"Gimme Back My Bullet"

Listen, Lou. You got some balls asking me to write liner notes. Just because you guys're happy and healthy and well-adjusted now and you want to put a positive spin on the wreckage you left behind, I'm supposed to forget the real story and put a shine on your shoes by dreaming up some legendary history of the band?

If the usual entropy, Cleveland gravity, and public unreadiness weren't enough to bring Speedbag down in its tracks, then the atmosphere that surrounded the band of alcohol poisoning, drug paranoia, internecine violence, divorce, vehicular disaster, bail bondsmen, fire marshals, brawling, woman-stealing, car-boosting, guitar-pawning, restroom transactions, arson, uttering, larceny, flatulence, emergency rooms, felonious pranks, defenestration, concealed weapons, unconcealed contempt for trends in music and fashion, and property destruction (that's residential, commercial, and intellectual-as in most of your cover songs) was certainly enough to bury you. The van's first aid kit alone was enough to put ten more-sensitive bands in the morgue. No wonder you never attained better than your status as house band for the Hot Dog Inn.

Grudgingly, I'll admit the CD sounds better than ever, and despite my very negative feelings about you personally, I've sure got a hot spot for the songs. I spin them so often in this eight-by-ten room that one of my neighbors came at me with a fork. They think I'm a redneck. The fuck do they know? It's better than comedy and just short of tragedy and perfectly true to the shambolic existence I call a life. Reminds me of chasing back and forth along the glowing winter shoreline when I was still free to do that, "pursuing," as that hotshot critic said, "a warmth and conviction beyond cleverness and even belief that only these songs contain."

Thanks for the CD. Next time you send one, be sure to wipe the powder off it first.

"Make me look classy." You're really a piece of work, you know that? The finest trainers, grooms and muckers that money can bribe couldn't make you look classy. Don't let your overlarded ego get away with you, Lupico. You may be the best songwriter Cleveland ever had, but you're no better than your band. Russell, Benik, Cox and Dan got you as close to glory as you're ever going to sniff, Big Boy. Giving new resonance to the phrase "with a bullet," they're the toughest band you ever had, and without them you'd never have gotten out of the Clinton or The Ugly Broad alive. You didn't earn nicknames like "Sweetmeat" and "El Jefe" without plenty of help from those guys: they're the ones who made you look classy.

Keep the homefries burning. Baby. But get someone else to write your fucking liner notes. I've got my own problems. (Mike Decapite)