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In a week that commences with the Maestro of Malcontent turning the austere age of 53, you are to do no less than fight the law (and win), take a holiday (in Cambodia), and throw some fresh fruit at rotting vegetables. Sure, Frankenchrist might come at you with his wee little fezzy cars and there might be a bit to much lard for your palatte, but if you don't babysit the babysitters, who will? And just because Punk Rock is dead (as it wants be) that doesn't mean Punk Rock Anti-Heroes are. So ride the flume, hail California, Uber Alles, and blow up the Western World's oxymoronism.
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