Call me Folksinger. Some hours ago -- never mind how long precisely -- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on the internet, I thought I would bum a ride with Charley Noble to see the smoky part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly September in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before whale effigies, and bringing rear of every used book store I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately reaching over the table, and methodically ringing the cymbals of thus spake denizen of the deep -- then, I account it high time to get to Molly Malones and ingest vast quantities of carbohydrates as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the minivan. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the obnoxious backdrop of drum tracks with me.

Brien Melville