So... how can I, one man, sum up all the debauchery, lechery and archery that took place over the Fooled By April holiday weekend? Let it just be said that if anyone has ever played more Tony Hawk in a three day period then he is a stonger man than I.

Anywho, let me tell you all a little story. A true story, people. On Friday night at around 1:00 AM, after much Tony Hawk (see above), bass player extraordinaire Pete Galea and I headed out for a bike ride on the Minuteman trail. Most of the ride was uneventful, but then things got interesting, people, very interesting.

We were almost back when we came around a corner and saw this group of five or six high school kids walking down the path. No big deal. So we started to ride around them. Pete got around OK, but when I passed, one of the kids full on body checked me for no reason at all, stopping me and basically knocking me off my bike. Here's what ensued, with commentary:

Me: What is your f@#$ing problem, you f@#$ing a%#hole!!!

(This is called, in psychology circles, "calmly dealing with a situation")

Kid: F#@k You! You ran into me on your bike, bitch!

(There are a couple problems in this response. First of all it is patently untrue, unless the new definition of being run into involves deliberately stepping in front of someone and hitting them. Second, what kind of logic is this? If you're going to be a punk, at least own up to being a punk and threaten me like a man. I, personally, would have used something like "That's right Motherf?§ker, you want some of this beatdown?", or perhaps "My name is Jimmy the Killa and I own this trail, so why don't you $#%@ my mother%^%ing @£§?!" or even something as simple as spitting in my face. I mean, come on, "You ran into me"???? What's the point?)

Me: You're an a%$hole, F&*k off.

(Another example of my cool head. After this I began to ride off)

Kid: No, you f&*k off! (Very clever. He turned it around on me. This was followed by an unintelligible stream of expletives that I'm pretty sure involved a mention of my mother and definitely touched upon my apparent homosexual proclivities. At this point the other kids erupted in a chorus of expletives and began chasing us. Now this was just plain silly. It wasn't Carl Lewis and his friends chasing us, people, it was a bunch of jerkoff punk kids. Simple physics dictates that they will not be able to catch bicycles ridden by the like of Pete "Flash of Gyroscopic Speed" Galea and myself, Joe "Very Fast Bike Rider" Welsh.)

And that was that. We somehow safely eluded our pursuers and made it home. So, you ask, what's the point? There is no point, really. I just wanted to vent my pent-up anger over the whole thing and to ask that if you know who these kids are you take a minute, just one minute out of your busy day, and somehow poison their food so that they have non-life threatening, yet still very severe, diarrhea in their pants.

Until next time, when I might just talk about music...