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Well, it’s been a quiet month, out here in the woods of California, as we gather round the fire....


Trevor and Curt have been reciting Shakespeare and listening to Modern Major General on repeat. They have something up their sleeves. 

Dave's leg still hurts.

Vaughn has been in his books, coming out of his cabin to ask obscure questions about “the appaling strangeness of the mercy of god.” We're letting him be.


The woke police came after Brahm. When they came to his door he told them “it was the neighbors, babycakes.”

“So babycakes is your neighbor?”

“No, it was my neighbor, babycakes”

Emma is off singing in strange and wonderful parts of the world.

Borgo is busy raising sprouts, digging his hands into midwest soil.

Jake is gunning for paradiddle land-speed records and Frankie Powers is taking his amateur boxing career to the great of Texas, so... Texas Ferever.


And thus we lean into the wind, engaged in the endless human struggle to keep moving forward in the face of certain cataclysm.


But we show up on time, we dress dress like gentlemen, we shake your mothers hand and look your father in the eye, and as always….


We Thrash Responsibly

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