My band could be your life and I don't even have a band. Maybe that's my point, if I even have a point. I guess I need new tires and reading glasses and a root canal. I could shit a better doghouse, said my neighbor after I built a doghouse. I wish you would, I said. I didn't plant those daisies, but there they are, and dying, a classic, understated flower, exactly the kind of flower I would plant if I were the sort of guy who plants flowers, which, alas, I am not. The invaders slew the Moens yesterday morning and dragged them across the yard by the heels and trussed them to the roof of what looked like a Ford Explorer. You don't look too closely if you know what's good for you, which I don't, mostly. I guess I should mention that five Moens, total, perished at the hands of the invaders. Intelligence, I have heard, identified Pere Moen as a key member of the insurgency. They seemed like a nice enough family. A good looking bunch. It's a decent enough place to live, though, if you like rocks and can figure out creative things to do with them, and if you don't mind repeated crank phone calls that are virtually always the same: A voice that sounds like that of an old woman, or some punk trying to sound like an old woman, says, "The devil is laughing." At least I think they're crank calls. At least I think that's what the voice says. You get used to the planes and the paranoia. And et cetera, I suppose I should say. I am told that the avian species, or many of them, that you will find here are unique to the region. Not that I care, but you do see people in the woods with binoculars. And guns. Sometimes they also have guns. I recently heard an old man at the local diner say, "When there is nothing else left to shoot they will shoot butterflies." Which struck me as strange. I tried to picture it, even as I no longer try to picture much of anything. It helps to have a sense of humor and a tolerance for boredom. It helps to have an appreciation for Chuck Berry. Or Hank Williams. Or someone like that. It helps if you can still look at the moon and not feel completely lost. Or dead, for that matter, which I almost can, sometimes, and which the doctor assures me is progress.