TO MR. JUSTIN WESCOAT SANDERS AT THE PORTLAND MERCURY,
RICHARD SHIRK OF WILLAMETTE WEEK AND ANYONE ELSE WHO
FINDS OUR MONIKER DISAGREEABLE* WE SUBMIT:

The Story Behind the Ditty Twister Name

It was the fall of ’99, and the band had just formed. Constantly giddy with glee over their future prospects, they practiced at night in an office building on SW Washington. One night they were tossing around names for their brand spankin' new band when Little Timmy The Cigarette Boy popped in with Marie's pack of Capri Ultra Slims.

“Thanks, kid,” Marie said as she slipped the kid a fiver. “Keep the change. Now, get lost.”

“Wow. Thanks!,” Timmy said. Fresh-faced and eager to please, you'd never know the 12 year-old smoked two packs a day. He didn't look a day over 20. “What're you guys doin'?”

“We're trying to come up with a band name,” Bob said as he used his lit Capri Ultra Slim to gesture toward the wall where they'd written some of the possible names:

The Tempestuous Vaginas
Boobs? We got 'em!
The People Who Sing and Play
Poo
Everybody Loves Pizza
AssMatt

Clearly, they were stuck.

“Wow,” Timmy said as he perused the list. “What about 'The Ditty Twisters'? That would be a cool name.”

The band members exchanged glances, then immediately broke into gales of derisive laughter, which then turned into coughing.

“Yeah, The Ditty Twisters. That's a GREAT name, Timmy,” Bob managed to say between hack-ridden guffaws. “You should do this for a living!”

Marie took pity on the kid.

“He's just messing with you, Timmy,” she said with a smile. “I think it's a great name. Now, get outta here. We'll call you in a few minutes when we run out of smokes.”

Timmy left, his young ego bruised, but not deflated, and the band continued their quest for the perfect name. They finally came to a decision around midnight and, exhausted, decided to call it a night. On their way out of the building, joyous over finally choosing a name after days of infighting, the band said their goodbyes and were off to their respective homes. But fate had another plan for them. From the intersection a half a block away came a horrible screeching sound and a thunk that could only mean one thing: someone had been hit by a car. As they ran to the scene, their worst fears were realized - it was Little Timmy the Cigarette Boy. They knew he was hurt bad - bloodied and battered, he was still clutching a carton of Capri Super Slims for dear life. But Philip Morris couldn't help him now. No one could.

Bob rushed to his side, and told him he was going to be alright. But he knew...soon, they'd have to find another source for smokes. He was racking his brain to come up with one, when Timmy spoke.

“You guys ever come up with a band name?,” he whispered, a trickle of blood slipping from his eye like a deep red tear.

“Yeah, we did, actually. We're the Stinky Johnsons. Pretty cool, huh?,” Bob said, trying both to cheer him up and get some word-of-mouth out there for the new band.

“I guess. But...gosh, it sure would be swell if you guys could be the Ditty Twisters. I've never named a band before. And what if I don't make it? That could be my thing. The one good thing I did with my life,” Timmy said earnestly, grasping for each breath.

“Um...sure. We'll think about it. But it's a pretty fucking dumb name, Timmy.”

“Fine. Just...just tell my Mom I love her and..give her these,” the now broken boy said as he handed Bob the bloodied box of womanly cigarettes. “And tell her I didn't do nothin' with my life, but sell these damn cancer sticks. Nothin...,” his voice trailed off as Bob watched the life finally leave his body.

“Nooooo!!!!! This cannot be happening!!!! This is NOT happening!!! Fuck!!!,” Bob screamed as he threw his hands up to the sky in defiance. “Nooo!!!”

Marie rushed to his side.

“It's gonna be okay,” she said, trying her best to sound hopeful.

“No, it's NOT gonna be okay, Marie. It's NOT,” Bob screamed. “We're the fucking Ditty Twisters now! Understand?!! The...Ditty...Twisters....oh, god, no..” he said, now sitting on the curb sobbing, head in his hands, as the distant sirens came closer. There's no point now, he thought. It's over.

--

So the Ditty Twisters would like to ask this reviewer one question:
What would you have done? Uh-huh. We thought so. Punk.

--

*Including Courtenay's brother, Scott.