16 August 2013
Richard Hell, Cab Calloway and a Tall Cold One
All my work done for the day, I poured myself a tall Foundry on ice and leaned back on my patio chair to read a couple more chapters of Richard Hell's memoir. Cab Calloway was already playing on the stereo. German four cd set rescued from a crawling with germs thrift store shelf.
Sonja was reading her own book across from me. One of her punk rock bondage novels. Both our toes were tapping. Every few minutes a text would come in for Sonja which she would respond to like an echo in a psychedelic sea of echos. My phone sat silently daring some motherfucker to text me so I could fucking ignore it.
The Hammer laid there smiling her toothy Pink Floyd grin. Be careful with that smart phone Eugene.
I like it, you know, throwing Hell's and Calloway's names into the same paragraph. Calloway is a metaphorical citizen of Dope City. Richard Hell is Richard Hell. He could not give a fuck about Dope City. You would like to read his book if you look back at all kindly on the World Which Once Was Free but is now hospitalized with a critical case of Freedomitis and running short on insurance and mercy but not rock 'n' roll nurses.