Speak Softly and Wail on a Big Guitar. Treadlightly into the Future

An old friend of mine, Andy, recently informed me that he had joined a band.  At first, knowing Andy, I had assumed that it was a euphemism either for going on yet another of his famous heroin binges, drinking the menstrual blood of a Bengal tigress, or getting a pop rock blowjob from a French Canadian drag queen.  Considering his propensity for strange code words, drugs, and bizarre sexual fetishes and the look of pure, unbridled ecstasy bursting from the depraved depths of his eye sockets, none of these would have surprised me.  It took some explaining on his part, but I was finally made to understand that in this particular instance "joining a band" actually meant "joining a band."

Andy had recently beat a bad rap and a long jail sentence by instead agreeing to direct his energies into an amateur musical endeavor as part of a Work Release Program for the Criminally Disenfranchised.  In yet another "misunderstanding" after a series of unfortunate circumstances in which Andy's propensity for going out in public wearing nothing but a bath robe and public urination coupled with his relative inattention to his geographical location--in this case, in front of an elementary school full of young, impressionable youth--served as that Perfect Storm of probable cause that whip police into a killing frenzy as they are all but guaranteed to arrest and/or beat the living shit out of various levels of miscreants and scoundrels.  Somehow, Andy had talked himself out of serious jail time in one of only two cases in recorded history where playing a bass solo in the courtroom was accepted as a closing argument for the defense.