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Everyone has one. That strange uncle who reached his forties without ever getting married. Let’s call him Wayne. He certainly seemed to date his fair share of women in the eighties. They were usually named Sherry or Tammy or possibly even Kimberly. They all styled their bangs to resemble satellites and/or antennae and wore pink lipstick. When they inevitably broke up with Uncle Wayne, you cursed his bad luck, and wondered why he was always left alone in the end. But as you got older, you started to notice things about Uncle Wayne’s bachelor pad. The rumpled mounds of band t-shirts and tube socks which constituted his wardrobe, the dusty synthesizer in one corner of his bedroom and, most importantly, the seemingly endless stacks of King Crimson albums strewn about his house. It was starting to come together. Uncle Wayne was a progressive rock devotee and he could never love anyone as much as a Tony Levin solo on the Chapman stick. Vangel is Uncle Wayne. (Karyn Bonham)


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