The Melvins: A Novel

Because my close and dearest friends hate me so much, no one told me about the Melvins tour diary until yesterday. While I think of the best way to exact my revenge, I will be reading each and every one of their posts.

A few observations within the first few minutes of random skimming:

1. I’m pretty sure I stood in the same spot as the Hawaii photos, just days ago. I felt the same way they clearly look: hot, sweaty, and misdressed. Right, misdressed.

2. I immediately skipped to Trevor Dunn’s last post, and was not surprised to find a passage as devinely written such as this:

She yells again, “Is that a vaaaaan or a buuuuus??” I continue to gape in her general direction completely confused by this question until it finally dawns on me to respond. “It’s a vaaaaaan,” I holler. She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts in a barely discernible drawl, “We were all of us inside tryin’ to figure out wut it wuuuuuuz.” My expressionless face betrays the mild disbelief behind my eyes. A million images flash after a pale gaze. What was that discourse inside the Waffle House? Why is this an issue? Who cares? What is the meaning of life? Why are some people lucky when others are born into endless despair? Would I rather freeze to death or die in a fire?

I need to read everything Trevor Dunn has ever written.

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