So, Darling Nikki recently decided that Miles Davis is living in his rectum and playing a solo every once in a while. Like I told him, I refuse to have any jazz legends living up my butt, not even Sammy Kaye from my freakin' hometown. (Glenn Miller is too much of a gentleman to be in this conversation.) I have a more classic-rock sort of arse and if anyone's going to be tootling up there, it's probably going to be Cynthia from the Family Stone, or one of the horns from Kozmic Blues Band or Todd R's recording of "Dust in the Wind", or the brass section from Chicago as long as they keep playing "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?" And it goes without saying that none of them are allowed to plug me with a mute.