It's not the money ('cause at this level it ain't much), it's not the fame ('cause at this level nobody knows who the hell you are), and sometimes it's not even the sheer pleasure of playing your music (though that is really really where it's at), it's the people you meet ('cause at this level playing the types of places that go hand in hand with the pay and the lack of fame, you meet all sorts). This past weekend I met the antichrist. Yep, that's what I thought too. He came in the form of a small, round, drunken (no way), blonde American Irish Texan named Mick. Who knew? He told me he was the antichrist but not to worry. Later that night when I saw him again at a Denny's I worried a little bit. He told me he was really a nice guy, never hurt no one (although he did once hold a gun to the head of the mom of a guy he knew had raped his sister... or something like that. Let's just say the story was a bit murky). He was born in New Orleans and has two birthmarks under his blonde hair (crew cut) that resemble horns. I refused to touch them (or even check to see if they were really there). I guess that's what makes him the devil... but he's a nice guy. He ended up partying with Tommy Lee at the Playboy Mansion one night and woke up with 15 playmates... not one or even two, 15!!! David Allen Coe wrote a country song about him. I got all that and a slurred more in 5 minutes. I guess when you're Beelzebub things like that go your way, yet why was he hitting on me? That was the consensus after I laughed and acted busy. He wanted to party party, hmmmm. Yep, the people you meet. Think Bowie or Jagger ever got hit on by a swinging bi-demon? Who needs the fame and money, I'm a friggin' rock star! Even the devil wants to party with me. Guess I'm up to par with Tommy Lee, David Allen Coe, and 15 Playboy Playmates. Who knew? Take care. Later, Butch