My father did time for armed robbery. A couple of years. That’s probably hard to sidestep. But I prefer the thought that my identity, if such a thing exists, is tied up in the remnants of a lightning strike, the skidmark of an exploding star in my undies, of Lorca’s pulled-high socks, Whitman’s sweaty balls. That sort of thing. An irreverent stain on fashion. I can be Piscean if you wish. I am, after all, nothing more than what you demand of me. Your friends talked politics, current affairs, capital gains on their suburban dwellings, and I felt an overwhelming desire to drill a hole in my head. “That would’ve worked if you hadn’t stopped me,” said Spengler. And what do you think about the future, Jack? One of them asked. Well, I said, and cleared my throat a little too loudly. There are many things ahead of us, I said, many things to look forward to, of course… and the little crowd leant forward into my uncertain definitiveness. A deeply uncomfortable silence ensued, like Jesus’s final curtain call after coming back to do a 33-year stint at Caesar’s. The French, I said, make bread in such a way that basic survival is wrapped up in it. And everybody leant back in their chairs and let out a wee confident, steely and handsome laugh under their collective breath. Later on, you pulled me aside. You asked me if it was ok to not want to suffer by just getting by. Sure, I said. But most of all I couldn’t bear the thought of my expansionist’s tyranny for nothing. You must factor in, my dear, that by the time I lower the needle to kiss the vinyl it’s already somewhere in the grooves of the second or third track. Careless as I am. Well, none of this is my fault, you said. So what is it you do want? Well, I do like the idea of Nick Cave’s Straight To You, you know, a bird captured, recaptured… but in contrast to any sort of graceful bird of flight, I must make you aware that I’m more like one of Monty Python’s sheep, in that I don’t so much fly as plummet. Thus, a cage may not be the worst place for me.