The first time I dropped out of college I went to live in Lexington, Kentucky with my high-school girlfriends. We took some drugs and went to some Dead shows. I was stupid and young and desperate to fit in somewhere particular, outside from where I thought most people wanted to fit in. Now I'm stupid and older and resigned to not fit in any of those places, either. But in any case, my final days in Lexington were a whirlygig of falling in love and following love out to Yellowstone National Park where love had a summer job. Now mind you, I didn't have a summer job there, but I was determined to get me one. So, with 50 dollars in my pocket and a ticket to see The Who in Pittsburgh at some later date, I cadged a ride with someone I didn't know who happened to be going in that direction. I swore my girlfriends to selling my Japanese-model Fender Squire electric guitar and poopy little amplifier and sending me the money at their earliest convenience. I got dropped off in Lake, Wyoming, at the dorm-style building where love lived in one very small room with a roommate from Georgia. Roommate was exceedingly gracious about my staying with them, but I was rapidly running out of money. So I hitchhiked for the first time to a little town on the Montana border where Yellowstone had their employment services headquartered. I had just under 5 dollars left and confidently spent it on a greasy breakfast in some old-west kind of diner. After breakfast I walked over to employment services where the matronly woman at the desk looked at me sadly and said, "Honey, people apply for these jobs months, even years in advance. We just don't have any openings." I hung my head and walked out the door and down the highway, preparing to hitchhike back to love and roommate with less than nothing to show for my efforts. I'd gotten maybe 50 yards when that same woman came running down the highway in high-heels, bless her heart, yelling for me, "Someone just called and cancelled! We have an opening for you!" OK, so this opening was for a job as a maid in Old Faithful, about a 45 minute drive from love and Lake. Of course, I took the job and proceeded on a bus to "training camp" with a bunch of slightly off-kilter sorority girls where we lived in these sad little cabins and learned how to fold towels, clean toilets and make beds (all of which I am still a miserable failure at). These were the blessed days before cell phones and, since I had no money, I had no way to call love and tell him of my great fortune. He just thought I dropped off the face of the earth, I guess, until I arrived in Lake 3 days later to get my things and head off for Old Faithful and my budding career as a maid. The pass between Lake and Old Faithful just happened to bear his name. I'll just call it "Love Pass". It also just so happened that "Love Pass" was closed for much of that summer due to construction. And, yes, that was how my relationship with love went, too. But I enjoyed myself tremendously, nevertheless . The surroundings were stunningly beautiful and the people that worked there were from all walks of life and from all over the country. My working partner was a Shoshone Indian who was even worse at maid-service than I. We had a great time and I still remember the one thing he taught me how to say in his native language, but I'm sure I couldn't spell it. We, the employees of Yellowstone, were all quite bitter about and imagined ourselves quite superior to the tourists, even though that's why we were there. Some of my favorite delusional comments from the mouths of those people we called "tourons" were: from an older woman sitting on a bench and watching the geyser Old Faithful go off, "Is that it? I though it was going to be fiery red with SPARKS!", or "When do you turn the geyser on?" or "When do you put the animals away?". The Fourth of July rolled around and a couple of crazy coots from Georgia that I had met through love's roommate took me and another girl I knew from Kentucky out in their pick-up truck. With a couple bottles of wine we drove out to Cody, Wyoming, an hours-long drive, with the intention of seeing some fireworks. I guess it was a bad idea, in light of what happened. We sat in the little city park in Cody with all the local families and what have you. After purchasing some beers, one of which I had stashed in my skirt, we tried to be unobtrusive and just watch the bad music and wait for nightfall and the fireworks. Clearly we were unsuccessful in our attempt at unobtrusiveness as an officer of the law approached us directly, long before nightfall or fireworks. He must have honed in on my 14-year-old looking face because he came to me first. "How old are you?" he asked, eyeing my beer. "Twenty-one!" I nervously chirped ( I was very 18 years old at the time). "So, when is your birthday?" he stealthily followed. I, ever quick-witted, responded with a sheepish, "I don't know." The jig was up! Well, I guess this particular officer wanted me to know he wasn't a man to be trifled with for he promptly HANDCUFFED me and took me off to the pokey where they took my CLOTHES and put me in this extremely unappealing and unflattering blue jumpsuit. The officer who took my mug-shot actually gave me the first polaroid because it was unusable, it was so pathetic; I was laughing and crying so hard, I just could not believe the idiocy of what was happening. I knew I was in deep trouble when I asked to call my employer to tell them I wouldn't be in the next day and maybe the day after that and the officer I asked truly did not know how to call outside the office. What were these people going to do to me? And for how long? They put me in a jail cell far away from all the other inmates. What I later learned is that in Wyoming you are considered a minor until the age of 19, which means they really shouldn't have had me even near the jail, let alone in a cell, not only because it was an incredibly disproportionate punishment for my crime, but because it was very illegal. I can only assume they all knew this. Perhaps they thought they were making it less illegal by putting me in a cell where I could neither hear nor see anybody else except the dour woman who brought me an occasional meal. She wouldn't even talk to me when I asked her questions! These people were insane. What I WAS able to see from my cell window were those goddamned, lame-ass, Cody fireworks. I really don't even care for fireworks. The only other thing in the cell besides myself was a copy of The National Enquirer; the year was 1989 and an angry-looking, gold-laden Mr.T graced the cover. I read that fucker like I've never read anything before or since. And I did that for close to 24 hours, during which time nobody told me anything about what was happening with my case except that the judge was out for the Fourth of July holiday until the following Monday. Did that mean I had to stay in jail for 3 days? Nobody seemed to know. Or at least they weren't telling. When they came to let me out of the cell the next day I was surprised. My friend from Kentucky was waiting for me and had gone to much trouble to bail me out. Now, why didn't someone come and tell me that was going on while I was freaking out in my jail cell wondering how long these clowns thought they could keep me locked up? Girlfriend paid $300 to get me out and she signed something which made the court unable to use the bail money towards my impending fine. A court date was set and I slunk back to Old Faithful, very thankful to my friend and very unemployed. What does the youngest child of four do when she finds herself in Wyoming, freshly out of the hoosegow, freshly out of a job, and foolishly out of money? She calls Daddy to buy her a plane ticket home to West Virginia! "Yes, Dad, I think buying the round trip ticket is cheaper!", I yelled into the pay phone, never telling him of the Cody, Wyoming debacle or that I intended to actually use the return ticket to come back to that god-forsaken place and attend my court hearing so I could get the bail money back. Anyway, I needed to get back to the east so I could go to that Who concert in Pittsburgh. Remember that ticket I had to The Who concert in Pittsburgh? Well, it turned out I was going to get to use it after all.

At the Mission Theatre on Saturday, November 22nd.
I am so excited about the line-up for this show!
This evening will feature the debut of Amelia songwriter/bassist Jesse Emerson's preeminent glam-rock band FROM WORDS TO BLOWS! And I get to be in it! Jesse on guitars and singing, Jenny Conlee-Drizos ..s, Steve Drizos on drums and myself on bass. Jesse's songs are so damn good I want to eat them.
Middle slot will be my band: Steve Drizos on drums, Lewi Longmire on guitar, Bill Rudolph on bass, with special guests Paul Brainard and Jenny Conlee-Drizos! We'll be performing the record in it's entirety and ending the set with a top-secret-weapon cover song!
Closing out the night will be Casey Neill and The Norway Rats with Ezra Holbrook on drums, Jenny Conlee-Drizos ..s, Adam East on bass, and myself on rhythm guitar and harmony (the HOTTEST Mr. Hanz Araki cannot join us on this one) and of course, Mr. Casey Neill at the helm.
Tickets are $10 advance $12 night of show. Doors open at 7pm show starts at 8pm.
Don't miss FROM WORDS TO BLOWS. Really.
p.s. yes, I am in every band!

The second time I dropped out of college I was mysteriously convinced by my Friend and Bandmate (one person, female) that we should leave Michigan and head to L.A. to become rockstars. Now, we weren't very good but Friend and Bandmate didn't think this would diminish our chances of stardom in the slightest. The mystery wasn't that I was convinced to go. The mystery was that I was convinced to go the way we did; A mid-July heat wave was in full-swing and our passengers in my 1969 VW Bus (painted like a bag of Wonder Bread) were a white kitten, a black puppy, and a much older woman who was, aptly we discovered, called "Crazy Mary". We knew "Crazy Mary" from the club we played in in Ypsilanti. When she found out of our impending trip across the country in the VW Van with the kitten and the puppy during a heat wave she decided that it was the perfect opportunity for her to take a sort of "last fling" because, as I mentioned, she was much, much older than we were and thought maybe her "fling" days were coming to an end. She was also a terrible alcoholic and wanted to use the trip to "dry out". What could go wrong?
Well, any of you who know Volkswagons know that not only did we not have air-conditioning or even a functioning fan, but we broke down innumerable times. And any of you who know alcoholics who are trying to dry out know that they are among the least pleasant and most scary people to be around. The kitten and puppy hovered near death's door during the day while we tried to relieve them of their heatstroke by forcing them to lay next to each other on a wet towel on a cooler between the front seats. The kitten almost bought it one night toward the end of the trip, but not because of heatstroke. After our 4th or 5th breakdown we found ourselves in a tick-ridden hotel room in Missouri and, of course, "Crazy Mary" was suffering D.T.s from lack of alcohol. As she lay in her bed she imagined bugs were crawling all over her skin and that there was a rat in her hair...actually, bugs WERE crawling all over her skin and there was a CAT in her hair, namely my little white kitten Rudy whom she ripped unceremoniously from her long, straight, brown-grey hair screeching, "WHAT THE FUCK!", and flung against the faux-wood panelled wall. Rudy survived but I wasn't so sure that I was going to.
The next morning I conferred with Friend and Bandmate about the idea of suggesting that "Crazy Mary" go back to Ypsilanti by Greyhound early. I broached the subject with her, citing the breakdowns and misfortune as good reasons to go back now, and was met with immediate and vehement opposition. "Crazy" was convinced, apparently by my Friend and Bandmate, that I didn't want her with us and she told me that she had been warned by Friend and Bandmate that I was going to try and pull this kind of stunt and ruin her trip! She was determined to come with us to L.A. and take a Greyhound from there. Well, here was a new development. If I thought the trip sucked before, it took on a whole new dimension of sucking now. Friend and Bandmate and I had been playing Pdiddle throughout the trip, punching each other good-naturedly on the arm when we sighted a car with a headlight out. I now scoured the oncoming highway traffic, desperate for a chance to punch her in the arm...a little harder every time. "Crazy" loomed in my rear-view mirror saying things like, "L.A. is full of two kinds of people, Sweetheart: sharks and sheep. And you're going to get eaten up, little girl!" (She really said this, and when I laughed at the mixed-metaphor cliche-ness of her comment she scrunched up her face and flipped me off.) The finale of the trip was making it to an L.A. 7-11 parking lot and "Crazy Mary" chasing me around the van intending, I guess, to beat the shit out of me. What with me weighing in at 110 pounds and an accomplished runner, I just didn't let the old lady catch me and she soon ran out of breath, cursing me from behind the van.
"Crazy" left the next morning to go back to Michigan on the bus. I left a few days later for Sacramento, of all places, leaving Friend and Bandmate and puppy at her brother's posh L.A. villa. I procured an apartment in Sac (not just an abbreviation but an accurate description), a stray kitten named Charles, and two jobs, one of them stripping and de-knuckling spare-ribs and gutting chickens. The ribs and chickens arrived frozen so I had to thaw them in constantly running cold water before tearing them asunder. Really. While I did this, my hands raw and red as meat, my lame-ass boss tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to ask me out between strange quasi-military bouts with my male co-workers in which they were forced to do push-ups for various work-related transgressions. Really. I was 20 years old.

I couldn't quite read what was written on my forehead. I was eyeball-hurting hung-over, it was very early in the morning and the words were backwards because I was looking at them in the '70s remodel smoky-glass bathroom mirror at my friend's house. I got up really close to the mirror, as if that would help, and deciphered the words "I GOT LAID" written in indelible black marker. My girlfriends, in a moment of inspiration, had decided to write this on my forehead after I had gone to bed. I went to bed much earlier than they did because I had to get up that next morning for summer school, a travesty in itself, especially since everyone else in my class had already graduated, but now I had to scrub black indelible marker off my forehead! Would it even come off? It did, but there was an angry red mark there afterwards for much of the day and tiny black flecks of marker for days following. I would have been angry, too, if it weren't so ridiculous. And true.
I had to go to summer school after graduation in order to actually graduate from high school. They let me walk in the ceremony but the diploma they handed me while the cameras flashed was blank. Due to extensive absences (I calculated 1 out of every 3 days through my entire high-school career), the Board of Education, in its infinite wisdom, had me enrolled in remedial classes for about half of my junior year. Now, those tests we had to take for placement or torture or whatever all placed me in the highest-possible percentile; I was clearly a smarty-pants! But they didn't seem to care about that. I think they even had me in remedial homeroom. I will never forget the day that Mr. Neely, a funny-looking little man with thick glasses and terrible coffee-cigarette breath, called me out of my seat during his Geography-for-dumb-asses class and took me to the office. He didn't say a word the whole way there; was I in trouble again? We entered the vice-principal's office and I sat down. Mr. Neely remained standing and said with incredible earnestness, "It's embarrassing for me to have Susannah in my class. It's embarrassing for the other students and it's embarrassing for her." He insisted that I be taken out of all remedial classes and I was, and promptly put in Advanced Placement everything. What a roller-coaster! No wonder I preferred smoking cigarettes in my basement room and listening to Pink Floyd to going to that madhouse. I still didn't like to go to school even after they changed my classes, except at night to drink beer in the parking lot. I was so glad when it was over, but my grades sucked so it wasn't quite over until after summer school.
One weekend during that summer of 1988 a bunch of us went up to Morgantown, West Virginia where some of our friends went to college. After a James Taylor concert and much cheap beer, I found myself in a completely unmade bed with one of our friends and decided that this would be a good time to lose my virginity. Sounds magical, doesn't it? To add to the romantic ambience, we had somehow managed to spill an entire bottle of cheap Italian dressing on our two cases of Rolling Rock beer at the outset of our trip. That oily-sweet-stinky smell seemed to be everywhere, it clung to everything, it wouldn't wash off and we all smelled like that the whole weekend! I had already decided that I didn't want to be especially crazy about whoever I had sex with for the first time, however they smelled; it was a big enough deal just getting through it. And this guy was a good friend: big and goofy and sweet. Out of my five good girlfriends ( I now call them "The West Virginia Girls" ) I was the second to lose her virginity, though I really don't feel as if I lost anything. Maybe you can imagine the drunken glee with which they must have written those words on my forehead, though "glee" is not the word I would use to describe how I felt upon seeing them there. I pledged to get them back someday, but I have yet to find the opportunity. Maybe I should try harder.

I have stolen only two cars in my life. Maybe that seems like a lot to you, like one or two more than you have stolen. Maybe not. You'll see that stolen is not exactly the right word, but close enough. This all happened before I was 15 years old, so you'll forgive me.
My mother and I used to live in an enclave of divorcees, mysteriously, though I think aptly named "Hunters Ridge". We lived at the bottom of a short but steep hill in a sort of cul-de-sac of poorly-constructed condominiums. An older girl lived at the other end of our building, a cheerleader, but not the bubbly-clean-on-the-outside/scary-on-the-inside kind of cheerleader...more the slightly unkempt/been-around-the-block/cigarrette-smoking/beer-swilling variety of cheerleader. I adored her and her mother; they were tough and sweet and laughed a lot and I think they thought it was hilarious when I crashed my mother's car into their garage door.
It was an icy winter night and my mother was out on some lame date. Her car was a cherry-red convertible Fiat Spider, her only consolation prize after divorcing her second husband, a wealthy and depraved pedophile (I only received my consolation prize years later when the bastard died of cancer). Her date had picked her up, so the car was in the garage. My friend, Amy, and I had decided that I should take the car and pick her up and go somewhere. Isn't that so 14-years old? We really didn't even have anywhere to go! I was VERY determined to do it even though I had never driven a car before, let alone one with manual transmission on an icy, West Virginia, "Take Me Home Country Roads" kind of road. At NIGHT! I'd watched people drive my whole life, what was the big deal? And at the video arcade in the mall I had been unbeatable! First there was the short-but-steep driveway to navigate. That's what I thought before I got into the driver's seat. Then I realized, no, I had to first navigate my way out of the garage, quite an event in itself. Once I found reverse I backed out of the garage in an arc, ready to plow ahead up that icy driveway. After that it's a mystery to me what happened. Did I forget to take it out of reverse and plow backwards into the cheerleader's garage door? Did I just slide back down the icy driveway into their garage door? I really don't know. In any case, I crashed the car into their garage door! I slowly arced the Fiat forward following the exact trajectory I had in backing out, right back into our garage and closed our garage door. When I went over to the cheerleader's condo a few minutes later to tell them of my misadventure, her mother was very forgiving; they maybe even gave me a cigarette to calm me down and they definitely had to stifle some laughter. They were certain that the Hunters Ridge "Association" would take care of the damages and assured me that they had no intention of telling the "Association" that they knew who had caused the damages. They were great. But my mother would not be so forgiving. She wasn't going to give me a goddamn cigarette to calm me down! She was going to kill me!
If she had I would not have been able to steal the second car, which was not my mother's car but a friend's mother's car; a station-wagon that I crashed into one of those brick-pillar mailboxes. And not the narrow-kind of brick-pillar mailbox. This thing was like a small house! It's a good thing that it was because that's the only thing that kept us from crashing into the much larger house behind it. We had gone to pick up that same friend, Amy and another girl, also named Amy. If I were gay, which I have wished innumerable times throughout my adult life, I think that Amy would have been my first crush; her face was heartbreakingly beautiful. As it was she just inspired me to do wrongheaded kinds of things, like stealing cars, for example. The Amys were in what I have always called the "way-back" of the station-wagon and we had the stereo cranked and it was great! Until I turned my head to try and hear whatever those two were yelling from back there. I suppose I could have just turned down the stereo, and maybe that's what they were yelling for me to do, for all I know. The car was totalled but no one was hurt. After the crash the Amys jumped out the back window and ran for home. The friend who's family car the station-wagon had been and I stayed to face the music. The music was deafening.

After an awesome Who concert in Pittsburgh and some skibbling in the mud at a few days of Dead shows in Wisconsin, there was what will live on in infamy as "The Naked-Man-On-The-Couch" episode. I won't go into detail on that one; suffice to say that I am not a slut, though my mother certainly thought I was that morning I was set to fly back to Wyoming and she found me also-naked-on- the-couch. I missed my flight and instead of my dear friend, Meg, taking me to the airport, my mother was forced to drive her slutty-ass daughter there and I was accidentally put in first-class where I was served steak and a swiss-cheese omelette that just couldn't be beat.
The flight was actually into some town in Montana, where love was gracious enough to pick me up and drive me to Yellowstone. I had somehow paid back girlfriend from Kentucky who had bailed me out of jail; her name was Sarah and that will come into play a little later in the story. The guitar and amp I had beseeched my friends to sell earlier in the summer I sold in a pawn shop in Charleston, West Virginia on our way out of town to The Who concert. They didn't go for much and I arrived back in the west with basically no money. Love lent me a few, literally like $4, and I caught a ride on the employee bus (I still had my Yellowstone National Park Employee Badge) to Old Faithful and borrowed that same pick-up truck, which was on empty, from one of those crazy Georgia coots to drive myself back to Cody for the court hearing. How I made it there on $4 of gas is completely beyond me. It was a beautiful and sunny day and the windows were down. I listened to a James Taylor cassette tape over and over, sang the whole way and had a great time, though I was certain to run out of gas at any moment. Would I have to sell the little virtue I had left for a tank of gas? I wasn't sure. Not that I would, but anyway.
I arrived in Cody on the date of my court hearing, but about 2 hours late. I explained to the people there that I had just flown across the country to attend this court hearing and that 2 hours late was not so bad, considering. They told me the judge was not there (again! what was up with this guy?) and that I had to have my hearing over a SPEAKER-PHONE. Well, whatever got me the bail-money back, I didn't care; I hadn't eaten all day and I needed gas money to get the truck back to Old Faithful, not to mention to sustain myself beyond that. So I pleaded guilty to drinking a beer or to lying about my age or to something. I actually had to hold up whichever hand one holds up in these kinds of situations and talk into the speaker-phone to the judge. The verdict was GUILTY , of course, though again I don't remember to what I was pleading guilty, and a fine was set around $700! I had no intention of ever paying that ridiculousness of a fine, but I didn't tell them that and proceeded to the desk where I could get the $300 of bail money back. Remember girlfriend had signed something saying that they couldn't use that money for my fine? Well, they couldn't do that but what they also couldn't do was write the check for the bail money out to me. Only to Sarah. After much finagling on my part, they finally agreed to writing the check out to Sarah AND me, meaning I could cash the check at the bank next to the Cody court house. All I had to do was to get Sarah on the phone and have her tell them that this was ok. They had a phone for just this purpose set slightly away from the desk and I called up the Old Faithful office where she was working, but not on that particular day. On that particular day Sarah was shopping in Montana. Now, the only reason I knew that was because when I called the office in Old Faithful and asked for Sarah, they accidentally put a different Sarah on the phone, a Sarah that I happened to know in more of an acquaintance sort of way but well enough to tell her about the situation and to convince her to call the Cody court house and tell them that, indeed and by all means, she was Sarah and to write the check out to the both of us. Which they did. I cashed the check at the drive-through bank, went to the drive-through burger joint across the street (AMERICA!), filled the gas tank and sang all the way back to Old Faithful. Presumably whatever warrant that they put out for my arrest for never paying the fine has long-since expired. But just in case, don't tell anybody!

Big Sue and I used to work in a coffee shop in downtown Portland across the street from the main post office. It was one of those blessed food-service jobs wherein the customer was not only not always right, but, more often than not, completely, utterly, sadly wrong. We and our coworkers generally had the run of the place; I would sometimes show up for work in a ball gown-engineer boots-cowboy-hat, still drunk from all tomorrow's parties, only to find Big Sue wearing a pith helmet and gently explaining, as if to a child, why a particular customer was so miserably inaccurate about this or that. It was great fun.
It was late December, 1994, and I was alone and preparing to close up the coffee shop for the holidays. I was exhausted, probably hung-over, and not looking forward to any of it. Earlier that day Big Sue had told me that her New Year was going to be all about GLAMOUR. I, of course, thought she was ridiculous and hilarious but it got me thinking; what was my New Year going to be all about? I decided that it would be all about COURAGE; I had been unsuccessfully trying to write a song for years. I just could not get past the fear of writing something that sucked, and I thought it all had to be so SERIOUS! I had proudly revealed my plans to be courageous to a number of friends and I was determined to write at least one song, even if it totally sucked ass.
So, there I am, going through the drudgery of sweeping and mopping the floor. A customer walks in about a half-hour before closing time, a woman with kind of crazy braided hair and tattoos, of course. We hit it off surprisingly well; I talked with her more than I usually talked to anyone who came in, especially someone who came in a half hour before close while I was pretending to mop the floor. She said she worked for Monqui in Seattle and was biding time until her train arrived. From her satchel she produced a few little presents for me: she let me pick out a cd from a handful she was carrying around with her, I presume for work, and I chose a "Sky Cries Mary" cd (remember them?), and she also presented me with some tea called "Yogi Fitness Tea". The instructions said to drink the tea when you had something ahead of you to do that you were just too tired to do. Well, you already know I was tired so that was a great boon, and I had also just purchased my first cd player from a pawn shop on 82nd!
We had finished with our pleasantries and she was preparing to go upstairs to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes, but before she did I asked for her name. She said her name was Courage. I said, "Excuse me? What is your name?". She said, "Courage de Leon, it means "courage of the lion." I'm sure I just stood there with my mouth hanging open for a few awkward moments, then I asked her to write her name down for me. I think I said something like, "My friends aren't going to believe this unless you write your name down!" I procured a piece of scrap paper from a stack of cut-up flyers we had next to the cash register and she graciously, if somewhat befuddled, wrote her full name on the paper I had handed her. As she walked upstairs I looked at the piece of paper in wonder, and then I turned it over and there, on the back of the piece of paper, right in the middle, were the words "FEAR NO MUSIC".
I cheerfully wrote 13 songs that next year, most of which totally sucked. I still have that piece of paper tucked away in an old wooden cigar box.

CD Baby is so good.They are featuring my 2004 release "SHINE" on
their home-page with a glowing review for a few glorious days.
Thank you, CD Baby!

go here:cdbaby.com/littlesue  and scroll down to the
review. and/or go to the cdbaby homeslice if it's in the next few days: CD Baby Home

MASTAN MUSIC HOUR PODCAST W/ LITTLE SUE
WHY AM I SO DUMB? DAMN, I'M DUMB. MORGAN GRACE CAN PUT LINKS OR VIDEOS WHEREVER SHE WANTS! AND SHE HAS A NEW CD OUT! I CAN'T EVEN MAKE Y'ALL A LINK TO THIS GODDAMNED PODCAST! AND MY NEW CD WILL NEVER BE DONE! WHAT A JACKASS I AM.
ok. caps lock off. i love you, morgan grace. put up a link for me, willya? i'm old and cranky. and dumb.
Mastan Music Hour Podcast w/ Little Sue