So Luna broke up. I saw Luna on December 30, 2000. The end of the mathematical millenium. The dawn of a new age of understanding. And I ended up getting punched in the back of the head by a drunk asshole. Anyway, some light fisticuffs between him, my friend, and myself ensued and we were kicked out. And what happens? Luna fucking stopped playing while this was happening. Just stopped. Now, I'm not condoning this sort of shenanigan, but did Buffalo Tom stop for a bar fight? Answer: no. They kept the rock going. But, oh, Luna, the fragility of the moment has been wrecked. Maybe the sweaty hordes won't hear every gentle, clever twist of phrase you lay before them, like pearls before swine. "Oh boo hoo, all eyes aren't on me! But if no one's looking at me, I may cease to exist! I need them to clap, for I am much like Tinkerbell, kept alive by attention from others." So in summation, screw you Dean Wareham. Now you have more artistic freedom to record your masturbatory little pop ditties about French girls who leave you however you like. Or whatever their songs are about. I had a fist in my ear.

And while I'm on the subject, what's with people wearing cellphones on their belts? You're not fucking Batman.