My goat fell into a well. Me and my dad built this stone wall around the opening a couple years ago, and we check it all the time. I noticed my goat was missing when I went out to the stable to milk it. First I thought maybe Eliphaz was out riding it, but then Eliphaz came over my house to play baserock, and I asked him if he’d put the goat back in the stable, and he’s like, “What goat?” and I’m like my goat, and he’s like, “I didn’t take your goat,” and I’m like, “Well where is he, then?” and he’s like, “I don’t know.” We wandered around looking for my goat, but we couldn’t find him.

The literary world is abuzz with the discovery of the only known dramatic work of Ludwig van Beethoven, written on a single sheet of quarto paper and inserted in the composer’s aged, cracked wallet along with brothel chits and deaf-aid coupons. Only last year’s find of some charcoal nudes by Shakespeare, tucked into his high school yearbook between two pages rarely separated by literary historians, has had similar impact.

I’m reading a polemic so revolting that I scarcely can choke back the urge to belch. The misguided author attempts to exonerate the craven exercise of clambering aboard any bandwagon carrying a winning sports franchise. Wherever courage and integrity are aspired to and revered—wherever persevering stalwarts steadfastly refuse to abandon their lovable losers– this nauseating practice is righteously denounced, worthy of all the opprobrium that honorable people heap upon it.

The days of facial ignorance are behind me, I’m slowly morphing into a hobgoblin of the highest order in my 23-years and I’m done shaking my gargoyle fist at the stars about it. I am a man surely soon to be damned to a life in the shadows of some long-forgotten David Cronenberg cathedral. With a missing canine tooth, the hair of a disgruntled Locks For Love terrorist, and one functioning pair of ink-stained Levi’s, I look more like the type of guy who writes erotic Neil Young fan fiction than a dude who you’d want to help give directions to the nearest ugly haven.

I wanted to learn one song on the piano. A single song from beginning to end, no slip-ups. Why? Because it was there—like Mount Everest was for George Mallory. The moment I laid eyes on my nephew’s new Yamaha Clavinova CLP-625, I knew exactly what George meant.