Your motorcycle is a badge of freedom. Those leather and chrome accoutrements accentuate just how free you are. Free to reject the mainstream and ride your own path. Admittedly, it is a path crowded somewhat by all the other aging leather-clad weekend warriors refusing to conform, but it is your path nonetheless.

The time you dressed your monkey in that lil’ devil costume in the middle of July even though his tail required more room than the interior of that lil’ foam pitchfork provided.

The time you agreed to a second playdate for your monkey and your best friend’s monkey even after your best friend’s monkey refused to return the favor when your monkey picked all the fleas and ticks off his spoiled little back.

This live podcast recording is going to be so epic. The anticipation is palpable, and we’re sufficiently prepared to be both dazzled and rocked. We’ve been waiting six months for the tour dates to be announced and now that we know they’re coming here—here, of all places—we’re about to politely lose our minds.

Dear Charlotte,

Like the rest of us arachnids, when I was a baby spider, I looked up to you. Before I could even embalm a fly on my own, I’d heard about your barnyard heroics.

Shiraz, Iran: November 1, 1978. The day I was born. I’d like to say it was a Wednesday, but who the hell knows, I’m not Rainman. And even if I did have a talent for counting errant toothpicks, wrapping one’s mind around temporal exactitude once the International Date Line has been crossed is nearly impossible.

I was a child born into a time of revolution and flux. Iran had only recently deposed their Shah and the first day of the hostage crisis was almost exactly one year away. The world watched with concern as Iran’s 2500 year old monarchal tradition dissolved in a fantastic heap of religious fundamentalism.