... Convoluted? You bet. But, maybe some of it’s in the way I tell it.

Okay, lemme try a little snapshot bio instead. The guy that hired me is named Dell Pruitt. He’s a speedfreak faggot from Texas who one day decided to head to California to escape the persecution of Dallas (c)owboys ... and armed with a useless college degree in philosophy the scattered and highly emotional Mr. Pruitt quite naturally found a place managing a take-out chicken franchise. None of which (past nor present) did he confide to us in the course of copping dexie's from Bob that night,—but what good ol’ Dell did do was comp us some 3-piece dinner coupons which we quickly redeemed. All of which led somehow to our spending hundreds of Dell's salary dollars at Wallach’s Music City for LP’s of our own recommendation to fill the few glaring regional omissions in Mr. Pruitt’s otherwise comprehensive “Rock Record Library”(as he calls it—and has it so labeled!).

So, anyway, the point is, about midway through the whole album aquisition process, Dell and I are sitting around his place one evening listening to a brand new batch of Midwestern bands (new to him) — Alice Cooper, Amboy Dukes, The Outsiders, Terry Knight and the Pack—when he suddenly tables his notebook, slides across the floor, and offers me the job of day-shift counterman.

It’s the only position I’ll ever agree to take with Dell ... and only on condition that he pledge to never again lift my shirt to try’n rub me down with fresh hot buttered popcorn.

Quicker than immediately I'm in receipt of said promise. And a string of his whining self-recriminations. And I’m searching for the tenor to steer us back to platonic palliation.

Dell’s barely breathing from the guilt icks when I crack wise: "Hey, man, you're in the restaurant business and you don't know that salt's an abrasive? Whadijya expect, dude !"

Suddenly, there's oxygen in the room again. ...