After three full days of not seeing my wife thanks to a series of very important fact-finding missions we finally reconnected and spent a glorious Sunday ignoring the clock, skipping showers and lounging half-naked (I won't reveal which half) on the couch watching Season Six of The Sopranos in its entirety.

I awoke hungover and angry on Saturday, spent the day stalking from room to room punching the air and wondering what the hell my problem was. That night all my bad mojo was exorcised through a long-overdue End Times session in which we all played together rather than just at the same time ... as soon as the tapes incubate they'll be made publicly available. While it's true that this band might be the gayest thing I've ever done (a piano no less ... about fifteen years ago Soren pondered adding a keyboard to Apollo Nine and a bunch of us beat him with pillowcases full of oranges until he realized we were right and thanked us), I can guarantee that if we're a fag we're one of those mighty Tom of Finland queers, a volunteer fireman with a Harley who can singlehandedly build a deck on your house over the course of a weekend, the kind of gay that makes beautiful women swoon and think, "Good Lord, what a waste." After all, I'm not in the Midwest anymore, where everything was sweat and blood and gasoline ... out here if you cut someone they ooze a weird milky white sap, the wound heals instantly and they just smile a passive-aggressive smile and say, "No worries." Luckily I found some kids who know how to navigate this slippery landscape, and if Seattle audiences are ready to accept top hats and children's choirs for their entertainment dollar, then clearly nothing is verboten.