Cash in all your wolf tickets, call in on that rainy week favor from your bookie, break up with that girl who embarrassingly named her pipe Witchy Woman, break up with that boy who listens to the Eagles greatest hits, bandage your hands, ask your parole officer for one last night on the town, steal from your dealer, walk ten miles in the pouring rain, wrap your legs round these velvet rims and strap your hands across my engines, give the street corner a break, roll me away, ride the rails, get off the comfortably numb couch, tell your mother you are going to the store, borrow money from your father, sneak past the alarm system, realize you are not about to paint a masterpiece, tell your astrologer that the stars are lined up as far as you can see, get out there ridin fences, ask your roommate’s girlfriend for a ride, give up the ghost, pull the water gun out of your mouth, wrap your shoes in duct tape, tell the White Whale you quit, see wind be dust, hurry up and ask for that divorce, give up the damn house, rip out your back pages, give Sancho Panza the shake, think dragons not windmills, fall off the wagon just for one more night, do whatever it takes—whatever it takes—and get down to the Troubadour tonight and see the Hold Steady with me; Craig Finn may save us yet, and even if we cannot be saved, he will administer our rock n’ roll last rites with the ramshackle fervor of one born of awkward light & heat.