Ed. I always wanted to be a speed-eating, eighteen-wheeling, gearjamming truck-driving man. A long haul, chicken-lights-blazing, hammer-down cowboy with a fat load and nothing to lose on the look-see for plain wrappers, Tijuana taxis, local yokels, and everything in between. Alas, my vision’s on a par with that of Jose Feliciano, and I can’t see Jack Shit without a pair of corrective lenses approximately the thickness of that of the Hubble Space Telescope. Give me weed, whites, and wine, and show me a sign, and I will run over that sign, and flatten a couple of Volkswagens for good measure. I’m pretty much deaf to boot, which is why I make such an excellent music critic.