I was born in a squalid small town when drugs fucked with people. Uh - when I was like five there was a VW bus parked on our lot and me and my childhood friend Michael was poking around it and got chased with what, in hindsight was a bad acid trip hippie and his rather large knife. Later we would read in the Daily Clintonian that he and his girlfriend would both die in a suicide pack or whatever.

Anyway . . . we moved from Clinton to a small town in Vigo County, just a small distance from there called Shepardsville. There was a garden left by the crazy hagg who owned the place with nothing but Rheubarb - I obviously can't spell it.

Oh . . . it was tart. Oh. It was sweet.

Rubarb (however you spell it) was another world. It was tart and it was dipped in sugar to lessen it and it is most fucking awesome in pie. My grandma, who used to buy me books used to make me pies.


I love my grandma. I love her pies. I love the books she baught me. I love life.

The Pathway Machine