Whadda week it's been. Tuesday nite morphed from abusing Steven's copy of acid to produce cracked skank and jeepless heights of flutter into a no-way-I'm-gonna-make-class-tomorrow Stone Temple Pilots dance off. I thought, as always, of my paper route. And have decided that someone oughta take the loose claws offa these songs, redo them in a stripped 'n fey style, and call themselves Soft Tempered Pillow. Go right ahead.

Thursday featured the largest semi-coherent lineup for Valkyrie combustion yet assembled. Tag-team styled cage matches of roll and float ensued; gravity was reminded that we used to blame 'vortices' for its effects. Goofus whupp'd Gallant's ass but good.

Now we find ourselves in October, somehow. Wet, warm (relatively), and perfect for loads of Otis Redding 'n readings, which is where I now retire to...