“Signed a HUGE record deal, had a creative block, became an alcoholic, married my mom, mad a crap sophomore album, developed a drug habit (or should I say another drug habit because — as we learned in health class — alcohol is a drug), was to much of a wuss to OD or off himself like a proper rock star, had me, quit making music, lived off what he made from basically one lucky song and selling his rock ‘n’ roll paraphernalia on eBay (including the smashed and signed Kurt Cobain guitar that used to hang over my bed), became a has-been one-hit-wonder joke who never even touched a guitar anymore, gre bloated and perpetually red-skinned and unrecognizable, accused Linda of having affairs, began to disappear for days at a time, clandestinely started overnight gambling in Atlantic City, stopped paying taxes, woke his fifteen-year-old son in the middle of the goddamn night to give me his father’s WWII souvenirs and knock me out with his rose-and-mustard-gas Kurt Vonnegut breath, told me to be a good man, told me to take care of Linda, was rumoured to have fled by banana fucking cargo boat to some Venezuelan jungle just before the Feds could nab him, and hasn’t been heard from since.” (Quick 11-12).