I once lived in a tiny basement apartment with a kind-hearted femme fatale who wore black leather and dyed her hair bright red. We might’ve been poor in funds, but we were rich in love. We made new friends every week it seemed through the semi-popular band for which I was the main songwriter. I got to play for audiences of 500 plus.

During that time in my early-20s, I clumsily crashed into kindred spirits, three of whom I still play music with today. And during the lulls in our busy lives, we sometimes engage in some of the anti-social behavior that used to fuel our rock shows and artwork.

We can still be caught cruising down Bardstown Road, making guns with our forefingers and knuckles and pretending to do drive-bys on Emo kids, art elitists, yuppies and pretty much anyone not a member of the first family of rock founded by men like the Bird Brothers, our mentors and predecessors.