Punching Bags

We’re hanging out as a team at Allen’s house in Spokane, eating cured meats, drinking aggressive red wine, and watching Chunk the bulldog, with a disconcerting sense of purpose, rub his ass along the carpet. I’m about to turn myself into a prune in the hot tub while waiting for my massage on this much needed day off surrounded by friends. As we’re about to greet even more familiar faces, I’ll leave you with a “caption this” picture of my amp, because it’s a day off, I’m feeling lazy, and there’s a punching bag with my name on it.