Take the charm out of Charlie Manson ...
... and you're left with "nose nail." But that's not the point.

I'm tired of being an insanity magnet. If an inmate has slipped through the bars at Bellevue by smearing himself with tapioca at midnight, somehow he will track me down and corner me on the 6 train with his theories about God being a flea on a mourning dove kept in a cage by the former bass player for Jane's Addiction and is just waiting for the right Israel-bound hound to finally jump-start Armageddon. If an overly garrulous and geographically challenged tourist needs directions or an addled beggar needs cash, I'm the one they come to despite the ginormous noise-canceling headphones. The other night at rehearsal I somehow managed to become a temporary captive audience to some old lady who had wandered in to watch, and she regaled me with endless stories about touring with the USO during WWII and having numerous affairs with soldiers, nearly getting raped by a Russian army outfit, knowing Tony Randall personally ("if only he'd had a better voice teacher"), and coming on to one of her own voice students before finally handing me her "business card" and suggesting we go out for coffee sometime as I left her presence muttering a la Zero, "They come here, they all come here - how do they find me?" Combine this with the latest Eeyore the Cover Band Drummer drama and I've fucking had it. The universe needs to stop sending me its deficient, its deranged, its debilitated, its depressants, its desipramin-deprived. I'm talking about a full-blown eccentricity exorcism, an adjuration of the overly idiosyncratic, a Father Merrin for the lithium set. I mean it, I'm spent. Go camp outside Sean Hannity's house and make origami W chains or something. This bird has flown - and no, you with the Kozy Shack sheen, not to the temple site. In Geisha-speak, "YOU! SELL CRAZY! ELSEWHERE!!!!!"

Mmmm ... tapioca ...