Friday night’s concert at the Rox Bar in St. Cloud felt a notch or two higher on the brutality scale then usual. Blame it on the political climate if you want a debate, or blame it on the cold, or blame it on the increasing number of big fist tunes by SOTF. It was the Whiskey also. I do not remember much except rage and the fat crush of loud rock music. The next morning I woke in the river with no shoes. I am not a reliable witness. Some of you may be curious about the direction of this column. I have no hope to offer. Find satisfaction with your own work if you want guarantees. For now, and in the past, good shows inspire good letters from the kennel, but it begins to feel routine…like a second date…or poverty. Really, how many times, before you get bored, can you describe a kick-ass show by a band? It is my own fault. From the start, there have been no rules. I have complete freedom, but, like a socialist, I have gone and repressed myself by believing the band’s website should naturally focus only on positive features of the band. On the other hand, Seazon of the Fly’s lyrics are heavy. These aren’t “my girlfriend just dumped me and I can’t get an erection” kind of songs. Nobody will be “saved” here without a fight, God damn it. Seazon of the Fly will rip your ear off and speak philosophy into the blood hole. The directions are limitless. You’ve been warned�"the band does not necessarily agree with or condone the content of these letters�"but they allow it, and that is very nice of them. There was an idea, once, about making this a call and response page, but nothing came of it. No one wants to see Specs chewing on the band’s toes all the time, and that is where I felt it would go. Still, that is something I would like to figure out. Maybe I can answer your questions about existence...like Oprah with a knife. I don’t know. We didn’t light this fire and all we can really do is piss at it, but if you’ve got a better idea, I’ll listen. I have a new Face page. Search for Michael Hager and say something stupid.

Wedding of the Fly



When you open a book, the first page generally gives you everything you need to know about the following story. If, for example, the first paragraph begins, “in the 13th room on the 13th floor on 666th street…” and so on, run like hell. Bad clichés will follow. The antagonist wears some kind of mask of stitched human skin and he walks around with large eating utensils. No viscous killer I’ve ever met acts this way.

Wait…what is all this talk about murder in a letter about the wedding of drummer Hellman and Ms. Fread? God knows. But the rain mocked us like a demon…letting up long enough to move the ceremony outside once more before opening the spigots when the vows started flying.

We got soaked to shit and had a good time nonetheless. Not since Katrina have this many well dressed pimps been so thoroughly hosed (once again, I feel I must remind you that SOTF does not condone, nor does it necessarily agree with, what is said in these letters.) Slip Twister ripped the place apart with their Rock and Roll and nobody would argue with that.

Did anyone else get the look of Horror on the face of the lady at the tuxedo shop when she realized the returning suits would all smell like swamp gas and whiskey, and her pretty little business was about to become something like a third world Salvation Army dump? I wanted to say something smart but couldn’t bring myself to do it. She was a nice lady and it’s not her fault we haven’t learned how to play nice.

Har har. What jokes. What humor. It was great to see everyone once more, and I hope someone out there puts together a film about the evening. There were cameras and video recorders everywhere, so I know it is possible. On second thought, there may be a lot of incriminating evidence on those tapes…right. Burn them. Burn them in deep piles and bury the ash in a plot on the back forty where the law will never think to dig. We Specs must be careful.

----The Horror

An Evening with the Fly



I have just now returned from The Cities where Seazon of the Fly shared the stage with Mormons. Nobody died and there is no excuse for it. Where are the Specs when we need a good homicide? Five dollar tap beer isn’t so good without a shot of blood… I was there to see it thanks to the bass player and his bride, who gave me a lift in the van.

It is one year since the first kennel letter, give or take a few months, because who can remember anymore? Some original information is gone, and most of my own mind is lost. We are heavy into the death-throws of the age of Pisces, and I have been learning too much of current events. I question whether it is healthy for the soul to live in the now.

For example, one week ago, Michael Jackson euthanized himself, with the help of his doctors, lawyers, and fans, in a rental apartment somewhere in Los Angeles. Three days later he stepped from his coffin, spread his arms like a flower, and, in spite of his penchant for young boys, ascended into heaven to live amongst the saints.

There is no shame in feeling out of place in this society. My biggest stress at the moment stems from the almost realization that, in the long run, the world might have been a better place without the human species. I’m not talking about the idea of the human species, there were few flaws in that, but what it has become and what, it seems, we will not stop it from becoming further.

Cryptic ranting. That’s all. None of it proven. Still, I can't help thinking this way…



The Horror



p.s.— None of the things said here are endorsed by Seazon of the Fly… in particular, the part about Mormons, who were not Mormon at all, but a solid, boozing rock band out of Salt Lake City.

In this, the tenth kennel letter, a milestone of literaturic rupture, read now by seven million drunk Americans and a handful of angry Arabians, I’d like to list ten artistic influences that got us here. Ten letters? Who knew it would go this far? Not me, and probably not the band either. We endure. It is a drowning kind of pain, but it is my cross to bear and I expect no sympathy. Hunter Thompson the journalist, Piet Mondrian the painter, Michael Savage of talk radio, Nirvana the band, Jack Daniels the whiskey, Mankind the wrestler, James Wright the poet, Friedrich Nietzsche the philosopher, Francis Coppola the filmmaker, and The Bible in its entirety… There are many others of course, but, in respects to the previous nine letters, these are the general references and reoccurring environments I’m tuned into on a daily basis. (Deep sigh) O lord, where will it end? Whimpers or bangs friend, what will it be? The deep crimson of autumn drops like a lead curtain. Summer is done. ‘Tis the months of razor tainted trick or treat candy, doomed presidential elections, and even more doomed holiday shoppers. Doom… it has to be the heaviest one syllable word in existence. Brilliant how the language works. Hup! I know. Don’t get maudlin about it sissy. Tough times require tough talk, and an even tougher uppercut. Polish your scopes boys. It’s voting season.

On Saturday, September the 13th, Seazon of the Fly played a nearly two hour set in downtown St. Cloud. For many of the non-Specs in the audience, it was a first listen to twenty-two of The Garden’s twenty-four tracks. Doubters converted on contact. Some were too awed to speak in anything but guttural whiskey tongues about Old Testament visions and The Creator’s master plan. Not since Hiroshima have American’s received so much return for their money. Shortly after two in the morning, we gathered as a mob and overturned a squad car at the intersection of 5th Avenue and 6th Street. Police countered with gas and clubs and swept the gnashing crowd onto the St. Germain bridge and into the Mississippi River…where many of them rolled in the current like corks before passing into obscurity. Right. This is dedicated to those who couldn’t make it out for the show. Wish you were there for a righteous hammering of the anvil. Who needs the United States Constitution when you can rely upon the great minds and common virtue of your fellow man? Next time you’ll know better.