It's early afternoon now, and we're loading our gear into the station wagon for the long drive to Los Angeles.  Jason "Loonyboi" Bergman says "Do you remember when we used to call our wheels the "Metallicar?"   "I sure don't," I say, "Did we call it that before I injured my brain with pruno?"  Lately, we call the Kid Wykked mobile "The Necronomicar".

At the very left of the picture is Kidd Wykked's bass player Sean "Baby" Reiley.  Fans of his webpage will be surprised to find that he looks a lot different in real life.  For the Internet, Photoshop is used to remove his moustache, suck some of the awesomely huge lapel out of his shirt, de-feather his hair, and superimpose an image of my grinning mouth over his own.  Nobody can remember ever seeing Sean smile.  He's not grim, though.  He's just always mentally preparing himself to rock.

Our drummer Chet, at the far right, splits his time between mentally preparing to rock his tiny drum kit and mentally preparing to punch me or call me a fag.  He does a new thing where he pokes me right in the bread basket, then right after I involunatrily go "oof!" he says "ag".  It makes it so I'm getting hit and helping call myself a fag.  Everyone thinks it's funny, so I laugh too.  But on the inside I'm crying tears of wild rage as I stab Chet in the head with a Rambo knife.  I used to say that if he directed all that clever energy towards something people would pay for, instead of hurting me, he'd be rich.  Then later our friend Marvin, who is from the future, told us that by 2030 humiliating me is a multi-billion dollar industry.  So I stopped saying that.