It was a hot, sticky night. We were drunk on Tequila and strangely adverse tasting taquitos. Bob had already eaten an entire cow, and Flanders, Steve and Mike were fully aware of their greatness.

We got to the studio around 9:30 PM, a bi-cameral gym made of vinyl flooring and boundless energy. After spending a few hours setting up, we jammed for about 5 minutes. It was awesome.

It was then when we decided to do a food run. Pedal to the medal, we screamed along the 101 North to all points Latino. Sarek, our new percussionist was singing a beegees version of the Constitution's Preamble. We all laughed in unison, our breaths stinking of dentyn peppermint gum and taco meat. We were just a sniff away from a full- contact fart war, but no matter... tonight was the night. And it was going to be... all right.

After our endless gorge, we headed back to the studio. I swear I saw Richard Simmons propose to Mike. Peanut (Steve) had started bellowing "it's not supposed to be that way! It's not supposed to be that way!" We all laughed in unison. HAHAHAHAHA...... HAHAHAHAHAH! ........ HA... HAHAHAHA!

It was now 2:30 in the morning and we could hardly contain ourselves. Back at the studio, we put two microphones up ( a 57 and a PZM) and cranked up our amps to twenty. Flanders got out his claves and his broom. His gas was in full swing.

No one knew the tempo, no one knew the chords. I screamed aloud" Hey, key of bflat! And try not to fall behind, before bellowing: 1, 2, 3, 4..."

And so it was. A performance for the ages. A visceral, tongue wagging, sweaty performance. The final take you hear is take 99. I almost changed the lyrics at the last second, but this one felt so right.

SO right.