It is the rye that lubricates the reeds within my battered Marine Band. Lemon Rum merely warms them up. Wine has no effect whatsoever, leaving the reeds cold, lame, souless. The rye nakes my mouth feel fat and calloused, like the mouth of Sonny Boy Williamson. It is the acoustics in the bathroom that echo the wailing and moaning a stomping. I drink rye in the crapper on a Sunday night, pouring my woeful out before the Monday morning machine dance. The phlegm gets flowing from the blowing and smoking. I get these fits of hacking and gugling. These spasmodic bouts summon up the spirit of my three pack a day Player's Plain father, yacking and hacking is his work week weary morning ritual. Because of this, I blow and suck into the battered Marine Band with a fat and calloused rye mouth with a certain holy conjoining with a dead father's spirit, succumbing, surrending to a lineage once spat upon. It gives the work week a sense of balance. Rituals are crucial in a deteriorating world