Wouldn't it be cool if Frank Turner and I hung out? We could drink beers on my roof, and he could just sit there, covering the second greatest Shellac song (the first would be “Copper”) that Albini and his angry Windy City buddies ever wrote. Then we get into a Philly-bound limo, go to one of those parties where everybody knows Frank, and would give me free booze simply due to my association.
