1. Radiohead - OK Computer  (1997)
2. Hum - Downward Is Heavenward  (1998)
3. Deftones - Around the Fur  (1997)
4. Pavement - Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain  (1994)
5. Far - Water & Solutions  (1998)
6. Tool - Ænima  (1996)
7. Pearl Jam - Vitalogy  (1994)
8. Jane’s Addiction - Ritual de lo Habitual  (1990)
9. Smashing Pumpkins - Siamese Dream  (1993)
10. Rage Against the Machine - Evil Empire  (1996)
- - -
Built to Spill - Keep it Like a Secret  (1999)
Marilyn Manson - Mechanical Animals  (1998)
Sublime - Sublime  (1996)

Open on a car crash, little squigglies coming up from the hood, or the car could be upside-down, squigglies coming up from the chassis, smoke squigglies everywhere, though we do see the couple standing on the sidewalk, unharmed or at least relatively unharmed. He could have a cellphone in his hand or be talking to his cellphone, maybe she’s holding her elbow like she bruised it, or her shoulder. Shaken up indeed and yet alive!! Show the airbags deployed. On a lamppost in the distance have a poster saying LOST DOG! REWARD: THE DOG ITSELF. “Thank God we had our belts on,” all sober, to his cellphone. “How the kids? The kids asleep?” So we know the kids are fine. Called a sitter for a dinner date. Young couple, maybe thirty, thirty-one. Well dressed, hair done.

who they seem. Once, drunk, at a wedding, my
wife swore to another couple that I
was Jim Morrison’s exact double. But
I was drunk too, so I just stood there and
grinned, like Hey, whatever. Who cares, right? The
couple hemmed and squinted and stared at me,

searching for Mr. Mojo. They asked me,
“Who does she look like?” And I’m like, “Who, my
wife?” They might’ve chuckled but clearly the
both of them had better things to do. I
certainly did—here we’re in St. Kitts and
Nevis, green turtles and trumpetfish, but

I’m stuck in a church slugging flask booze. But
that’s not—I mean airfare alone cost me
$1900, coach, three stops, and
we had to share a hotel room with my
sister and her Tufts-bound boyfriend, who I
swear looks like the guy from Entourage—the

thuggish one who smokes and wears hats. And the
two of them being oh-so-quiet, but
still not quiet enough. Anyway, I
look nothing like Jim Morrison. Ask me
another. Ask me my wife’s name. All my
fantasies involve other women and

not one of them will ever happen. And
not one of them—and in the cab to the
hotel, after the reception, blitzed, my
sister tried to sing me a Doors song but
couldn’t remember the lyrics. “Show me
the wa-ay to the next lit-tle girl,” I

crooned, glancing back at my wife. Leering. I
couldn’t make out her expression, though, and
so I shut my eyes and drifted some. Me
with my occasional carsickness, the
road like an old mattress—I drifted. But
when we arrived back at the hotel, my

sister and my wife, the boyfriend, plus the
driver—not one of them said a word, but
just stared at me. Fuck it. I reached for my