You don't know anything so don't ask me any questions
Yo, motherfuckers: if it’s my fingers which operate the keyboard, and my arms attached to my hand, it mine as well be my arms that are attached to my soul. And it is blurting what may or may not sound like a horrendously played trumpet. The kind which you appreciate from the audience of your 9-year-old niece’s 5th grade recital, with total and all around bewilderment.

While I cannot seem to make a heads or tail of anything in the world right now, I can assure you of one thing: It is going to be a good weekend, probably. While other cities around this glorious continent might be hosting elaborate music festivals this weekend which you can only gnash your teeth at for your complete and total lack of geographical appropriateness (and, let’s face it, pure and unabashed demographic squareness), we here in old Albany, New York have our own small goings on to appreciate. It’s going to be—how do you say—a doozy of a weekend.

I really should not make predictions like these ones, however. Really. Sunday night will find me lying in a gutter and wondering how I got there. Talking to a friend yesterday, in the confines of a hot and humid car, with the rain coming down outside, I found myself saying things that I would not normally say. Scratch that from the record, I told her. And so thus I offer you: Scratch that. It would make me feel better, at least.