Cheese Chronicles

In 1985, three other guys and I -- in Kentucky, of all places -- formed a band, hitched our sled to the rock and roll dream, and screamed mush from the pits of our souls. We had nothing going for us save a vehement, greasy, turbo-psychotic vision of how things might turn out, and we went for it. It is good to pursue an outlandish dream. Latch on to the wild dogs. Grab that whip and yee-the-hell-hah! Eventually the sled comes out from under you, and from that point on, you either run like hell or you get your face dragged all over God's creation, scraping on rocks and bouncing off the sides of trees. There will be great incidence of contusions, highway motel dog breath and bottle-ringed cocktail napkin blitherscribble. Things move faster and faster. Everything you packed for the trip -- relationships, standards, your future -- gets tossed or bounce off somewhere, and all the while, you know you can stop and at any time, just by letting go of the dream. Under no circumstances whatsoever do you let go of the dream.