One Christmas I woke up in the emergency room at Bellevue (an institution better known for its psychiatric horrors than its status as blood-soaked refuge for drunks, junkies, and criminals) with my face smashed in, my suit torn to pieces, and the foul stench of piss rising up from under the bed.

I don't know how I got there.

The last memory (not mine, of course; the last thing that breaches my skull for that day is the familiar face of an old bartending friend and Shane MacGowan playing somewhere near my brain.) is slurring, chock full of Vicodin and smelling of whiskey for days, in the back seat of a cab heading off in the right direction right about 5 am.

I know I arrived in an ambulance.

Otherwise the whole goddamn thing is a blank. A black and terrible void that looms overhead every time I get a whiff of that precious brown fluid that still flows like in rivers around the right company.

Why do I mention this?

Because it sucked. Sucked about worse than anything I've ever experienced in my many days escaping death and failure by the hairs of my lily-white ass. Worse than any funeral I've ever attended. Worse than any love I've ever lost.

And right now I need the perspective.

Because the mediocrity of this 3DP shit is treading precariously close to the land of suck from which all ontological disasters come and invariably return to die as an elephant in some poor mother's living room when she finally gets the news…

All right, perhaps it's not all that bad. Perhaps it's just the kind of crap that comes from a half-cocked bar band flirting impotently in delusions of grandeur and I'm a little sensitive to my rock 'n' roll moving me to greatness rather than just another drink to try and think up a marginally decent reason to offer up this record a cohesive line of thinking.

But here it is…

Fuck it. You're better off listening to the Replacements.

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