Plenty.

Man alive. Enough with the pervy old men! As if it weren't difficult enough fucking through three parts of a sightread, requested hymn on some left-brained electritian's idea of a musical instrument (the Teenie Geinie or some freak name assigned to forty-key, Lego-constructed monstrosity with a foot-powered accelerator pedal in place of a damper to control volume instead of tone), I get encased in the arms of Death Breath Man whilst throwing away any hint of talent I once had. For some reason, I doubt that most people dream of getting fired from their decent-paying jobs and making up their rent waiting tables. It's okay, though, because as it should be, I bought a Tree of Life menorah, a door knocker with the head of a lion, and a perfect-condition typewriter with an extra ribbon from the guy down the street yesterday. I knew he had treasures; I walk by his blue house to check out his windchimes and grapevines and knew that someone who had the ingenuity to string a bunch of CDs together to glisten in the sun would have more where that came from.