I'm the inventor of the burning pillow fight, so step up boys and give me a light, in the matches' red glare, feathers burning in air, to the mattresses far below. We studied evil with Paganini. And I've got a nice red violin with strings made from the dried bowels of the dead wife I murdered with a hammer over 23 years ago. So come on boys and light your cigars with one hundred dollar bills cause where you're going you won't need them anymore and prepare to pay me, the fiddler, with your own life because the one you're living isn't good enough. You'll be released from the shackles of the calendrical year because time is only a sewer pipe through which boredom flows slowly. "Hello, who is it?....Oh, another music critic?...well, why don't you just crawl up my a** and spit nickels." So instead of sucking on Satan's a*** all the way up the ladder of success, do something for yourselves for a change and join me as we climb the ladder of the great stack of death masks piled one atop the other all the way to the lighter heaven known as multi-messiah land....Alive is fearful, yet it's sweet..... immortal beings suck our meat. All we are in this form is just a vat of warm flesh and pure fat continually collapsing into itself, with lit firecrackers taped onto its side, nervously twitching in a semi-lucid state only partially aware of our own joy and pain. And in one of our more thoughtful moments we invite all of the human race to the Brooklyn Bridge to all hold hands together and then jump off. So, if you ever wondered what Bob Mitchum would look like with a Joan Crawford mask on while engaged to infinity, look at me, the fiddler, as I revoke the law of gravity and perform the final marriage between heaven and earth. (Any of you New Age women ever eat dog?)