This is what happens when a tuba player tries to Edit a website.  People reading this-   I  swear to god this is a great band- we even played the white house one time- and everyone in it is old- so we know how play. 

 This girl has nothing to do with us- she doesnt even look like Marlo Thomas. 

 DAVID QUAKENBUSH  is our Web Guy-  David- IM here MAN- what do I do? Everyone is googling our band- we are playing the Kennedy Center- We've played the WHite house, festivals, Schools, - and we still have Marlo fucking Thomas on our website. Did I mention the white house? As Pat Robertson would say - we made a Pact with the White House and this is our reward. 

 We gotta get together for an edit party pretty soon. spruce the place up and all.  Have fun on tour.  Lots of fun on Mardi Gras Day-   As Bebop the buggy driver said- New Orleans isnt a city- its an entity.  As Dr John said- We dont play the music- we play with the music. 

 As yamomanem said- come on home boy- its supper time.  I gotta go figure out Twitter.. twitter.. god.

Testing FCKEditor. looks good.  an image:      and a link.

a test post from monty's new account...

in the beginning, after all, were the words, and they came with a tune. that was how the world was made, how the void was divided, how the lands and the stars and the dreams and the little gods and the animals, how all of them came into the world.

they were sung.

the great beasts were sung into existence, after the singer had done with the planets and the hills and the trees and the oceans and the lesser beasts. the cliffs that bound existence were sung, and the hunting grounds, and the dark.

songs remain. they last. the right song can turn an emperor into a laughingstock, can bring down dynasties. a song can last long after the events and the people in it are dust and dreams and gone. that's the power of songs.

there are other things you can do with songs. they do not only make worlds or recreate existence. fat charlie nancy's father, for example, was simply using them to have what he hoped and expected would be a marvelous night out.

Language is an abominable misunderstanding which makes up a part of matter. The painters and the physicists have treated matter pretty well. The poets have hardly touched it. In March 1958, when I was living at the Beat Hotel, I proposed to Burroughs to at least make available to literature the means that painters have been using for fifty years. Cut words into pieces and scramble them. You'll hear someone draw a bow-string. Who runs may read, To read better, practice your running. Speed is entirely up to us, since machines have delivered us from the horse. Henceforth the question is to deliver us from that other so-called superior animal, man. It's not worth it to chase out the merchants: their temple is dedicated to the unsuitable lie of the value of the Unique. The crime of separation gave birth to the idea of the Unique which would not be separate. In painting, matter has seen everything: from sand to stuffed goats. Disfigured more and more, the image has been geometrically multiplied to a dizzying degree. A snow of advertising could fall from the sky, and only collector babies and the chimpanzees who make abstract paintings would bother to pick one up.