GOOOOOD MORNING GREATER ST. PETERSBURG (I’m actually hosting my own public radio morning drive talk show while dictating this column to my secretary/producer/cousin Terry; I multitask because you, the fans, demand efficiency)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and on-air personality Christopher “A Star is Boring” Reilly here, broadcasting at full power and half-assing everything else (the only calling involved on this show is when I phone in episode after episode). Let me first welcome all of the new audience members who are tuning in/logging on for the first time, and a welcome also to anyone out there dumb enough to listen to/read about me twice (or God forbid thrice or even quatrice). Before I pull a letter from the ol’ mail sack (whoa, I just had weird déjà vu about Billy D. Williams’s stint on Pee-Wee’s Playhouse), let me warn you, the fans, that yesterday Terry “accidentally” (I suspect jealousy-related sabotage) mixed all of my Chris’s Corner mail and all of my Reilly Radio mail together, so I have no idea whether the correspondence that I pull out will be asking me for advice or asking me to shut the hell up (there’s a fine line between those two anyway).

Dear Mr. Reilly,

My name is Ted Hudberger, and I represent Panhandle Records of Panama City, Florida. A few weeks ago, I was on a business trip in New York and caught your set at the Knitting Factory. After waiting outside the club inexplicably for an hour with a bunch of people that looked kind of like Wes, I was allowed inside, and let me say that it was worth the wait! You guys are the best band I’ve seen in a while, and I mean that literally; you looked fantastic! The best part is that all three of you have your own style, and you each appeal to a different type of woman. J.Z., for example, is going attract the ladies who are looking for a clean-cut but fun guy who knows how to hold down a steady job but also knows how to let loose on the weekend. Wes, he’s gonna appeal to the girls that want a boy toy that doesn’t do too much thinking of his own. And then you, well you’re pretty much the whole package! I want to sign you guys to a contract so we can get your stuff out to every store in the country; I’m talking about everything: posters, t-shirts, bumper stickers, magazine covers, and anything else that we can slap your picture on. Hell, maybe we could even print up some CDs if we put your faces on the cover! Please let me know ASAP if you’re interested in this; I would love to do business with you guys! Oh, and by the way, you might think about ditching that weird-looking bearded dude who snuck onstage and tried to play keyboards and sing during your set. Who is he anyway?

Sincerely,

Seeking to Sign Some Sweet-Sounding Singers

P.S. Mirrors, nor cameras, not even they human eye can do your handsomeness justice; it transcends the very sense of sight itself.

Dear StSSSSS (whoa, I just had weird déjà vu about a fart I let out the other day),

While I’m flattered to hear that you like our music, or least what we look like while playing our music, or at least what three of us look like while playing our music, I think I’m going to have to pass on your offer (this is the first time I’ve turned someone down since the girl who played Six on “Blossom” asked me out on a date). Frankly, your deal might be the worst idea I’ve ever heard of (except maybe for JZ’s new celebudocumentary Three Men and 1,000 Little Ladies: When Selleck, Danson, and Guttenberg Ruled the World). Welcome to Florida fans come the shows to listen to our music, not to ogle our perfectly-formed faces and bodies. That having been said, if you’d like to make us an offer to record and release our music as well as plaster images of us onto every spare square inch of wall, window, and web space in the world, then we would certainly be inclined to consider it.

Until later, remember to always read the fine print before signing any contract (unless of course you’re blind or illiterate; then you can just assume that everything will be fine) and also remember that haggling is an art form (juggling, however, is a party trick for people to cowardly to play Russian Roulette). Also remember to tune in every weekday morning from 4am to 11am to listen to my show (I have a lot I need to talk about on the air).

Chris Reilly (the guy who inspired the film The Negotiator (I’ll let you decide if I inspired the Kevin Spacey role or the Samuel L. Jackson role))

POLO (Shh! You (the fans) need to pipe down! I’m literally waist-deep in a match of my favorite explorer-themed pool pastime, and it’s really heating up! Actually, maybe it’s not heating up; that might have been Duncan’s pee that I just felt on my leg)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and salty seaman (tee-hee!) Christopher “Splish-Splash” Reilly here, toned, tightened, stretched, and completely shaved, ready to dive into a brand new installment of the world’s only underwater advice column (no, that hot air coming from the bottom of the ocean isn’t Dr. Phil’s new nautical Blowhard Bubble Base, it’s just gas vents on the sea floor). As always, let me extend a hello to all you tadpoles new to the Corner, and a hello also to all the filthy pond scum that has been floating around here since this place was nothing but primordial ooze (I tease because I love!). Let’s get started by fishing the latest letter out of the newly-constructed FAQuarium (I hate myself so, so much).

Dear Reilly,

Boy, do I have an exciting announcement to make! I, Leominster “Chip” Sullivan, Representative to the Florida State Senate from Ward 12, am hereby announcing my candidacy for President of the United States for the 2008 election! It’s time that the people of this great country of ours have a leader that cares what they believe in, and since I, like all successful politicians, am just a soulless shell that serves mostly as a money-moving middleman between PACs and advertising firms, I want you, Reilly, to be on the ticket with me to bring some humanity and compassion to my, I mean our, campaign! Just as you’re the musical and emotional backbone of Welcome to Florida, you’ll be the spiritual and ethical backbone of the Sullivan administration. The United States is at a crucial point in its history, and it needs bold leaders like me and likeable, inoffensive “leaders” like you to guide it! So what do you say? Are you satisfied with just being the second-most-important person in some rock band, or do you want to be the second-most-important person in the free world?

Sincerely,

Wanting Wins in Wang-Shaped Swing States

P.S. If there were an election for Lord of All That Is Good and Sweet in This World, you would run unopposed and hold office for the rest of eternity.

Dear Chip (at least it’s a better nickname than “Sullie”),

I am truly flattered that you would begin your campaign right here in the Corner, and I’m doubly flattered that you would consider me as your running mate (JZ is my current running mate, but his BO really starts to get funky after about a mile, so I’ve been looking to make an upgrade). That having been said, I must in all good conscience inform you that I have no political experience whatsoever, unless you count my six-week stint as President of the National Organization of Women (don’t ask). Actually, now that I think about it, maybe I do have some leadership experience; after all, I was Governor of my dormitory last year, and this year I was House Diversity Coordinator (NOTE TO THE READER: while essentially everything ever written in this column is a dirty, dirty lie, the last statement is in fact a sad, sad truth). Plus, I have also served as Treasurer of the Society of Lazy Overweight Bassists, as Secretary of People Organized to Obliterate Polio, as Sergeant-At-Arms of the Baby-Sitters’ Club, and even as Vice Chancellor of the Aaron Spelling Fan Club (I will fight anyone who denies his genius or prolificacy). Well, now I’ve gone and convinced myself; I would make a damn good leader for this country. You know what? I will accept your offer, Chip! Get ready for a Sullivan-Reilly ticket, America! Get ready for change! Get ready for accountability! Get ready for progress and peace and prosperity and pepperoni pizza (sorry, I haven’t had lunch yet)! GET READY FOR THE GREATEST VICE PRESIDENT THIS COUNTRY HAS EVER SEEN! BEE-YAW!

Until later, remember that the “Electoral College” is not actually an accredited institute of higher education (sorry Wes) and that “voting” is not a multiple-choice test (although there is a correct answer).

Chris Reilly (the funky Dick Cheney)

SURPRISE (I have no idea when your (the fans’) birthday is, so I figured that today was as likely a day as any (especially since it’s about nine months after Earth Day and most of you (the fans) are products of LSD-laced love-making sessions), and I decided to put together a little celebration)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and CPA (Crazy Party Animal) Christopher “I Drink, Therefore I Am” Reilly here, three sheets to the wind and three shots away from the worm, ready to hang up some streamers and hand out some advice (I can’t even remember the last time I went to a party without getting cornered by a heavy-set, sobbing thirty-something with nothing to do but lay her problems at my feet, but I guess nobody said being a miracle worker would be easy!). I’ll kick things off as usual by introducing myself to and immediately forgetting the names of all of you first-time partiers out there, then walking directly over to where all of you “Corner” regulars are hanging out, where I will remain for the rest of this shindig (I fear change). I’ll peruse the latest letter from my mailbag while I survey the hors d’oeuvres table (I also fear getting there after all the jalapeno poppers are gone).

Mr. Reilly! Christopher! Chris! BUBELEH!

Long time no see! What’s wrong with your telephone is it broken? Or maybe this Welcome to Florida thing is just taking off so fast you don’t have time to call your old agent you son of a bitch ha HA! This stupid advice column is the only way I could get a hold of you I don’t think I’ve written a goddamn letter this MILLENIUM! Hooooo boy, yeah, wooo. Hey, you look FABULOUS have you lost weight it must be all of that Los Angeles sunshine I’ll tell ya these girls out here they look absolutely eye-poppingly, ball-tinglingly INCREDIBLE but their skin is gonna be so fried in ten years they’ll look like the California raisins with boob jobs am I right? C’mon, right? Ha ha ha anyway I’m not getting in touch with you because I need some of your so-called “gold spun advice.” Ha, please, I’ve already told all my problems to my shrink and my ex-wife and all either one of them did was to make off with a ton of my cash ha HA! What I wanted to tell you about is this amazing movie role that you would be absolutely PERFECT for! I know I know you “don’t do movies” because you’re “not an actor” and “have absolutely no talent on stage or screen,” BUT this flic is different baby, it’s independent, it’s artsy, it’s sensitive, it’s mysterious, it’s all the things that make you YOU, and it’ll all be captured on celluloid! You know or digital or whatever they the use now the point is that this could be your big break! I mean let’s face if it was going to happen with this band it would have already happened. You gotta start thinking about how you’re going to support those six illegitimate children that you have on the way from six different mothers, my friend! That’s a lot of mouths to feed and I think we all know that baby food ain’t cheap in La-La-Land, especially when the wife of every other rapper or basketball star out there has her own line of premium pureed peas! Anyway just PROMISE me you’ll think about it, okay I mean c’mon thinking is just about the only thing you can do for free in this town anymore am I right buddy ha HA you’re FABULOUS baby you’re FABULOUS!

See you at the TOP,

Hot Hitmaker in Hollywood

P.S. You’re FABULOUS! And, you were always my favorite member of Welcome to Florida, as well as my favorite member of the human race.

Dear Morty,

First, let me say that it is nice to hear from you. With that out of the way, I’d just like to ask you as nicely as possible to GO DIRECTLY TO HELL YOU RAT BASTARD (no, not you, Wes! Get back in here and finish making me that sandwich)! I can’t believe you would even think about possibly considering contacting me after you stole every last penny that I made off of the last WTF album (we’re talking well over 50 pennies here, people; I could have bought a juice box with that money!). You’re lucky that I live on the East Coast now, or I would drive over to your slimy roach motel of a house and strangle you so hard you would start throbbing, your head would turn purple, and you would explode into a puddle of goop (somehow all of my threats of violence end up sounding like detailed euphemisms for masturbation)!

Until later, remember to never trust anybody that tells you that 69% is the standard cut for an entertainment manager (I may loathe Morty more than life itself (which is a lot), but I have to say that I like the man’s taste in numbers)!

Chris Reilly (the guy who decided not to try to renegotiate his contract simply because he did not want to run the risk of having to say “Show me the money!” at any point)

TOUCHDOWN (you (the fans) should have seen that incredible catch I just made to win the quarterfinal game in the Southeastern Connecticut Men’s Evening Flag Football League! See you at Semi’s, Glastonbury Gargoyles!)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and pigskin paragon Christopher “Tight End” Reilly here, bent over with my hands hanging down between my legs and ready to hike a brand new advice column into the ready grasp of anyone out there who may be fumbling (tee-hee) for some guidance (aren’t I precious?). Let me first say “Blue 22!” to all you rookies out there, and let me also give a big ol’ “ Idaho 19!” to everyone who has just as much knee damage and spinal cord compression as I do (I actually sustained those injuries before I ever started playing ball; being a referee for mud wrestling matches sure is dangerous!). But I digress (I also digest, just not as well as I used to ever since Duncan had me try one of his “special” brownies that he accidentally made with hemlock instead of pot); let’s just see what’s in the mail sack this week (Get it? Sack? Like in football! No? Nothing? Ugh, I don’t know how much longer I can do this shit).

Dear Cruel World,

If you’re reading this, then I’m already dead. By now, my bloated, water-logged corpse is rotting away at the bottom of the Suwannee River, my flesh being gnawed and chewed by any number of slime-coated, scum-sucking parasites, my bones and brains sinking deeper into the black muck with every passing moment. Why did I do it? Why did I drive a hundred miles at midnight to an abandoned bridge in the middle of the marshlands, strip naked, inject myself with a zoo-grade sedative that rendered my body completely immobile yet left me completely conscious, and plunge helplessly into the liquid ebony abyss below me? Why? If you have to ask that question then you’ll never understand my actions. What you should be asking is why the world is an inescapable fiery rat trap that keeps all of us pinned down and burning until death swoops in to snatch out our last breath; why every last person ever born wants nothing more to stand by salivating while he watches the slow torment and destruction of everyone he meets; why cancers and diseases dress themselves up as love and compassion so that they can be welcomed with open arms into our bodies, only to remove their masks immediately upon arrival and begin to devour us from the inside out; why the entirety of existence is nothing more than a racist, sexist, hateful joke that unrolls into infinity without ever coming to any kind of punch line or cadence. You may think that because I have disposed of my own useless, meaningless life that I am a coward, but I ask you to turn your scrutiny inwards, to examine the frivolity, the flippancy, the utter absurdity of staying in this world even a moment longer than it takes to swallow a bullet or a poison pill. Damnation is not a punishment reserved for the wicked; it is an inevitability promised to every soul unlucky enough to exist.

See you all in Hell,

Suicidal in Sarasota

P.S. The only thing I’ll miss in this god-forsaken world is Christopher Reilly, the one source of purity and hope on this fetid fecal stain of a planet.

Dear SiS (I haven’t spoken to my actual sister in over five years, the same amount of time that WTF has been together. Coincidence?),

It sounds like you’re a little down in the dumps right now (I was down at the actual dump last Thursday disposing of another batch of Wes’s urine-soaked sheets as discretely as possible; don’t let anyone tell you that bedwetting isn’t a real problem, people!), but you need to focus on the positive things in life. I mean, just think about all of the great things that are going on right now (SPRING BREAK! Oh wait, that’s months away; sorry, must have been a reflex). First off, there’s a new Playstation and a new Nintendo coming out this week, and I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like a little electric escapism (Electric Escapism was also the name of the all-MIDI Prog-New Age band that I used to be in with Kenny G and half of King Crimson). Second, Thanksgiving is in a couple days, which means you’ll have plenty of opportunities to relax and stuff yourself senseless (“Relax and Stuff Yourself Senseless” was the slogan that I pitched to the managers of Jimmy Buffett’s Barnacle Bar and Beach Bum Buffet, but I still haven’t heard back from them). And best of all, the release of the brand new Welcome to Florida album is only a few short weeks away (barring any more of Sam Clapton’s uncontrollable jealous outrages in which he shreds all of the newly printed CD booklets in an effort to “keep us honest”); as soon as that disc drops, nobody in the country will have any reason to sit around and mope (Sit Around and Mope was the first and only album ever made by the short-lived Prog-Grunge band that I was in with Daniel Johns and the other half of King Crimson). Speaking of collaborating with other musical artists, I’d like to welcome our new trombone player Cornell “Blows the 'Bone for Money” Pereaux into the band (I think Duncan only hired him because he’s French and black, the two things that Dunc has always dreamt of being).

Until later, remember that suicide is a very serious issue, and also remember that the brand new Suicide Slide down at Six Flags is a seriously heart-pumping, family-friendly thrill machine that takes fun to new heights (I gotta wrap up this column so I can get over to the bank and cash this fat Six Flags check! Wait a minute, this check is signed “Bugs Bunny!” DAMN YOU SIX FLAGS! DAMN YOU TO HELL!)!

Chris Reilly (the founder of the world’s first Pig Latin suicide hotline)

FORE (I’ll help you (the fans) out with your heinous personal problems just as soon as I wrap up this round of noon-time nine-hole (if I go for the full eighteen holes it’s a lot harder for me to score an exact 69))!

Welcome to Florida bassist and seasoned linksman Christopher “The Tigershark” Reilly here, teed up and ready to wallop a 300-footer deep into this bushy four-stroker (this column sounds more and more perverse with every passing moment). Let me first say “Hey, good morning, how we doing?” to all of you ladies, laddies, and caddies who are new to the course, and let me nod at and wave to all of the fat, rich, early retirement jackasses who I see dragging their bloated guts all over this place on a daily basis (I mean that in the second-nicest way possible). Anyway, let’s turn the key (E-flat major) and get the 20-horsepower engine started on this cart-sized advice column (Anne Landers’s column is more of a snarling, hulking, smog-spewing four-wheel-drive behemoth). Okay Wes, hand me my sand wedge and a letter from the Chris's Corner inbox (Wes is a pretty good caddy because he gives great golf tips, but he’s so small that he can only carry three or four clubs at a time in my bag). No, Wes, a SAND WEDGE, not a sandwich! Dammit!

Hey Reilly,

I was at a party at my friend’s house recently, and while I was there I met this awesome girl named Mallory. We really hit it off, and so we went out on a date together a few days ago. The whole night went great, so great in fact that we went back to my place afterwards to hang out. To set the mood, I turned on my stereo to get some background music going; after a few minutes, a couple WTF songs came up, and Mallory said that she really liked the music and wanted to know who this band was. I should tell you that by this time I was a little bit drunk, so I figured that since she had never heard of you, I could impress her by saying that WTF was a band that I play in. As it turned out, my idea worked a little too well; she got all excited and started asking when our next show was going to be. I probably should have set the record straight right there, but for some reason I didn’t, and now I’m in a real bind. So, I just wanted to ask if you and the guys could maybe pretend that you know me and maybe let me come up on stage during every one of your future concerts. Thanks in advance!

Sincerely,

Lying for Loving in Lakeview

P.S. Though I’m straight, I’d rather date you than any woman on Earth, and I make that statement simply because of your eye-popping handsomeness and unmatchable charm. I think I speak for everyone that has ever lived when I say that you simply ooze sexuality.

Dear Obsessed Male Fan #31,804 (somehow I’m only up to a half dozen obsessed female fans),

I should probably let you know right off the bat that it’s not really sexuality that I’m oozing; it’s actually an odiferous, colorless saline moisture excreted by the sweat glands, also known as “perspiration” or “funk” or “that salt soup that drips off my danglers” (I wish I could take credit for that joke, but it’s actually from an Emily Brontë poem). With that settled, I’d like to tell you that it’s no problem at all for us to pretend that some pathetic, untalented skirt-chaser is in WTF (why do you think Sam Clapton plays on our new CD and comes to all our shows?). Just let us know what instrument you want to play and what size you want your neon magenta leotard to be in, and you should be all set (you should probably pick up some Goldbond when you get a chance, because those ‘tards have been known to chafe like nobody’s business). Before I sign off, I’d just like to welcome Fred “Doctor Conductor” O’Shaughnessy, Ph. D. to the team as our new music director (as far as I can tell so far, he got his doctorate in Advanced Assholery).

Until later, remember that despite what you may hear, golf is a sport that can be enjoyed by people of any ethnicity, just as long as those people aren’t women (our PR rep told me that I can make a few sexist jokes just as long as I cut out the racist jokes; our PR rep also has a bangin’ pair of milkshake machines)!

Chris Reilly (the guy who’s proud of himself for not making any jokes about “balls,” “woods,” or “holes-in-one” this entire column)

JENGA (I’ll be with you (the fans) in a minute, just as soon as I help my friends Terje and Kksrÿmna clean up all these little wooden blocks from our favorite Scandinavian party game)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and amateur toy tinkerist Christopher “Hungry Hungry Hippo” Reilly here, wound-up and ready to bark three times, wag my tail, and execute a perfect back flip to the delight of everybody hanging outside the KB Toys in the mall (they totally like me better than that uncivilized rolling ball with a fake squirrel tail attached to it), as well as deliver yet another edition (some assembly required) of the column that ToyFare Magazine calls “not the worst thing ever written” (they have a knack for subtlety). First, let me cry and hug my mommy’s leg in response to seeing all of you new “Corner” playmates (don’t take that negatively; I just haven’t yet learned how to express my emotions effectively YOU SMELL LIKE DOGGY BUTTS), and let me also say “hehwhoa” to all of you youngsters who’ve been kickin’ it around the sandbox just as long as I have (which reminds me, YOU SMELL LIKE PIGGY FARTS). With that out of the way, let’s get right to the latest note I found folded into a paper football inside my desk.

Dear Reilly,

I’m a freshman at University of West Florida, and I’m really enjoying all the things I’ve learned in my first few months at college. It’s great to finally be able to take classes in subjects that really interest me, like microbiology and marine botany. Despite my academic enthusiasm, however, I’m less than excited about the progress I’ve made socially; I had figured that once I arrived at an institution of higher learning like UWF that I would finally be liberated from the childish cliqueism that so typified my high school experience, but I’ve found that the students here are just louder, drunker versions of the people that so cruelly cast me out over the last four years. I consider myself smart, Reilly, but I cannot for the life of me understand why my peers are so repulsed by someone who prioritizes brains over body shots. Admittedly, the casual observer could easily mistake my introspectiveness for shyness, but even my roommate treats my like a leper. As a genius who is adored by millions of people of every social stripe, maybe you can help me to attract the friendship of my classmates.

Sincerely,

Pensive in Pensacola

P. S. Any creature with a mind a thousandth as powerful as mine could tell that you are the most talented member of the band.

Dear PiP,

Allow me to assure you that I can deeply empathize with you, for I too bear the burgeoning burden of an intrepid intellect (I learned all those big words one night when I fell asleep with a tape called “Word Power: Nail the SAT Verbal FAST!” playing on a loop on my stereo). What I would recommend in your case is to implement a technique that I call the “Pretend To Be Very, Very Stupid Method,” or the “PTBV,VS Method” for short. How it works is that you put every ounce of energy you have in your body into suppressing the information-seeking impulses of your knowledge-hungry mind; after some practice, you’ll be able to forget the blessed gift that had been your once-promising brain and just slip into a comfortable, warming, slightly numb state of mediocrity. Of course, the people around you will notice this change and welcome the “new and improved you” and applaud your abandonment of all that you had held precious. Once that’s done, just start spending a lot more time scratching your scrotum and drinking inexpensive domestic light beer by the gallon, and you should be fitting in faster than you can say, “What have I become? WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!?” (I usually like to say that while weeping uncontrollably and breaking every mirror in the house with my bare fists, then tearing the clothes off my body and setting fire to them in the bathroom sink). Let me know how everything turns out, PiP (I apologize in advance if I take a while to get back to you; our new road manager Randall “The Vandal” Lesleyton takes forever to deliver our mail to us)!

Until later,

Remember that “smart” and “stupid” are relative terms, so they mean different things in different situations depending on where you are (unlike “el gordoso,” which is a Spanish term that, in my experience, pretty much just means “fatass” in every situation no matter where you go)

Chris Reilly (the younger, hipper, able-to-walk-aroundier Stephen Hawking)

BOGIE DEAD SIX (sorry to startle you, the wingman/fans, but that MiG-25 was about to blast you right off this great blue ball)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and head fighter pilot Christopher “Ice Man” Reilly here, locked, loaded, and lactating (ignore that) over the idea of bringing you (the fans and the fresh meat that just arrived on base from Basic) some high-flying life lessons delivered at speeds upwards of 600 miles per hour (approximately 37,500 kilometers per hour). First, I’ll radio in to the Nest to confirm my sighting of all you “Corner” rookies as well as you vets who have seen as much action and dealt as much destruction (and largely unsolicited personal advice) as I have.

Dear Reilly,

Just like you, I make my living in aeronautics. Unlike you, however, I don’t get to fly multi-million dollar aircraft at speeds in excess of that of sound. Rather, I work the night shift on ground control for NASA’s backup test launch facility. I know what you’re thinking, and sure, the job’s not quite as glamorous as either of your two highly successful careers, but I get a pretty sweet check and I get to save lives…well, actually most of the test vehicles are piloted by computers not human beings, but, hey, I could still save a life someday, damn it! Oh man, listen I’m sorry; if I’m coming off as disgruntled it’s just because I am bored stiff with this job. I need a change, plain and simple. I miss the old days when I actually had some fun, like when I signed up for the Navy on a dare from my buddy Frankie. Not only did the guys get a huge kick out of it, but it turned out that the Navy was a great step in my life: I got to travel the world, I was part of a team, I felt needed by my colleagues, and I was contributing something to society. Now, I still get a government check, but any doofus that can tell his ass from a reverse thrust manifold flange knows that nobody really needs astronauts. My job and my life are one big joke, Reilly, and I need you to help me stop everyone from laughing. So, basically, I was wondering if there were any job openings in the Welcome to Florida organization that could be filled by a handy seaman that knows his way around a rocket.

Sincerely,

Cooped Up With Cabin Fever In Cape Canaveral

P.S. Your talent is as powerful as the sun and as massive as Uranus.

Major Tom to Ground Control (Haha, I love songful androgynous Britons),

First off, CUWCFICC, my anus is NOT massive, regardless of whatever Brian Williams or Wolf Blitzer would have you believe. And second, I have exactly ZERO openings that I want filled by a rocket and/or seamen (sorry for my snappy attitude, everybody, but I’m trying to prove to my jackass buddies that I’m not gay, HEY SHUT UP GUYS I’M TRYING TO CHANGE LIVES OVER HERE, SO KEEP IT DOWN, OKAY? WHAT? YES, AS A MATTER OF FACT I CAN KEEP “IT” DOWN EVEN WHEN A DUDE IN BICYCLE SHORTS WALKS BY! WHAT? OH THAT’S RIGHT I’M SERIOUS! WHY DON’T I COME OVER THERE AND SHOW YOU HOW SERIOUS I AM? WHAT? NO, I AM NOT GONNA TRY TO “GET ALL GAY ON YOU!” NO, YOU KNOW WHAT, FORGET IT, YOU GUYS ARE LOSERS!). Anyway, Coop, as a matter of fact we do have a nice position (SHUT UP!) available on the crew for our next tour, which kicks off in a couple weeks (for some reason our manager booked us into a bunch of “leather bars,” whatever those are). Just send in your résumé and references to JZ and he’ll give you a call if you’re right for the job (I should warn you that he will hire as many female applicants as possible before he even considers hiring a fellah). If you make it onto the tour, you’ll even get to meet our new wind player Cindy “Tooty Flutey” Ramsill (I’ll give you one guess as to whether or not JZ was also in charge of hiring the new band member).

Until later, remember that the government faked the moon landing not because we didn’t have the ability or the technology, but because it was the Summer of Love and nobody had the heart to send three sorry bastards out in space while the Poontang Parade was moving full speed ahead (I can’t blame them; parades are fun!).

Chris Reilly (the first man ever to turn a “need for speed” Top Gun reference into a drug joke)

Good afternoon, fill out this Intent To Seek Advice form and then wait here until your Personal Denotation Number is read aloud (the man had me commit that to memory)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and accredited band notary Christopher “Actually It Is A United States Government-Approved Notarizing Stamp In My Pocket, But I’m Still Happy To See You” Reilly here, ready to bring you (the sorry victims of my sadistic bureaucracy) the most accurately-filed, promptly processed recommendations legally obtainable in this county under the guidelines of Provision 17.A.43338-501 of the State of Florida Fake Advice Column Act of 1998 (big ups to Senator Mel Martinez for cooking up that juicy sales tax hike rider to help that beauty of a bill cruise through both houses faster than a greased gator through goulash on Good Friday). Well, enough wasting time with parenthetical excesses; let’s proceed directly to the correspondence deemed most appropriate for this undertaking by the Alliterative Author Review and Means Commission (submitted to me, of course, in triplicate with two valid forms of government identification).

Dear Reilly,

As a respected member of society and as an individual well-versed in and highly experienced with the inner workings of the most brain-boiling sectors of governance, you are the only person of whom I can think to help me pull my nuts outta this damn vice they been stuck in all summer. First, let me give you the background info. Ever since I got outta high school, I’ve been workin at a auto shop down the block from the house I inherited from my dead uncle Moolie. It was a good gig: steady hours, okay pay, friendly boss, and abundant opportunities for automotive sexual innuendo. I put in nine straight years at that place, until one day a couple months ago, I was droppin the tranny for a ’92 Corolla when the crotch on my jumpsuit rips open and my hog pops out. Just my luck, the brat kid of the lady who brought the car in is standin right there wathcin me work. Well the kid freaks, so the mother runs in, scopes my pipe, and starts bitchin at the owner like she never seen a sweaty spaghetti before. Course he’s gotta take the customer’s side an he tells me I’m fired. So I leave figurin he was just sayin that to make the whore shut her ass an I can just come back later, excep when I come back later, he tells me I’m for real fired, an I’m like, first off, how’s she musta seen a guy’s piece before if she’s got a kid, and second what does the kid even care he’s got one too. But he wouldn’t listen so I just says screw it and I leave. Course in a couple days I’m outta cash and I needs to start gettin food stamps. Then yesterday I find out a garage in the next town needs a guy, but my old lady tells me that I can’t keep gettin stamps if I start workin again, an I says who cares I’ll have real money and she says we need to get checks and food stamps or one of us is gonna have to stop eatin five meals a day and I says I ain’t fat ya fat bitch and she says don’t you dare cuss in front of the kids and I say they already know more bad words than me thanks to that TV they watch all day and she says you watch so much TV I’m surprised it doesn’t burn out and I says go to hell you damn bitch I’m going to the bar. So my question is, are there any loopholes in the federal assistance system that would permit me to continue to receive food stamps while also working a full time job?

Sincerely,

Wanting Welfare in West Palm Beach

P.S. I don't care what my bitch wife says, you don't suck, Reilly.

Dear Foul-Mouthed Freeloader,

Inquiries of this nature are commonplace in my electronic mail inbox, and I thus am prepared to render unto you an adequate resolution to your problem. Simply follow the example of two of my more well-known band mates, Duncan C. C. Pelletier and Wesley X. Chisholm (middle initials have been changed to protect the innocent). Of course, both of these individuals are employed full-time as professional roof raisers and house rockers, yet neither pay any state or federal income tax because they are financially compensated not by government-recorded bank, personal, or cashier’s checks but rather in cash (Duncan likes to get paid in the fewest number of bills possible; Wes likes to get paid only commemorative state quarters because he likes the little pictures of neat things). Thus, the government understandably thinks that they are both unemployed and allows them to receive federal assistance. Now obviously I am not suggesting that you have the bravado (or the vibrato) to be able to captivate live audiences at the same level as either of these gentlemen (umm…nah never mind, I make fun of Wes enough already) but you could try to get hired for a cash-only job (such as stripper, bottle and can recycler, flea marketeer, flea bagger, carpet bagger, carpet cleaner, windshield cleaner, windshield thief/stolen windshield merchant, or narcotics merchant) and still keep getting welfare. Of course, if you get busted, you would probably have to spend between two and seven years behind bars; that’s what happened to our original keyboard player, Marlon “Panhandle” Eddisbrine, Jr. (with good behavior, he should be out in time to play on our next next next next album, Past Ripe, due out fall 2008). Good luck with everything (especially your indecent exposure and fraud hearings).

Until later, remember that a “grease monkey” is just a nickname for a mechanic, not some kind of well-lubricated primate (also remember that “well-lubricated primate” is just a nickname for JZ MacMartin).

Chris Reilly (the guy who has to forge those two signatures on the front of every dollar bill before the mint ships them out)

Wow, uh, yikes I don’t...man I’m, well, I’m not sure what to say to you (the clearly appreciative and observant fans) for this incredible 10 th anniversary gift (for those who didn’t pitch in, they gave me some perplexing amalgamation of diamonds, aluminum, and tin as per the recommendations of high society in honor of my tenth installment of the “Corner”)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and official Academy Awards ballot filler-outer Christopher “Is It a Waste Of My Vote If I Write In The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement For Best Picture?” Reilly here, looking combed, scrubbed, gelled, exfoliated, rented, and dry-cleaned (well, those last two are really more about my tux (which may or may not be baby blue)) and standing by live from the red carpet, ready to bring you (the massive crowd of Benjamin Bratt-fixated fans behind me that is barely being restrained by a well-worn collapsible BildABarrier) the best advice available (well…the best advice that’s free, anyway…and that’s on this website…and written by me). Before we get to it, let me give a big hug and string of generic compliments to all of you new and returning “Corner” patrons who have actually managed to get work in the last sixth months in a project given two thumbs up by critics other than “Pervert and Groper.” Let me also go ahead and avoid eye contact with those of you who have stooped low enough to sign a contract for anything in the realm of Men Harry Yet Salty, Donnie Darkhole, School of Cock, or 12 Angry Men: Porn Edition. Well, I think the ceremonies kick off in just a few ticks of my imitation Breitling (I like to think of it as more of an “homage” than a “$12.50 knock-off I bought off that Persian guy in front of the Blimpie on Sepulveda over in El Segundo”), so let’s get right to the first letter (meet me in the lobby during the technical awards and we can dish about what everyone is wearing; I, for one, do not care for the way in which that mauve Valentino smushes Kate Winslet’s rack all weird like that).

Dear Mr. Reilly,

My name is Beatrice T. Everett, and I am the chair on the Board of Directors for a wonderful non-profit organization known as the Rock N’ Rolls Foundation, which raises public interest in volunteering at food pantries and soup kitchens by enlisting the members of popular bands such as Welcome to Florida to make appearances at these facilities all across America. This summer alone, we were fortunate enough to coo Slash from Velvet Revolver, Munky from Korn, The Edge from U2, Rhino from Mudvayne, and even 6 from Slipknot. Despite this success, however, some of my fellow board members feel that the foundation should put more effort into signing up some musicians with real names because they seem more genuine to our target audience of everyday people, most of whom have real names themselves. Thus, with that information in mind I would like to invite any and all of the individuals in Welcome to Florida to donate just a few hours to our very worthy cause, except of course for JZ whose outlandish freakname will surely frighten any homeless young people with whom he comes in contact.

Sincerely,

A Rarity For Charities

P.S. Your musicianship is so powerful and soul-nourishing that it could sustain a thousand starving people for a thousand years.

Dear Lady With the Same Middle Initial As Me (I don’t know what your “T” is short for, but mine stands for “Trouble”),

First let me say that I am honored to even be considered to participate in the program that your foundation has put together, and let me also say that I will regrettably be unable to attend any of your foundation’s upcoming events due to the numerous commitments to which I am already obligated (my publicist has me so well trained that I have that sentence memorized in eight languages). Don’t stop reading just yet though (that goes for everyone (I get paid by the word (that’s why each and every little tiny word that I myself can possibly write here in this column counts very very very very very very very much))); I’m pretty sure I can get you an even more altruistic member of Welcome to Florida Incorporated for your next appearance. Let me just get my Palm Pilot out (I still think I should have sprung for the Bluetooth upgrade; I don’t care what Mr. Wan down at Wacky Wan’s Wireless Warehouse says, this “Redtooth” add-on he sold me doesn’t do anything). Okay let’s see here, it’s August 11, I can’t make it because my schedule is too tight, you already said JZ is out of the question, Wes is in Honduras chained to a tree to help out his old army buddy Padre José Andrés Tamayo Cortez preserve the topsoil against erosion brought on by the overly aggressive logging and toothpick industries, Windsor is in Illinois giving free piano lessons to third and fourth graders at the Hadley School for the Blind, Sam is disarming land mines in Cambodia, Joey and Roz are shoveling driveways for paraplegic Alaskan shut-ins, Wes’s dad is lassoing wild steer in Montana in order to administer Mad Cow medication to them, Abrams is cleaning chewing gum off of the sidewalks in Singapore, Tyler is lobbying Congress to pass legislation that would give tax breaks to farmers who incorporate wind and solar power into their farming techniques, Jameson is trying to break the Guinness Book’s record for the most amount of Type B Negative blood donated in one year, Maria is teaching ballroom dancing to inner city youth in Atlanta, Elliot is at Pepperdine University developing a high-tech neoprene crab fishing net that is 85% less likely to ensnare the endangered Socorro Isopod, Gil is cobbling tap shoes for street performers in Morocco, and that leaves, let’s see here, oh okay, well Duncan is wide open next week, and I’m sure he’d love to show up at one of the soup kitchens you work with (heck, he’s so cheap he might just show up for the free grub! HELLO!). Actually, I bet Dunc is the best man for the job anyway (that grungy beard of his will make him fit right in with the bums and tramps! WATCH OUT!). Just make sure you have plenty of Seagram’s and chicken wings in the green room when he arrives (doggy don’t play nice if you don’t bring the toys he likes! WHOA NELLY!). Give him a call by Friday and you should be all set (dial 1-900-HOT-HUNKS and ask for Magnus! WHOOPSY DAISY! But seriously, I love you Duncan, you’re fabolous, you ol' scatterbrain! DON'T GO CHANGIN’!).

Until later, keep in mind that when a charity asks for donations of “non-perishable” items, it doesn’t want you to drop off the living flesh of Thundro, the immortal Boargod that you have locked in your basement guest room (canned baked beans that are a week past their expiration date are still okay, though).

Chris Reilly (the guy who told Paul Newman he could just say he was giving all that salad dressing and lemonade money to the needy but then secretly spend it on a new pool table for his rec room)

And…ACTION (now I can finally write off the purchase of this director’s chair with Goofy’s face on it that I got at the Disney Store as a business expense)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and official movie night organizer Christopher “Chitty Chitty” Reilly here, ready to nuke some kernels, settle into the couch, and press the play button (don’t skip the previews, I like the previews) on yet another sequel to a column whose flimsy premise and shoddy writing really don’t merit any, let alone nine, additions (but hey, as Liza always tells me, that’s Show Biz, honey!). Let me say hello to you new “Corner” buffs (where are you sitting? Ugh, I can’t see anything in these dark theatres) as well as all you old fogies still reading this column (just kidding, the botox turned out fabulous, darlings!). Okay, I have to stop talking (Joe Bicep behind me is itching to prove how much of a man he is to his date), so let’s get right to the feature presentation.

Hello Friend,

I’m not foolish man, and I figure you have plenty of pretty boy things to be doing, so I’ll keep this as short as I can manage. Like many of your fans, I became completely fixated on Welcome to Florida the moment that I first heard one of your songs, but, also like many of your fans, that doesn’t necessarily mean that I enjoy your music. I can still recall each detail of the occurrence. January 5, 2004: a cold day, snowless but cold, especially for anyone accustomed to the scorching temperatures of the Florida sun, and I swear that some days those rays get so mean you’d think you were feeling the heat coming right off the burning embers at the tip of Castro’s Corona. But this day was different. This day was the kind that makes your skin look as bumpy and discolored as last month’s cottage cheese. And the wind: the wind never quits; forget quitting, it never even takes a break to eat a sandwich or catch up on the water cooler gab. Nah, it starts early; it wakes you up in the morning, banging the palms against your windows, twisting and bending those mighty trunks in ways that was never intended by God, Allah, Yahweh, or whoever you want to tell your kids about in order to try to give some sort of meaning to this failed radiation experiment that we call existence. Then as soon as you step outside that brutal beast breeze hits your chest with a gush so strong you think twice about ever opening your door again. If you have the guts, not to mention the muscle, you can lean into it and maybe make it all the way to your car, clutching your denim jacket and the quilt off the guest bed around you like some baldie clinging to his combover in some desperate hope of reliving the glory of a bygone pompadour. It doesn’t matter what kind of cover you find, though; on a day like January 5, 2004, the cold never lets up. It didn’t help any that it happened to be the first day back at work after a two-week holiday booze binge that threatened not only the livelihood of several of my internal organs but also the world record for Worst Hangover of All Time. It was one of the steeper of uphill battles, but I put in my nueve al cinco, as the hombres around here say, and then met Mac, Red, and couple more of the boys at Fat Frank’s over on West Main for a little hair of the dog that had been sinking his teeth into my skull since I rolled out from between the sheets of my Sealy that sunup. Well, my paps taught me that whisky was a man’s best friend and a bad mood’s worst enemy, not in so many words, of course, so I ordered a glass and put on my mingling shoes. Well it couldn’t have been ten ticks ‘til I spotted a dame fancier than silk slippers cutting up the dance floor like a chainsaw slicing up wet cotton candy; she had the steps, she had the looks, and she had the attention of just about every card-carrying male in the joint. My manners can get a little rusty, so my eyes were glued on her hind quarters like a lidless insomniac staring down a couple of bowls of tapioca. When the music stopped, she walked towards me, looked me dead in my baby blues, and said, “Don’t you just love that song?” I wanted to tell her that I was so focused on her bumpasaurus that the jukebox could have been playing Frank Sinatra Sings Black Sabbath and I wouldn’t have noticed. Instead, I kept cool as a snowman in a meat locker and told her that the tune was one of my favorites. That seemed to flip her switch, so I knew that she was keen on me, keen on me real good. She said she had to freshen up and told me not to go anywhere, so I just flashed her the pearlies and waited for her to disappear into the gossip garage. Faster than lubed lightning I asked the busboy what song had just ended. When he mumbled something about welcoming me to Florida, I thought he was spooning me jive, so I grabbed his lapel and asked him a little less friendly-like. He got defensive and said that Welcome to Florida was the name of the band; then he told me I could go finish my drink the hard way. Well, I didn’t have time to teach him the definition of respect because Tip Top Tits Tina had returned. She kept lip flapping about how genius this bunch of guitar guppies was, so in the interest of my "sidekick" I mimed along. Naturally, I knew about as much about what’s hip in music as a Frenchman knows about what’s hip in bathtub design. So, unless you’re as dull as a skipping stone, you should be able to wager a guess as to what I need you to help me with.

Sincerely,

Noir in Naples

P.S. Your bass playing is about as tight as a tightrope tied taut atop two twin tentpoles.

Dear Guy Who Talks Like Some Old Movie,

First, let me say that you use more similes and alliteration than a lovechild between American poet laureates Maxine Kumin and Stanley Kunitz (my know-it-all summer intern Derrick told me to write that; he’s smart, I guess, but he says he goes to Columbia, which I’m pretty sure is a country, not a school). With the kid satisfied, let me just say that I only skimmed most of your letter (it was so long I sold the development rights to Peter Jackson and the first installment should be out by the holidays! Ba-ZING! I had Derrick do a rim shot just now, but I guess you can’t really hear it from where you’re reading this), so I really don’t know what’s up with whatever your problem is (unless of course your problem happens to be a case of pubic lice). So, I’m just gonna assume you’re asking about one of our albums and say that you should buy Arrive Alive because it’s the one we have the most extra copies of laying around. If you don’t like that answer, just be thankful that I told you the truth; honesty is about as rare in this business as a fresh bathroom in a Mexican restaurant (oops, looks like I caught more than crabs on that weekend I spent with Lauren Bacall! Ba-ZING! Hey, where did Derrick go? Derrick!).

Until later, remember that remakes are always better than the originals simple because you have a better chance of sneaking a gander at a girlie’s whoa-nannies (I don’t understand why those CGI guys haven’t figured out a way to digitize that stuff in yet).

Chris Reilly (the only man on Earth who knows what a Key Grip does)

BOO (Sorry to scare you, but I heard you had the hiccups so I thought I’d be a part of the solution instead of part of the problem)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and chief vigilante law enforcer Christopher “Hang ‘Em High” Reilly here, dressed to the gills (I, though human in appearance, can breathe underwater much like Kevin Costner in Water World) in my riding chaps and ten gallon hat (I like to have ten gallons of gin-spiked Clamato on me at all times in case of spontaneous fiestas) and armed to the teeth (pearly-white) with a pair of six-shooters and, as always, my double-barrel street howitzer. Now, I reckon I’ll be wanting to welcome all the new migrants to these here parts as well as saying “howdy” to all you folks who’ve been living here in this Christian town of New Old El Paso just as long as I have (long about a heifer’s age). With that done, seeing as I’m not known to be a man who looks kindly on lollygagging, dilly dallying, or God have mercy, longstanding, I reckon it’s about time to saddle up and ride (I’ve never been one to condone any of that barebacking I see them do out in the wilds, either).

Dear Reilly,

I’m a 38-year-old father of three wonderful children and husband to the most beautiful woman in the world. I work fifty or more hours a week so that my wife can spend as much time as possible with our kids. Also, I recently made partner at the law firm, and a few weeks ago we learned that my wife is going to bringing another bundle of blessings into our home in a few months. To top it all off, my in-laws are moving into a new house down the street, and they need our help to unpack, renovate, and finalize the paperwork. So, with all the commotion and stress in the house, I decided that the whole family could use a week of rest and relaxation in sunny Orlando, Florida. Naturally, we headed right to the amusement parks to keep the kids happy. I figured that the Magic Kingdom that I loved so much when my parents took my sister and me there thirty years ago would still be around. How wrong I was! With all of the new rides, games, exhibits, restaurants, and shows they’ve put in, there’s more commotion here than back at home. Since we got here yesterday morning, the kids haven’t been able to sit down for a second, and my poor wife is already getting morning sickness and sore feet. I don’t know how we’re going to survive all the way until the end of the week. Clearly, Reilly, I need your help, so please answer my question as soon as you can; what WTF CD should I put on in the rental car tomorrow morning to calm down these rugrats?

Sincerely,

Dizzy at Disney

P.S. Your immeasurable talent blasts through the daze of my mile-a-minute life like a lighthouse beam through the thickest of sea fogs.

Dear DaD (get it?),

First, let me say that, although I do not yet have my meteorology degree (community college is harder than you might think), I have to agree with that statement at the end of your message (people are always telling me that they like to get really “fogged up” before a WTF show). As for your question, I’m going to suggest Fresh Squeezed, which is our first “real” album (we recorded The Sunshine State by cutting grooves into the vinyl by hand). Now, we don’t have too many copies of Squeezed left, so you might have to hit up eBay (you should be able to get a copy for about three cents plus shipping). This album is so bone-dry and pleasure-free that those tykes should pretty much be in a coma (Terri Schiavo joke automatically censored by WTF’s website-building robot) by the time you get to “Cliché Blues.” If that doesn’t do it, you could just try slipping them some NyQuil in their apple juice or something (for more jokes about drugging children, be sure to pick up my new book “R” Is For Roofies!).

Until later, remember that all of the rides at EuroDisney run on the left side of the track (I had a pretty bad bang-up the first time I went on Le Space Mountain).

Chris Reilly (Walt Disney’s personal cryogenics technician)

Hola (to those senoritas I saw at our last show at the Taco Tank in San Dimas)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and official calligrapher Christopher “Big Quilly Style” Reilly here, dipping the pen in my right hand into the ink well while I dip my left hand into the mail bag (I’m not ambidextrous, I’m just awesome). Como siempre, I want to tip my brim and bow to all of you nuevo and, uh, not nuevo “Cornerinos” out there (my bilinguality has its limits). Anywayz, let me get down to bidness (I also speak street). I know all of you hombres (I use the plural form even though I know only Duncan reads this column) are anxious to get your preguntas answered, so let me get right to the life-changing advice (play along).

Dear Reilly,

I’m an up-and-coming film director with my own fresh, original view on life in America and around the world, and I just started working on my first independent production, which will undoubtedly turn out to be the most important debut piece of our generation. The film is called What About Blob?, and it will chronicle my upcoming 30-day gastroexperiment during which I will eat all of my meals at Bob’s Big Boy fast food chain restaurants. As you may already be aware, the genre of the dietary documentary is one of the most rapidly-expanding in the film industry and is also sure to prove itself the most important new genre of our generation. Thus, I have no doubt that my piece will take the liberal-intellectual film-going forward-thinking world by storm. I mean, just think about it: when have you ever heard of someone taking such a bold, unflinching stance of protest against an evil faceless megacorp like Bob’s Big Boy? Never! This movie is bound to change things for the better; how could an unknown 28-year-old grad school dropout from Florida NOT change the world by eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the same place 30 times in a row? It’s impossible! Well, now that we have the film’s imminent success guaranteed, I need to start thinking about specifics, specifically the soundtrack. That’s where you come in; I need the rockinest, rollinest, most low-down, high-energy gut-buckety sounds available to really give WAB? that extra punch it needs to jumpstart its rollercoaster ride through the hearts and stomachs of Americans everywhere! So, are there any WTF tracks that fit the bill which I could use in my new movie?

Sincerely,

The Michael Moore of Minneola

P.S. As a culturally-aware, finger-on-the-pulse überhipster, I can state with all certainty that you are the most important WTF member of our generation.

Dear MMoM (By the way, I’m ready for my close-up (Wink!)),

Your project sounds super-sweet, and I really think that audiences will be able to relate to it (personally, I eat at least a half dozen chimichangas from Del Taco everyday). I’m a little unsure, however, as to why you feel eating so much Bob’s is objectionable (last time I checked, their strawberry milkshakes were certifiably delish). Well, I guess that’s why you’re the director extraordinaire and I’m just the viewer ordinaire (my French could use a little feather-dusting). As for the soundtrack, I think there is no song better suited to your situation than Track 9 from our latest disc Arrive Alive. It’s called “Lonely Clowns and Insomniacs,” and it keeps the rock at a significant level for nearly five minutes (just enough time for me to go get some hot, buttery popcorn from the fast and friendly folks at the refreshment stand). As an added benefit, the title of the song is also an apt description of your future audience. Hey, I think this is the start of a beautiful intermedial relationship (I don’t know what that means, I just read it in a Mad Magazine once).

Until later, always remember that tickets for matinees cost less because they take out all the boobies and swears (and edit them together for Dick Clark’s personal-use blooper reel).

Chris Reilly (the SuperSized Fred Savage)

Konichiwa (or Kombanwa, depending on which time zone you, the fans, are in)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and first assistant primate sperm collection technician Christopher “Banana Peel” Reilly here, rattling my cage with excitement over bringing you (the people on the outside) the freshest-squeezed (uh…) advice around (except for over in the Panda House; they just put up this really cool Confucius exhibit). I don’t want to go nuts (um…) with the format of the column, so, as usual, I’ll go ahead and begin with a greeting (welcome to the jungle) to all of the new and old “Cornercators” out there. With that out of the way, I’ll spare any further jacking (err…) around and get right to the latest letter.

Heeeeeeey Reeeeilly! Yeah! Welcome To Florida! WTF! YEEEEEAH! WOOOOOO!

Oh man, I can’t BELIEVE I am writing an e-mail to the bassist from THE FRICKIN’ SWEEETEST band of all time, which of course is WELCOME TO FRICKIN’ FLORIDA, bro, ‘cuz I mean you guys are AWESOME, dude, seriously, I’m serious, you guys FRICKIN’ GRIP IT AND RIP IT, man, which is sweet because I mean it’s like, y’know, like, par example, this one time, I was at my buddy Jonesy’s pad, totally sweet place man, trust me, and there were these frickin’ HOT HOTTIES there, man, and they were totally primed to jump mine and Jonesy’s collective bones, so my buddy Jonesy, he pulls me over to the kitchen and he was like, “Dude, these babes are good to go, man, you wanna do a li’l mix n’ match, bro?” and then I was like, “DUUUDE, you KNOW I am hot to trot ‘cuz those hotties are the SHIZZNITTY SNIP SNAP SACK,” but then I was like, WHOA, we can’t take advantage of those two bithcin’ babes unless we got three things: some brew, some raincoats, and SOME FRICKIN’ SWEE-AT TUNEAGE, so I go to Jonesy, I go, “Dude, you gotta stay here and keep these chicks’ sparks stoked while I go score some supplies, amigo,” and then he was like, “Bro, that is a big 10-FRICKIN’-4, dude, I got this covered, man,” so I was like, “Aight sweet” and then I jetted to my ride and drove down to the corner, broke out the trusty fake ID, and picked up a couple sixers of Natty Ice, two dozen Trojans, and a lotto ticket, which wasn’t exactly on my shopping list, but I figured everybody needs a retirement plan, haha, right, WOOO, but then I drove over to my buddy BJ’s dorm room to borrow, what else, his FRICKIN’ WTF DISCS, bro, and then I rolled back to Jonesy’s, put on the tunes, shottied a couple beers, and then we frickin’ HIT THAT, bro, YEEEAH, and it was all thanks to YOU GUYS, WOOO, because I mean like that kinda thing happens all the time here, and it’s just like you guys NEED to come down to play a gig at Jonesy’s, the hunnies would be all OVER you guys, especially WES ‘cuz that guy is frickin’ HOT, and it’s just like WTF FRICKIN’ rules, I mean it RULES THE SCHOOLS and the POOLS and the JEWELS and, uhh, WOOOOOO, YEEEEEAAHHHH, PAAAAARTY!

Frickin’ Sincerely,

O’er Legal Limits in Orlando

P.to tha S. Reilly you ROOOOCK, broseph! YEEEEAAAAH!

Dear Drunkard,

I must admit that I do indeed rock, and I appreciate someone finally expressing my rockitude so effectively (and it’s about time; all of you, the fans, could learn something). Anyway, let’s get down to your question. Umm…well actually it looks like you didn’t have a question…soooo…uhh…let’s see if there’s another letter in the ol’ “Corner” mail bag (it’s really just my email inbox).

Dear Reilly,

Before I get to my question, I should probably inform you that I am not actually writing this letter. Rather, I am dictating it to a kindly fellow here in the library who has agreed to assist me. You see, I don’t; I’m legally blind. While I can make out degrees of light and bold colors, my vision is certainly not strong enough for typing. I’m not bitter about my condition, though. In fact, ever since my eyes began to deteriorate, my other senses have become sharper; that’s one of the reasons I am such an enthusiastic Welcome to Florida fan. I mean, sure, I had to give up my career as a world-renowned painter and filmmaker, but at least now I finally have the time to really listen to songs about how cars are like vaginas. Basically, it’s a trade-off; you lose something you love, but you gain something you never really knew you had. Getting to the point, it seems as though my handicap has become particularly bothersome lately. Specifically, my seeing-eye dog Lemont has to stay in the veterinarian’s office for the next six days because he needs surgery on his rear paws. As you might imagine, his absence makes it a great deal more difficult for me to get around. Fortunately, a few years ago I constructed a device to which I could turn in just such a circumstance. Basically, it takes audio input from any portable source, beams the signal outward, measures the reverberations, and sends the data to the user via ordinary headphones. So, which Welcome to Florida album do you think would make the best standard signal to be utilized by a makeshift sonar apparatus?

Sincerely,

Myopic in Miami

P.S. Your musicianship is so much more advanced than your bandmates’ that it makes me wish I had a separate sense just to experience your awesomeness.

Dear Blind Guy (one of you will have to read this to him),

Believe it or not, you already have a sense that allows you to experience my awesomeness: smell (I bath in a special homemade potpourrecipe consisting of dried lilacs, vanilla extract, mint paste, distilled water, lemon rinds, mango juice, ground palm leaves, and a slice of American cheese). As for your question, I’ll recommend The Sunshine State because it has such a barren, desolate soundscape that it should give your contraption the most consistent, unchanging sound possible (for anyone who hasn’t heard our first album, just imagine listening to “Let It All Fall” on a 40-minute loop). That should get you up and moving around in no time. Once you get your dog back, make sure to pet him a few times for me (I’m trying to get on Canus familiaris’s good side; dogs do not care for the Reilly as much as you might expect).

Until later, don’t forget to tell every blind person you meet that I am stunningly handsome and that Wes is a hideous ogre (it’s only a matter of time until that becomes a reality, anyway)

Chris Reilly (the white, young, not blind, untalented, soulless Stevie Wonder)

Salutations (that’s how we high-society types say “hi” to each other)!

Welcome to Florida bassist and chief astrologer Christopher “Blackhole” Reilly here, ready to call upon the myriad powers of the heavens to bring you (the spiritfans) closer to reaching perfect spiritharmony. I’d like to begin, as always, by allowing my inner spiritgreetings to emanate out to all of you long time and first time “Corner” spirittravellers alike (the stars would have it no other way). Allow the spiritvibrations to open your spiriteyes to a more pure spiritvision (don’t blame me if it doesn’t work; it was Jupiter’s idea). While you (the spiriteers) are doing that, I’ll get started on answering the first letter, which I received while communing with an interconnected societal association of humanity (and by that I mean surfing the internet).

Dear Reilly,

I have noticed that most of the people that write letters to you do so because of various money problems, but I fear the pickle in which I am is not exactly a dill of that flavor. Haha, please pardon my eloquence and mastery of metaphor; I failed to mention earlier that I am an author of remarkable merit. A list of my literary achievements would surely extend out to yonder horizon, leaving a paper road that would beckon the eyes afar and challenge them to make out the spot at which the document finally fades into a faint, fuzzy figment of memory. Surely, then, you have already inferred that a talent as immense as mine would make monetary distress an impossibility. Your mind, therefore, must now race, struggling to understand what possible qualm I could see sufficiently severe to bring to you. The answer, in fact, flirts with irony just as I have flirted with so many a maiden clad in dewy sundresses whilst partaking of daydreams during mauve and magenta summer sunsets; I, a wordsmith of exceeding agility, have found myself in recent months unable to generate an idea on which to base my forthcoming work, which will inarguably be the latest in the line of my ever-mounting masterpieces. Thankfully, the tides of fate have once again turned in my favor; you see, this very dawn I awoke to the sounds of a music the likes of which had never before graced my ears. The rich, ringing reverberations were as barely audible as they were laudable, yet as the daze of an interrupted slumber dissipated, I began to gain the facility to trace their origins. After a spell had elapsed, I concluded that the sound must be coming from my neighbor's abode. I wrapped my then-bare form in a silken kimono and ventured across the grassy expanse that separated our respective domains, still able to hear the strains of the tune that had aroused my waking. Upon my arrival therein, I rapped repeatedly upon his mahogany portal and awaited a response. At that moment, the song, the identity of whose auteur I had so enthusiastically sought, concluded and gave way to another. This second composition however, lacked the beauty of its predecessor. Before I fully knew what had transpired, my neighbor opened the door. I explained to him the events that had taken place over the previous few minutes, to which he responded that he did not know what song had so readily captured my adoration. Sensing my disappointment, he tried to console me by revealing that the song playing at the moment was by a group called Welcome to Florida. I inquired as to whether or not the musicians resided in Florida, to which he replied negatively, adding that they were in fact from New Hampshire. Bewildered, I thanked him and managed, somehow, to return home and collapse safely on the futon. I awake hours later in a cold sweat, trembling with the sorrow of knowing that I very well might never again hear the enchanting tones of that morning. Then, suddenly, a thought entered my mind and changed everything, like a child that jumps into a country pond on a hot August noon and sends the whole body of water into unpredictable, wonderful disarray. I had the idea for my next book, and my excitement quickly eclipsed my previous grief. Well, then, I need you only for one task, which is to answer this question and ice the cake of my joy. Which Welcome to Florida album do you think would make the best literary adaptation?

Sincerely,

Keen Linguo From Key Largo

P.S. I am convinced that your artistic essence not only surpasses those of your bandmates but also transcends classifications such as “musical mastermind” and “unstoppable creative force.”

Dear Book Guy,

I appreciate your compliment, and I must say that I completely agree (I, too, find it difficult to fully articulate my genius to the ungifted). I also agree that Welcome to Florida has spent way too much time being excluded from the world of literature (hence the fake advice column). Thus, I’m quite excited to see someone besides myself (you) make strides to commit the works of New Hampshire’s favorite Florida-related musical act to print (well, second favorite after the Granite State’s premier rap duo Flowrida). Getting to the topic at hand (which, for once, isn’t boobs), I have to confess that it’s hard for me to choose just one album for your noble purpose (not to be confused with the Noble Porpoise, King of All Aquatic Mammals), but alas it is my duty and I shall oblige (I don’t know why I just talked liked that). So, I’m going to go ahead and suggest Get Into the Grove (originally titled Get Into the Grave during our thrashgothcore phase). If you ask me (which you did), I think it conjures up the strongest mental narrative of any of our albums. This will make it easier for you to transfer into a novel (it will probably have to be about boobs). Once you come up with a couple character names (I recommend Christopher, Kristoff, Christine, Christina, Cris, Cristos, Samantha, or Cristobal), you’re pretty much done. Then, you can go on vacation and let the paychecks roll in (don’t worry, I only charge 15%). In fact, if you have just a little too much extra time on your hands, feel free to write an original novel, send it to me, and let WTF adapt it into a new album (it’s not like anyone reads anyway; you might as well let your work be appreciated somehow).

Until later, remember that reading the synopses on the backs of books still counts (some of us have schedules that are too busy for book learnin’),

Chris Reilly (the guy who decides how many inexplicably blank pages to put in between the publication page and the dedication page)