NAMES: Sean Wood, Erin Wood.
AGES: Old enough to party.
FROM: Kalamazoo, Michigan.
OCCUPATION: Frankenstein’s party monsters.
HOBBIES: Chewing bubble gum, kicking ass, never running out of bubble gum.
LAST BOOK YOU READ: The Bell Jar.
LAST ACCOMPLISHMENT: Accomplishing things is for nerds.
QUOTE: “No, you can’t use our kick pedal.”
PROFILE: From Eaglebauer conspiring with Riff Randall in the stalls of Vince Lombardi High, to Nile Rodgers conducting business deals out of the unisex urinals of Studio 54, to all those slumming millionaires from every Strokes song ever, the finest minds in history have used bathrooms as a home base from which greatness was achieved. So why should the Spits be any different? Are you implying that their greatness is somehow in doubt? The Spits—fueled by nothing more than Genny Cream Ale, an unerring sense of melody, and hate—pee out better songs than your favorite garage rock cosplayers (even with the benefit of trust funds and supermodel coke) ever could. Thank God for the Spits. And if you don’t believe in God, thank the Spits for the Spits.
Always say “Boy Howdy!”