Photo: Brantley Gutierrez
I've geared for this since the zitty days of community baseball. Half-brained memories coaxed out of dull obscurity by after-hours cocktails of anti-depressants and chicken fingers emerge. All stupid, and all true. Bone frostingly, throat-closingly, feel-it-throbbing-in-the-core of yer balls-ingly true. Through dead cats and missed calls and car wrecks and girlfriends becoming ex-girlfriends. All of them delicately choreographed to the effervescent muck of "Does it Float?" "Sludgefeast" and "Budge."