I have ceased listening to pop punk long enough to revisit Fiestas + Fiascos and it's proven to be a problem. I haven't listened to the record for at least six months. Maybe more. And every minute or two, during every song, I'm forced to stop what I'm doing, skip back a few seconds, and re-listen to the line Craig Finn just delivered because it's just so good that I have to hear it again. And again. It's impossible to listen to this record while attempting to do anything but bask in the genius of his smart, witty, cocky, visual, and overall fantastic lyrics that tell the story about Nightclub Dwight and his club called the Nice Nice.

"And all these Chesterfield chicks, they hate the Camel Lights girls/With their filthy mouths and their long strings of pearls."

"She was bombed on the bass and a Bombay gin."

"I like you Dwight, but I don't like the pipe. Or the things that you put in your pipe, like your life..."

"And then I asked her, 'Do you like lighting fires? Do you like lighting fires? I've been looking for a firelighter for hire...'"

"These English majors wanna be some super genius novelists/They end up music journalists, chicks ain't that into it."

"That's the funny thing. It ain't just the money thing, it's a question of community—the liberty, the ecstasy, the love, the drugs, the unity."

"Love is like a battle of the bands. Crank up your amps, man."

"I'm nailed to the nightlife like Christ on the cross/Gotta terrible cough/My skin is like see through/Been tryin' to meet you, dyin' to reach you/it's too late for liquor be we could get some three two."

And the list goes on and on and... Please, Craig Finn. Just write a fucking book already.