I don’t know wether I want to F or punch Jack Johnson. You know the musician that your girlfriend closes her eyes to and imagines she’s getting banged by when you’re giving her the thirty-second-hairy-sweat-ride. I’m sorry but he reminds me of a Hippy girl I meet at a dead show in Buffalo circa 1990. She smelled like tomato and introduced me to an 88, which is a 69 with two dillers.
About Me
- Coz
- Writing a memoir is one of the most fucked up things you can do to yourself, even if you remotely like who you are. At the End of the Driveway is the working title of a memoir I'm in the process of writing. The blog will serve as kind of a deleted scenes arena and a place where I can hopefully be able to unkink some of the knots. But mostly it's just an embarrassing and shameless act of self promotion. Thanks for stopping by.