'He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he ...' Except it wasn't skinny. It was firm and tanned and its wrist likely bore a ’40s Gallet Chronograph. The Tickler invites Jon Bowermaster to its wedding and he arrives sporting an albatross. Surprisingly, it's a stylish bird, all the better to eat us with. And thus, ornithologically attired, with sloping masts and dipping prow, he takes us on a voyage down the slippery Inferno of the Hudson River. Death, derision, crude oil, hissing seams of shale, oozing rods of plutonium, CFC's, PCB's, BBC's, the AM, the FM, the PM too. It's a fuckfest of ice and fire and slimy things that crawl with legs upon the slimy sea. And yet, from the lips of Jon Bowermaster, the tale is furred to velvet and somehow reassuring. Hop on his Raft of the Medusa. You're going to be okay.