So I quit my job then and went back on the

So I quit my job then and went back on the road. I managed to land a gig here and there, none lasting more than a few day news. I blew into a town, played my set, made love to

my pillow and well, life pretty much sucked. Guess no one really cares about accordian music anymore. Not since Lawrence Welk died. That was The Day the Music Died, despite what

-a-burger's awesome what-a-chicken bites that tasted so good with diet Slice. The music had died. DIED! I cried on the hood of my PT Cruiser. Sobbed. No what?

"No 'what' indeed," my cousin said. He'd bought plain ol' -a-chicken bites instead of the what-a-chicken ones. "That poor first hyphen, dangling in front of the 'a' - ALONE." My PT

Job was at a pizza place where we could eat them.

Them-- the raccoon who gained sentience a decade ago. They thought they are the ubermensch? Ha! Job and I feasted on those raccoon meat pizzas, and waited

tables at Spago's just to pass the time. But when a gaggle of music business trophy wives got wind of Job and having eaten sentient raccoons they started a petition to get us banne

d from the Forest forever. "Do Not Feed The Sentient Raccoon," said the sign at Spago's. At the bottom of the sign, it read "especially after midnight." Curious. Very curious

was George. He had promised the man in the yellow hat not to do anything stupid, but would feeding the sentient raccoon one little banana after midnight really be stupid? He peeled

the banana, and then held it out delicately. The raccoon tentatively reached forward and took it. Then, quick as lightning, stole the keys on the ground nearby me. Little thief!