You died in an airplane crash last night while I was in deep sleep. I was sad but not ruined. A flight attendant in her earthly blues gave me a small green soft plastic nightlight with your name on it. I picture it still glowing about a foot off the hardwood floor of my bedroom. And this is how I remember you.
Alt77: Hot Rod Stigmata
There’s something campy and demented about William Steffey’s Hot Rod Stigmata that reminds me of the Butthole Surfers if they could stand still for enough