Darrell Vickers: Sobule, It’s Been Good to Know You

Any one who knows me will tell you that I am an unapologetic fan of the practitioners of the Sapphic arts.  The thought or sight of two comely lasses holding hands, kissing or working each other up into a lathery state of tribadic ecstasy is one of the true delights of my tortured existence.  To me, a guy banging on a woman like she was the cowbell in a Blue Oyster Cult song is just sex.  Whereas two (or more) intertwined pink angels sans garmentry is a vision so rapturously pure and beguiling it makes the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel look the mural at a Walmart bathhouse.

Darrell Vickers: How Bob Dylan Spoiled Me For Other Concerts and Turned Danny Devito Into My Bitch

The Easily Off-Track Intro:

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for almost 30 years now.  To quote Donny Osmond, “And that’s a long, long time.”  Consider, when I moved to The City of Angels, curling still used actual brooms instead of those ultra-high-tech sweepy things.  Am I the only traditionalist left on God’s rapidly-warming Earth who misses the majestic “Flappa Dappa, Flappa Dappa” of the mighty besom as stalwart men of iron will guided their beloved “rock” (I really know the lingo) to its date with other rocks of a different color and destiny?