Oh, but we love when the rich man falls down into art - one of the most relevant and pirmal forms of expression and connection that somehow has kept its head above water while the proverbial oil-slick of binary and suits comes over it all, again and again. The dot-coms have dried up and we're figuring out new ways to play our instruments.

Who doesn't love when the rich boy who is crumbling in the back seat of his parent's BMW gets pulled into the dirty decadence of art. Too-tight leather pants sliding over a hipbone from a malnourished seemingly just jumble of limbs.

I'm happier than I've been in a bit. Thanks, friends and cohorts. And girlfriend, to say the least. I've gone ~35 days sober. Top o' the world, ma!

I guess this is that definitive "Erin" entry she says I write like - that is, nothing about me. Come on. Untrue.

Work is fine. I'm getting restless and want to move states and jobs. Also, Trail of Dead come here on the first. Come with me and get your rock on.

roll,

Jared