Zac Kerouac. Weary traveler. Failed beat poet. Failed beat keeper? Scorpio. The man behind the toothpick. My tale begins in the gritty back streets of Poughkeepsie, NY. Hazy days spent lying about Vassar College, a dog-eared copy of On The Road, my only companion. A talisman of illiterate ostentatiousness. Had I read the book? Had Iunderstood the book? No, my friends. I had not. But I looked cool. And cool matters, kids. Also, the statute of limitations on the overdue library fee has now expired. Suck it, Vassar. But I digress.My years of being a Dharma bum came to a rather unceremonious conclusion one day when I came home to my apartment on the Hudson, only to find all of my belongings as flotsam and jetsam on the river. My girlfriendscreaming dispersions from the window. Rent, utilities, and meaningful interpersonal communication also matter, kids.Cast aside, my dreams dashed, my sorrows awash in gin and vermouth, I stumbled out of Queen City Lounge. As I made my way through the low-lit streets, I came upon a television in the window of the Backstreet Pub. Upon theglowing screen was an image that burned into my brain. My synapses were set on fire. A man with a raven-colored mane, harnessed into a 360-degree spinning drum cage. His sinewy arms flailing about wildly with drumsticks in hand. It was the blessed union of Jigsaw and The Mad Hatter. Kids, this bastard child was Tommy Lee. His energy was captivating. His mad beats were infectious. His HEP-C was even more infectious. But again, I digress.This is what I knew I had to do. Could I play? No. Did it matter? It absolutely did not. I won’t bore you with the details of my apprenticeship, but suffice to say it was very much a Ra’s al Ghul situation. I, The Batman, to his, well, Ra’s al Ghul. Much fewer codpieces though. And this might be the ketamine talking, but I do have a faintrecollection of a blood-in/blood-out incident that cost Rick Allen his arm. Do your own research, kids.From there, my life has been a whirlwind of the highest highs and the lowest lows. Quite literally. I’ve played madals in Nepal with George Harrison, and I’ve played cajon for well, anyone. Don’t play cajons, kids. They are not real instruments. I even had to fake my own death to get out of a garbage contract with Spinal Tap. Suck it,Smalls.It was this fake death decree that gave me my fateful encounter with Dick Diamond, who just happened to also be in the back-alley law offices that day, faking his own death to flee from his 2nd ex-wife. Allegedly, kids…allegedly.A spark ignited, and thus the backbeat of The Dusters was reborn. A phoenix rose from the ashes. A rhythm trust upon the nation. A groove placed gently in the heart.