Book I—In which the author endures an unfortunate! omen. A brief tumult ensues which will surprise the reader. Also an architectural rendering containing grave matters and a short extract from the sublime.

CHICAGO “AAWWWWWWGGHHUUUGGHH...” Cutting through the opening act’s Fender din, wafting over the whining protest at the backstage door, slicing across the blue haze of kiddie-boy greetings and dealer’s quarrels (“So where are the papers, shithead!”), practically sizzling my bare eardrums is this awful noise—like a prop jet regurgitating an engine full of mutilated swallows. Even the frazzled bouncer who guards the entrance to Valhalla has momentarily loosened his vise-like grip on the tiny, moon-eyed urchin at my side to suss out this mutant blast.

Hove to hear boys screaming for me Just like I shouted for the Stones.

Againjt rears its ugly head—“AAAWWWUUUAAAGGHH”. Gravity tells me to look down. There is vomit all over my shoes. Tiny cheese frostedflakes are dribbling down some kid’s lumberjack shirt, oozing through his jeans; a puddle of slime forms on the already greasy tile floor.