Joe Satriani

O furious angel -- guardian of souped-up Escort GTs, "Pissing Calvin" bumper stickers, Oakley blades and other sweet shades, garage weight benches, nickel bags of medicinal shit, silver-skinned aliens, favorite black Ts with the arms cut off, gravel-voiced drive-time DJs and their "Get the Led Out" twofers of Zeppelin, Skoal blisters, leather bikini tops, distorted ten-inch speakers from open car doors, spite for bosses, "What the fuck you looking at, bitch," engine rebuilds, regrettable thorny arm-band tattoos, Thursday-morning nicotine hangovers, lasers, brutal Xbox maneuvers, lamp-warm gas-station breakfast foods, tough-built walkie-talkie cell-phone belt clips, axioms comparing tastes in ladies to coffee, read-'em-and-weep Texas Hold 'Em, "everything but country and rap," Snap-on tools and the ladies in their calendars, Robot Wars reruns, things maybe even better than Hendrix -- open your mouth and sing; let the heavens reverberate with the colossal sound of your vengeance.

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