"Excuse me," the woman on the corner asked me. "How do you make a
"I don't know," I replied, "but you can certainly use the new Pelt disc
as a crust."
"So there's this band, Pelt. Are you indie rock? How old are you?"
"Oh, cool. I got an aunt that old. Yeah, so indie rock is like this
thing that Pavement invented a few years ago, right? So, anyhow, Pelt
doesn't sound like Pavement. It's this experimental bullshit, sort of
like Flying Saucer Attack but without the Flying Saucer, and you know
what that gives you, right?"
"Don't mind if I do!"
And that's how I ended up in jail-- all because the damn woman didn't
know what I was talking about. That's fine. She can go to France where
they all speak that pee- pee- poo- poo- bullshit. Me? I gotta talk about
Pelt, and damned if I want to. Crusty as the bottom of a boring pie,
you hear me?
Meanwhile, a far more terrifying thought just occurred to me: Is it
possible that I, Jason Josephes, creator of such unpaid classics as
"Three Blocks From Groove Street," am not actually in this jail cell,
but rather, trapped inside one of Brent DiCrescenzo's reviews?
That couldn't be possible, right? ...Right?