We were going to move to L.A., me and Mister Misanthropic, formerly Mister Whirly, otherwise known as Dungbot [???], also widely known as Steve. We were going to pack the Mustang with our guitars, amps and the shirts on our backs, split this lame town and blaze a fiery trail west, bound for mother-trucking glory. Hunter S. Thompson and his attorney had nothing on the road trip that would've taken us there. Although we'd have been fueled by burritos and coffee instead of ether and acid, the debauchery and damage to public property would have still been the stuff of legend.

After destroying I-40, we were going to roll triumphantly into the City of Angels like some kind of twisted rock and roll circus, hook up with Zack and start the next Black Flag. I was going to be Ginn, Steve was going to be Kira...or maybe Chuck Dukowski, Zack was no Dez or Rollins, but had enough underlying insanity to get the job done. We would find us a Bill Stevenson and set about dominating the entire damn world (which would surely cower at the awesome might of our rock thunder).

This was long ago.

Needless to say, we never went. Good thing too. If we had gone, there's no doubt in my mind we would've ended up crusty, bearded lunatics living under a pier in Santa Monica; having long since hocked our musical equipment and the Mustang, our only income from guinea-pigging for experimental pharmaceuticals. And that would've only covered the cost of forty ounces of Old English, which, along with sand, would've most likely become the staple of our diet.

The ironies are as follows:
1. Zack left his job and his place in L.A. and ended up crashing on our floor. He never sang for any of our bands.
2. I've still never been to L.A. I flew over it once though.
3. We still don't have a drummer.
4. I am damn, damn happy right where I am. Life surrounding the Prov is fine enough for me and I venture to say that Steve would say the same about the Bucket.