I snorted guitar dust. It was unavoidable. It filled the air like smoke does, at first creating a light-diffusing haze, then drifting down and settling in a fine woody film on my hair while I inhaled it through my nose. The crumpled skeleton of the recently smashed guitar—the source of the dust—lay a few feet away. The singing cowboy who had destroyed it turned away from the wreckage and... More >>>
By Sarah Askari
You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. And you may ask yourself: How did Grant Hart get here?