Born on a faraway island where eating one's own young is considered one of the highest of social graces, the original vessel of the Bosco Stravinsky energies was devoured by wolves immediately. As they slept off their hearty meal each wolf in turn was struck down by a bolt of lightning. The wolves were reincarnated as twelve thousand angel frogs which spewed forth twelve thousand fiery bits of Bosco from their gaping maws. And lo, the tiny pieces were scattered by the four winds to all the corners of the globe save Pittsburgh and the bathroom of a certain Starbuck's.
The Bosco fragments roamed the Earth searching for one another until one by one they began to reunite in a cloud of shining glory (other sources translate this passage as "ball of feces") The fragments coalesced and congealed on Union Avenue near downtown Memphis, Tennessee. From here the young Bosco was educated in fine public schools built on chemical dumps. His mind was steeped in the wisdom of Otis, Rufus, and the infamous Booker T.
In the year of Martin's passing he was bourne in a blue station wagon to the gleaming streets and sweltering sleazepits of Nashville where he was to grow to manhood bedeviled by dreams of stardom.
One day everything changed. The Bosco spirit was transmuted one morning into a dozen extra large eggs hidden for unknown reasons under a sofa cushion. Who sat on that sofa and on what block of what street remains a mystery. Bosco dripped down through the upholstery. parts of him congealed on the sturdy steel springs. Mostly he dried on the jute batting below. What dripped onto the floor was hastily licked up by a rather ordinary looking Siamese cat. This would have been the end for this bundle of twisted energy save a random incident involving clumping litter, tiny red rubber bands and a Salvation Army truck. The details are such that ordinary mortals might go mad if they were exposed to this forbidden knowledge.
Restored to human form, Bosco entered the Psychology Department at Middle Tennessee State University.
Not content with pursuing a normal productive life the Stravinsky-thing presented as a singing bassist in such forgotten audio atrocities as The Visitors, The Guts, Falling Rock, Surface Tension, Children of Noise, and the inimitable Suburban Baroque. Then there was The Land. Swampy psychedelic sludge from the caverns of their minds. Then one day the words "you obviously don't share my vision" were uttered.
The flames of a thousand hells burst forth from his tiny nostrils as he struggled for meaning in a world far beyond the Rock and Roll Laundromat at 21st and Blair. Could it possibly be true? Ask the people on Libra Drive in Tempe, Arizona. Try to find a decent plate of hummus on the streets of Louisville, Kentucky. Stay at home and make yourself a sandwich. Fall down on your knees and wipe your pants off when you stand back up. Walk softly on the scorched earth of your existence as the past fades into casseroles of confusion. Feed your hungry mind. Google me, and buy my shit.
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