Shit . . . another week and already SOMEONE IS DEAD. It’s Julius Hemphill, and it’s also Knuckles O’Toole. The same person is both persons, and they’re both freshly dead—but only one at a time. Just one can be dead, not the other—for DEATH PURPOSES. ‘S up to you t’ decide who to bury, who to stage a tribute concert for, who to reissue on CD, etc., etc., etc. Will it be keyboard tickler O’Toole, who “in fact” died in 1963, or saxophonist Hemphill, who “actually” croaked 32 years later?

Dead and gone the two of ’em, but certainly not forgot. Influential, you could say. Mucho influential. Is there anything Linkin Park, for inst, has ever done not traceable to lessons learned at the feet of Hemphill—or Sheryl Crow, on the piano stool of O’Toole? (The only musician or musicians, dead or alive, not influenced by either or boaf is prob’ly Pork Tornado.)

Hemphill? O’Toole? No—it’s neither of them who have recently passed. It’s YOUR cat. Whose head you are now eating.

From the back end forward. Yum yummy—tastes terrif!–including the hair. No, you won’t get a hairball—human enzymes digest it. When you get to the front, though, how sad it will be: to gaze in kitty’s eyes. Oh, how sad, oh, how SAD. Wake up!

Whew!

It was only a dream.

Pork Tornado play the Showbox at 9 p.m. Wed., Oct. 30. $15 adv.