Yawn. A fictional (yet surely with one foot placed squarely in reality) account of The Bouncing Souls’ traveling merchandize guy (you know, the guy who grabs your ten bucks, gives you the wrong shirt, then makes you feel like an ass when you ask for the other one) and his memories from years on the road. “Blood Clots” reads like a stream of consciousness set of journal entries, finding Santello in various cities around the US and Canada, staring into vacant eyes and tapping his foot to whatever band happens to be opening for TBS. It’s a great idea, really, it’s just that all of the anecdotes and stories seem to bleed together until you’re left with a book that has no beginning, no middle, and no end. Santello’s story begins in 1997, which means I probably just missed having him sell me my shirt at my first Bouncing Souls show, which I still own to this day. Maybe if I’d caught him at that show I would have noticed the haunting emptiness in his stare and realized just where he was coming from, describing night after night of alcohol, uppers, and loneliness. Instead, it just makes me want to take a nap.