We can do no great things in this life, only small things with great beer. - note left in a remote rustic cabin's guestbook by Kwab Apple.
Since I stayed home from work today Sonja left her job at lunch and we headed into Dope City for an afternoon on the Drive. We rarely spend any time in the East End during a work day and there is one huge difference compared to the weekend we both noticed right away. The sidewalks and the parks were littered with babies. Looks like the only thing people in Dope City can afford to do any more is fuck. And, like Sonja said, "They cannot even afford to pull out."
We visited a record store first. I bought two vinyl re-issues: Nico's "Desertshore" and the Groundhog's "Split." I never had the pleasure of seeing Nico, I am not that fucking old; the Groundhogs I saw a couple times when I was in England decades ago. I had wanted a record of their's all this time, it was an important hole in my collection that needed to be filled.
After the obligatory record store visit we lunched at a vegetarian Indian place we like a lot. Their smoothies are almost good as beer. As we ate the Stooges' "Funhouse" played in the background. There was something unmistakedly Dope City about listening to "1969" surrounded by Indian decor. I felt like somebody had put some magic mushrooms in my pakoras.
Our tummies full and happy, I dropped into a bookstore to buy the one old Chris Walter novel I have not read ("Punk Rules OK") and his latest which is something more about life in the motherfucking gutter. I also grabbed a copy of John Armstrong's latest. I try and support the survivors of Dope City's old punk rock community - they either need money for drugs, rehabilitation or blackmail, just like everybody else.
Whenever I hear Nico's voice I miss her deeply. Of all the people who died I never knew, her death on a bicycle is the only one that haunts me. She was the Anne Murray of Germany.
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