There's a kind of romance buried within the stinking hung-over puke-crusted heart of punk rock. We dance in circles and fiddle while Rome is burning, and people are too paranoid and unsure of themselves to step out of the trance. It takes five seconds to decide. Lamp-Rey silliness threatens to capsize the whole affair, and I can't seem to spell worth crap. Keep it together. All will be told. It's been a good weekend so far and now the Blazers are on. It's opposite year, so maybe we have a chance.

Comments anyone?