I have not quite convinced myself that my work here is completely futile, nor do I believe that music has ground itself to a rut as I may have made it seem.
If you’re cranking The Soundtrack to my Life Volume 147 while dustbusting your CD collection and wine rack, you know life took a turn and you missed the exit.
It feels as if the universe took a deep, final breath, shuddered, and collapsed, leaving nothing but an infinite black hole in the center of your being.
Iggy Pop was rock ‘n’ roll personified. He had it all: the songs, the voice, the look, the attitude, the sex appeal, the words… hell, even his name: Iggy Pop.
“Our first jumper is nearing her mark. Sammi is twelve years old and has a police record dating back five years. Her hobbies include music and vandalism.”
Mike Royko was the midwesterner’s Jimmy Breslin, a two-fisted muckraker who could write himself and his blue collar cronies into every maelstrom he covered.
I often don’t remember the exact unmentionable of which I’m accused, but I base how much credibility I give the alleged incident on Is it in my character?