I wanna take you on kind of an inebriational travelogue, here. Screw off the top from that bottle of bum wine, it'll all be fine. Let
me be your guide through the ghost-town of my brain, let me show you the postcards & snapshots from the haunted city of my
heart. Let me introduce you to old buddies & former flames, let me tell you their long sad tales. Let me show you the places where
I've fallen down in the gutter, fallen in love, been flattened by fists & flattered by compliments. Come with me, we'll take a tramp
across the cracked sidewalks & trampled roses, we'll trip the light fantastic all across this lamppost night. Here's a scummy bar in
Milwaukee, Riverwest, with bathroom graffiti that led me to do things I've come to regret. Here's the roiling Mississippi River,
here I am crossing it with Tom Waits on the tapedeck & a lit cigarette. I lost my Saint Christopher now that I've kissed 'er, and
here's the hot sticky air of New Orleans caressing my shoulders. Listen – the rusty screech of latenight trolleys in West Philly, I
was once an immortal lightin' my handrolleds off the moon; and now I'm riding my bicycle across Milwaukee on a rainy night in
June. Say hello to the traingel with the sad brown eyes & the face tattoos, hop on board this empty boxcar, drink spiced rum in
the railyard. Look out the window of the F train to Coney Island, glimpse the Cyclone rising from the sea. And here's a charming
bastard to bend me over in the filthy bathtub of a motel room, to give me bone-bruises on my knees. And here I'm climbing up on
a rooftop, draining all the bottles & then watching 'em shatter in the street. I'm lighting off firecrackers in Chicago alleyways, I'm
having my tarot read on Venice Beach. I'm dreaming of ghosts on the Day of the Dead; I'm wide awake in Pilsen, on a Chicago-ash
March morn. Across the phone lines comes the crackly voice of a bear, singing an offkey rendition of an Elvis Costello song. Here's
a pub where I waste my nights, with the boys & the girls, the booze & the pills, cheap sex & cheap thrills. Here I am going back and
forth through time, I am seventeen, twenty-one, twenty-seven, pogoing at a punkrock show with a tallboy of Pabst in my hand.
Watch out you don't get magicked by that ol' Milwaukee voodoo, and who do we have here? A gal with hair like straw & mud, who
smells like whiskey, salt & smoke – it's because of her that my heart is broke. And here's a girl with a diamond in her mind,
playing accordion to the passerby as night falls on the near-winter streets of Chicago-town. And when I get tired of burning
bridges, tearing the city down, I'll be leanin' on a barstool talking to a boy with eyes like blue sapphire gin, deep dimples, & a
dangerous grin. I'll be listening to southern boys singing lonesome songs, thinking about all the things I could do, the places I could
go next, realizing it don't really matter, friend – cos chances are, more than likely, I'll be held over for another smashed weekend.