“Bleachfield 1”
(Signal Pathology Recorders)

Hey, could we PLEASE leave the corpse of Scott Weiland alone? No more poking at it, no more nudging it with your steel-toe boot, no more taking pictures of it, no more dyeing its hair and beard, no more spray-painting it with Alice in Chains lyrics, no more propping it up and pretending you’re in “Weekend at Bernie’s,” no more trying to set it on fire, no more asking it for money, no more trying to pry its jewelry off, no more pretending to have a tea party with it, no more inviting it to bar mitzvahs, no more arguing with it, no more rubbing its nose for luck, no more posing its facial features in comical expressions, no more accusing it of insurance fraud, no more placing funny hats or glasses on it, no more trying to use it as an example in your university’s anatomy class, no more smearing it with honey and trying to turn it into a beehive, no more sending it Edible Arrangements on Valentine’s Day, and  certainly, and most importantly, no more digging through its pockets for old demo tapes.


--Dean DeLeo