billshirts

Imagine the essential features of Charles Bukowski, Robert Redford, and Pia Zadora were put into a blender, pulsed on and off relentlessly for hours and hours, until the neighbors are ready to kick down the apartment door and throw you and the blender out the freaking door. Then imagine this concoction were left to ferment untended in a warm, unventilated room until it resembled the fragrance of the mens room in the back of some dive in Tangiers that hasn't been cleaned since William Burroughs threw up there sometime in the early 1950s. Well, that would be nothing like me. But I had you going for a minute there.