Frank Zappa’s Apostrophe is required listening for me on road trips. It’s like a short vacation inside Robert Crumb’s head. You’ve got huskies whizzing in the snow, fur trappers beating up baby seals, St. Alphonzo serving up pancakes, and, well, Nanook. On one trip — I think I was driving from Destin to Tallahasee — I listened to it four times back-to-back, losing myself in a bizarre, cinematic reverie all the while. I really wanted to film the whole album — sort of a Cheech & Chong meets Terry Gilliam thing. Someday.