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You know, I like to listen to the Flaming Lips with one hand resting in a bed of steamed soybean pods and ice, while gently masticating a live roach. I note that it's best to dial down the lights to dim, if not completely off, and to have my trusty neighbor, the Laotian nail clipper with fangs, come over in her teddy and purr like a small engine. And, though alchemical (philosopher's stone turns to gold) and not strictly metalworking, yet still forging/smithworking, remember there is always Piotrek: upon this rock will I build my church. Is there no mercy for the widow's son?
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