Steve Brodsky

Addicted to eating corn on the slob (that’s a foot-flavored delicacy), Spleev’n Splobsky has been munching on crunchy yellowness ever since he first wet the bed. Inside his little haven of dutch oven heaven, he cooks up many a blasterpiece to share with like-minded earlobe owners across landscapes of loose carpet lint. A self-proclaimed fartist in all naturally-scented senses of the title, it is not at all unusual for someone as prolifically potent as himself to dismiss a yawntastic title like "singer/songwriter". Instead, we presently find him to be in favor of such variations as "thing or thong rider" (now you see, it’s not so much a question; nor is it some kind of skin-rash decision) or perhaps the molar savvy pendulum-push of "swinger/dongbiter". On the other hand, "bring her/wrong-right her" could apply to that very vast and oftentimes voluptuous thing we all seem to marvel at constantly, and sometimes rather quietly, called love. Uh, wicked deep. Then of course, carrying the mighty mark of being a "stringer/strong lighter" leans heavily towards the strumming hand’s job of searching those familiar places among metal for something far more reliable than, say, another soggy book of matches. Nowadays, various underground open mic circuits known to celebrate the measly moniker of "zinger/gong fighter" do so as flag slogan material for stoic funerals of dying talent squealing out their final fledgling remarks - adding insult to an unusually high number of injuries which involve bruised egos falling off stage. And yet here... here is where we find solace in moisturizing the hands of maybe the most mumble-hearted moongazers among us. As their salivating selves insist: punch in pretty words digitally, then attempt to populate their press kit kats with that missing bit of chocolate robbed from us because of some classic indented candy bar logo design dictating it so (thanks Mitch)... until all that remains are pieces of crumpled up packaging and washed out neon-sticker sale prices. So now we must meet them halfway. Remain carefree, callous-picking morbidly pampered overly intolerant experimental cases; remain everywhere. And stay within one crosswalk of a kid zone. Record your thoughts in harmony with other harmonizing airplanes above. And please do all of this much sooner than soon, for this, we are allowed... to get hit by a car and then forget to get hurt. Sorta stole that last bit from the back of a Garbage Pail Kids card. It was one from an earlier series I remember.