No amount of failure in the university system could make me regret abandoning my studying duties last night to experience of montreal with my good friend fista. Sample conversation:

johny: What's that? Is that the voice of angels I am hearing in my ears?

fista: I think he changes keys like every time he changes chords.

johny: I think he changes keys as well as time signatures as well as tempos as well as the history of rock and roll with every note he plays. Is it okay that this makes me never want to play music again?

fista: It's okay for now, I guess.

So, yeah. See them at a venue near you. Bring extra socks, because the ones you're wearing will be knocked the fuck off. Shoes, oddly, remain intact.
I should get to work. More papers, tests than I know what to do with. I'm sure my complaining about "college life" is about as relevant to you as James' baseball spiel was to me, though it did strangely remind me of Kerouac's baseball ramblings at the beginning of Desolation Angels. Make what you will of that. And here's a hint: the man in the television tower might possibly be somehow related to the person that operates the joystick for the pay channels that you don't get, occassionally straightening out the picture enough for you to see, more than likely, a man's anus.
I love you all.