The Ice of Boston

Man, I just love Travis Morrison:

Go into the kitchen, stand in front of the kitchen window
And I take all my clothes off, take that bottle of champagne
And I pour it on my head, feel it cascade through my hair
And across my chest, and the phone rings.
And it’s my mother.
And she says “Hi Honey, how's Boston?”
And I stand there, all alone on New Year’s Eve
Buck naked, drenched in champagne, looking at a bunch of strangers
Uh, looking at them, looking at me, looking at them, and I say:
“Oh, I’m fine Mom—how’s Washington?

I'm listening to:
blah. The Dismemberment Plan- The Dismemberment Plan is Terrified. What else could prompt this spontaneous outpouring of emotion at a time when I'm just trying to distinguish Camper's Fascia from Scarpa's (hint: Camper's is more superfical and fatty. It's what you might like to lay on while Camping. Just a thought.)