Robert A. Oras Jr. was born on the twenty-seventh day of the second month in the one thousanth nine hundred and seventy fourth year of our Lord, to the fair and feeble minded daughter of a West Virginia coalminer.

Rob is intense. He's is everything you love and everything you hate; everything you hate to love, and equally everything you love to hate. He's a jock, a dork, an academic, an artist, completely rational, a lunatic, a boy and a man. He is an enigmatic paradox; a figment of your imagination as your imagination is a figment of him.

Rob can romanticize taking a dump and turn the beauty of lovemaking into wretched filth; he is tragedy and comedy. He is each and every one of you, as you are him. He's everything one could hope to be; yet an example of what one should be careful not to become. He does everything and finishes nothing; is good at many things and excels at little. One thing is for certain: He's very serious about his tunes.

Brian Oras On the eighth day God created Brian, who then summarily usurped all His power and has been quietly managing this kozmic reality show ever since. That's one story.

Another goes that Brian, just like you, was the product of at least one cell-clenching orgasm, after which he, nine months later, exuded from the labyrinthine network of kozmic birth tunnels that shimmer behind the filmy screens separating here and now from every when.

Last one's that he is only a visitor here, collecting data for his Inter-dimensional Anthropology seminar that'll be taught in telepathy to bipedal lions in a galaxy far, far away.

Brian is an enemy of all that is routine and mundane. Witness the spectacle of his bass work and you'll get the picture.