When I left the bar on the relatively early side last night to get back to the Mansion and walk Sacha the Death Metal Puppy (one task the MetalSucks Mansion Monkeys can’t seem to master no matter how I berate them: picking up dog poop without flinging it at someone), Anton OyVey was proving that Jews really do love bacon by keeping one of the shiksas from Reign in Blonde pinned down in the corner (I think it was the, uh, blonde one), Frank Godla from Metal Injection was tolerating a conversation with some dude whose entire argument for why The Devil Wears Prada are a good band was based on how many records they’ve sold (by which standard I guess Transformers: Everyone Done Know Sambots Don’t Do Much Readin’ is the greatest achievement in the history of cinema), and I think Vince was actually dancing. Dancing.

Then at about 5 am this morning I had a serious John Hughes moment when I was dreaming that a cute girl was licking my ear, only to awaken and discover that it was, in fact, Sacha, trying to entice me into a game of fetch with his favorite stuffed animal, or, at least, the limb of his favorite stuffed animal (said toy was torn apart recently during a particularly rowdy listening session in which Sacha took the band name “Dissection” to heart). ‘Cause, y’know, fuck sleep.

What was my point? Oh yeah. This:

-AR