Chimichanga is the solo project of Daniel Vila, Bush League guitarist and opinionated music theorist. Okay, fuck 'œsolo project,'? he's a one man band. Here's hoping we see him in Roctober magazine's next installment of their One Man Band Encyclopedia. Dan and Matt Fucking Collins fired back and forth some emails:

WHAT KIND OF ASSHOLE ARE YOU FOR TOTALLY NOT SUCKING? DO YOU NOT WANT TO BE WRITTEN ABOUT IN THE LOCAL PRESS OR SOME SHIT? I feel too much pity for music journalists to bother worrying if they are going to toss a few piddly words my way. Their bid to critically validate the paltry efforts of drooling monkeys is akin to Umberto Eco's attempt to justify his love of soccer with pomo rambling: a potentially commendable act that ultimately fails to ennoble its subject in any valuable way. Though I'm opposed to the silly distinction between high and low culture, I don't want to spend my life mulling over the minutiae of worthless bullshit either. Plus, why would I bother trying to get the local scribes to call me 'œraucous'? in print when it's really the pens of Greil Marcus, Richard Meltzer, and Robert Christgau that I'm after. Maybe V. Vale will discover that one man bands are the coolest thing since punk rock/industrial music/pranks and dedicate a RE/Search book to the topic. I could be interviewed alongside my cultural hero, Boyd Rice. Oh wait, Vale and Rice don't get along anymore. In that case, Sarah Liss, can you please sum up my shit adjectivally?

HOW DOES BEING WRAPPED UP IN JESUS FEEL? Though I have no firsthand experience with this feeling, I would assume that it would reek of rotting stigmata. For Rev. Charlie Jackson, the author of Wrapped Up and Tangled Up in Jesus, I would imagine that the feeling was one of revelatory power. Though I don't really give any credence to the idea of channeling energy, I do try to channel the energy of Rev. Jackson's channeling of energy of whatever his conception of God might have been. And this feels good. I try to do it in as unconscious a manner as possible, since conscious emulation of total purity renders the emulation null and void, which is why The Shaggs, as great as they were, were unable to bear any true progeny. Bukowski's epitaph reads 'œDon't try,'? and I think this is what he meant by that.

DO YOU EVER FIGHT PEOPLE? WHO COULD YOU BEAT IN A FIGHT? It is against my nature to fight. In Harry Dean Stanton's immortal words from Repo Man, 'œNormal people spend their lives trying to avoid tense situations. A repo man spends his life getting into tense situations.'? In this respect, I am sadly, a mere normal person. I once got punched in the head by a bully in high school for no reason, and was unable to respond. A punch from me to him would have raised the denominator of aggression to a level I would have been unable to meet. Musically speaking, though, I could fight the entire Toronto scene, which I actually plan to do at the next Emergenza band wars. I plan on winning by selling tickets to my apathetic yet supportive family members.

GIVE A FEW WORDS OF ADVICE TO THE CHRONIC. How could such an insignificant speck as I offer any advice to something that has fueled people like Snoop to revolutionize language at a pace not seen since James Joyce. On the other hand, the chronic is also responsible for the strange phenomenon of blonde dreadlocks. So, I guess my only advice is: stop inspiring white people to grow dreadlocks (uh, black people too).

LATELY, ALL I THINK ABOUT IS THE WORSHIP/PLAY DICHOTOMY- CAN YOU RELATE? I've actually been thinking more about the work/play dichotomy. I like the play more than the work and have tried to reconcile the two by trying to work in fields I generally associate with play. This has panned out poorly on the whole funds acquisition tip, which has in turn led me not to amass material possessions at the desired rate, a fact that greatly upsets me. I love material possessions. On this note, I must offer my one man band for hire services to anyone who would care to have them, thus resolving the work/play dichotomy that troubles me so.