Ah, dear Journal! It is to you I run once again as my musical purgatory continues. What torment I am in! Each night, forced to perform like some minstrel before a stadium of utter morons. I am Prometheus, and the audience the dreaded vulture waiting to tear out my liver as I arrive in Nassau, in Scranton, in Sacramento, to lend my talents to the pandering songs of some bandana-wearing American hayseed.

If only they knew, dear Journal! If only they knew what mad, glorious genius brewed beneath this upturned bucket of KFC. For what once contained a dozen pieces of Colonel Sander's extra crispy now contains glorious symphonies, Baroque concertos, Italian operas of such beauty that Zeus himself would shed a tear. And all of them, unheard! Unappreciated! Pushed aside so the brainless philistines of rural New Jersey can hear their precious "Sweet Child o' Mine."