Adieu to Rolling Stone

I get piles and piles of mail every day, because we also receive my decrepit parents' pounds of crap, roughly the equivalent of an acre of lost rain forest a day.  Speaking of Sting, it's only by chance that I caught a dinky card from Rolling Stone telling me to call in lest they renew me.  Whew!  I subscribed last year at six cents an issue or whatever it was because I wanted access to the online archives.  Used those up in an afternoon, and then was saddled with, you know, lots o' Mumford and David Fricke.

I wanted to do a sort of liveblog, page by page, of the current Stones issue, because there is indeed something fully excruciating on nearly every page.  But why?  I've done it before.  And we're all so very tired.  All of us.

Anyway: thanks, Rolling Stone, for letting me know that something called Imagine Dragons exists and thanks most of all for poo such as: