The Mean Time (because I get a little mean at the end)

Much hath occurred in these past weeks betwixt the rambling and rabbling of we two vagrant visigoths. In the flooded plains of Cornwall we didst play a smashing set of tunes to many notable Cornwallians, young and old, whose names I failed to note, ironically enough. I do recall the dulcet melodies of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists and, of course, We have no TV. The latter sang multiple songs about tea.

We stayed that eve in the house of Mole and Pete, the sawist and guitarspieler of We have no TV. We spoke of ages past and future, jigs we've danced or have thought better of, and of tea.

We set by steam rail to the vast expanse of London. Not so much is it a city, but a concrete ideology of meandering streets and pedestrian civilians, always under the watchful eyes of CCTV. There is one camera for every 8 people in England, so I have been told by unnaccountable resources. Either way, it seems like one cannot pass ten steps without being in the domain of a new digital observer. Big Brother, indeed.

We again encountered our Spanish friends David and Joel, this time at the Library House, a lovely squatted place with a nettle garden and roaming seductive cats. We juggled. Oh didst we juggle, dear reader, for hours on end. Our arms ached with the carefree lifestyle of the entertainer and we ate of broiled onion soups and bread, all delightfully freed from a future of rot and refuse.

We had but one show scheduled, at a dingy little den of sin known as The Gaff. Gaff, if you didn't know, is translatable to "dinosaur feces" in the local vernacular. We played with esteemed (somewhere) and notable (to someone) folk punker Jason Welt. He seemed nice enough, though the only word exchanged was "Cheers" after he had so respectfully spent our entire set outside of the venue. Jason, my dear friend, we have different audiences I suppose, and it must be hard coming from Sacramento, land of Meth and anger, California. An albino mexican junkie friend of mine squatted for a time in Sacramento, smoking crack and shooting up, and his lively stories of its iniquities kept me in rapture, until he introduced heroin to my x-girlfriend. But I hold not this against you Jason Welt. If Bad Religion were truly a religion, you indeed practice with your set of 5 chords and catchy tunes, and I regret not at all our decision to not remake your "working man" song into "working squid" and play it at the very show we wouldst share with you. By the way, most of the people there (out of the whole 15) were there to see us, and perhaps if you wouldn't have been so noticeable about being outside, they would have stayed in for your set. They took it personally. I did not, as I think we're quite obnoxious. I also stayed inside for your set. I'm not sure how that whole philosophy equates.

anyhoo, enough about you Jason Welt. I am sure you are a lovely chad, and bro, we'll spend some quality time together...next time, one day, and Allah-willing.