver of arctic proportion runs up my girlfriend’s spine. But, now here’s a thought, right? I think, if I had my own bar I’d place it in my living room. It’d save me the trouble of walking far, my bed would always be near by and I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable wearing only boxers to the bar (seeing as it is in my own living room). I would serve everything in this bar of mine, and go through a rigorous screening process to find the right bartender. The result is a guy who’s even uglier than me, so female guests will think I’m the Tom Cruise look-alike in our little low budget, dip-shit remake of ‘Cocktail’. He’ll have to be strong enough to carry me home after a bender (shouldn’t be too hard though, as my bed is only about ten feet away). And finally he’ll have the common decency NOT to call the authorities whenever I issue idle, drunken death-threats.

Another humongous plus about having your very own bar, is that you get to decide the music. Now, I’m a really big fan of classic rock, but with popular music you run the risk of having some mongoloid sing along to songs he doesn’t even know the words to. This is, however, not a problem to him at all and the rest of us will suffer all night long. I think I’d go with elevator music, or the kind of easy listening crap that always makes a trip to the supermarket a super joyous occasion. It’s ideal when you think about it. I mean, you avoid having to bash some douche’s head in for moaning along, because there are no lyrics, and elevator-music is already designed to annoy people in cramped spaces (my living room isn’t really that big).
I actually, really think I’m on to something here. I mean, there must be tons of people out there who share my views, and long for the idyllic utopia of a bar that I’m prepared to convert my living room into. Perhaps ten to twenty guests per night the first couple a weeks, and then it’s really going to take off. Who knows, I may be sitting on a regular goldmine serving up people that would otherwise go home suicidal after a night on the town. In fact I’m not just opening up a bar: I’m doing the community a great favour!

So when it finally dawns on the coke-snorting emperor of the wardrobe from LA Bar that my place is the hippest joint on the planet, and he shows up among thousands of other hopeful scenesters, I will make sure to check him in personally:
- “You have to leave your coat here. It’s gonna cost you three grand, and you wont be able to check it out anytime soon, because I’m heading straight to the bathroom where I will light your cheap-ass, imitated skin, ugly as sin damn-jacket on fire! No refunds. IN OR OUT?!”

How’s that for an offer?

Yours truly, soon to be licensed barfly,

TD.

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This nonsense was written under the influence of vodka & cranberry juice and the soothing sounds of sticky fingers on the stereo.