I was dead for three full fucking trippy days. YOu want to talk about freaky? Let's talk death. Not this near-death, hovering toward a light crap, but the real deal. Screaming along ethereal corridors and blasting past shit I couldn't even begin to describe.

Then over-achiever Christ comes along and ZORK! I'm yanked right out of this psychadelic freakfest and back into the glaring banality of Bethany. Thank you very much, god boy! Next time, ask a fella!

Really? You have to ask? It's like seeing salt next to fish. Or jelly next lamb. It makes me hungry. THAT's what it does to me.

I don't want to get all overly sappy here, but Mist has been a pretty stand-up kind of guy. We've known each other for decades and he's always kept his word. And when no one wanted to hire an ill-tempered, foul-smelling, foul-talking walking corpse (that'd be me), he gave me the gig writing movie reviews.