I'm the kind of person you might meet in the darkest corner of a Kerouac novel. Some Yabyum practicing tea smoker who consistently losses his mind to the Miles Davis rhythms of the dark blue city. The happiest period of my life took place on a second rate ocean boardwalk, doing acoustic interpretations of Bob Marley covering Johnny Cash songs for quarters. Which I took greedily from the fat drunken tourists who tossed them with ease and went home to pray for my lost soul. The Tetrahydro-delusion of a dutch dwarf danced around me all the while repeating the second verse of Road House Blues in sync with whatever I was playing. I consider myself the untalented love child of Hemingway and Salvador Dail had one of them been a woman.