Ever since Henry, my quadriplegic goldfish, died suddenly while listening to folk-rock music, I have had visions of a dystopian future where classic 180 gram LPs spin out of control and decapitate anyone who voluntarily wears dreadlocks. I found number two as a vagrant wandering the streets and making a living from selling counterfeit toothpicks on the grey market, and was astonished to find he had been having the same visions, but with limited edition clear 7" vinyl singles impaling ballet dancers. It is a heavy burden to bear, and sometimes it is good to have an outlet. I hope we can all share in this pain together.
- number one
My aforementioned vagrancy owed much to the stimulating but tragic misfortune of being struck on the head by a free-falling Lindsay Wagner during filming of her parachute accident scene for the Bionic Woman. Rescued by a passer-by and cured of plasmonic-psychosis by simultaneously listening to Miles Davis and Kim Wilde records, I felt I could never hear music in the same way again, nor could I allow others to. A chance encounter with number one provided a platform to convert the multitudes, as Jesus would surely have done, although spasmodic episodes of cranial-fibulitis continue to inhibit my output.
- number two