3:42 AM - We are through the looking glass here. Hutch is in the kitchen, whipping up his ninth (tenth?) pina colada. I'm pretty sure I caught him downing a couple of perc30s about an hour ago too. I just endured a 75 minute disquisition on the Moorish influences on Paraguayan Afro-pop. Hutch is threatening next to lead me on a tour of his Stax and Volt vinyl, including a cherished first pressing of Sam & Dave's Double Dynamite LP, on which he allegedly secured an autograph from Donald Duck Dunn in the men's room at a Waffle House in Mecklenburg. I'm very tired and really need to sleep, but the guest bed is littered with sullied Play-Skool products, a stack of yellowing Spin magazines, and what appears to be a desiccated anaconda skin that Hutch fished from the dumpster behind the Renaissance hotel the last time Chico Buarque came through DC. Also, I'm more than a little concerned about Hutch's soundness of mind. Occasionally he quivers a little bit and I'm sure I hear his teeth grinding as he mutters "COMEY!" over and over again. He has this weird glint in his eye that makes me feel like I'm caught in a bad stalker film on the Lifetime Movie Network. If I don't post again, tell my mom I love her.