A Warning From Warren

The fires Out West get worse each year, and so do the storms Back East. We won’t discuss what’s happening Down South. Or in Texas. Climate Change is affecting our lives in greater parcel day by day, and this photo displays a tragic byproduct of the earth’s warming: it is November, and Woody Hayes has not yet entered hibernation.

You know the annual schedule, Enthusiasts. During the spring and summer, Woody appears at every single festival on the continent. Pretty much doesn’t stop soloing from April to October, except to deliver his signature blues-influenced vocals, which have been described as “blues-influenced.” If there’s a field and a truck selling vegan burritos, Woody Hayes is there and he’s been soloing for twenty minutes. Turquaz will be on next. They will invite Woody back out to jam on Beer Drinkers And Hell Raisers.

In late September, a shift in the wind causes Woody to briefly stop soloing. It’s time. The world is different now. It is time. He could not explain it, not to you. That it is time is a sub-verbal knowledge. All is changed. Woody goes nuts on catering. Mostly salmon, but also everything else. He puts on 100 pounds in around a month, then returns to his home in the Smoky Mountains that he shares with his wife, Joyce. There, he plugs his asshole with leaves, mud, and moss, and then retreats into his custom-made hutch. He will slumber there, living off his body fat, until summer comes and the festivals begin.

But it’s November, and the fucker’s still awake.

We broke the sky.