Dylan: Man, why don't you ever print anything real?
Time Magazine: What do you mean, "real?"
Dylan: Why don't you print a picture of a tramp vomiting in the gutter...next to a picture of Rockefeller riding the subway? That's fuckin' real.
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Q of the Day: ROCKEFELLER OR TRAMP???
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So, I'm on my sunny, yet scuzzy porch trying to play a bass sonata I'd done last year, with some nag champa burning from an ashtray and a vase full of Trader Joe's riesling. The playing's a little bit scratchy, and the porch looks like Mt. St. Helens in '82, if the floorboards were mountainside and empty MGD cans were devastated timber.
*ROCKEFELLER OR TRAMP?*
Matt and Thom come over with take-out Gyros to discuss prospective adventures. Etymologically, just by stepping forth from the porch, we'd be having an "ad-venture." Fortunately, SG Seattle folks were having a "burning," which I'd heard about from the super-hip freckle. We stopped along the way at a Greenwood liquor store where Matt and I drank whiskey in the parking lot while Thom chatted on the cellular to the girlfriend in D.C. He assured her that he "wouldn't put anything in [his] mouth. *ROCKEFELLER OR TRAMP?*
At the beach, we got to watch some enthralling fire-play. I attempted to make friends with other SG-ers. Everyone was quite lovely, and the fire handlers put on a great show, accompanied by liberal-arts kids on their tribalesque drums. Other topics of the day were discussed, eloquently rerendered by freckle on her SG "blog." Anyway, *ROCKEFELLER OR TRAMP?*
Then it was off to the Lusty Lady - somehow scene wasn't as enthalling as I'd hoped. Maybe it was the gooey floor. Maybe the dancers needed firesticks. Or my blood sugar may just have been low. Whatever it was, we ended up wandering in and out of the hostel, after stealing poor foreigners' chips, and went to a bar.
The night ended - I got back to my little room and there was my spaniel, already curled up in the mattress. If that's tramp, I just don't wanna be Rockefeller.
Time Magazine: What do you mean, "real?"
Dylan: Why don't you print a picture of a tramp vomiting in the gutter...next to a picture of Rockefeller riding the subway? That's fuckin' real.
*****************************************
Q of the Day: ROCKEFELLER OR TRAMP???
*****************************************
So, I'm on my sunny, yet scuzzy porch trying to play a bass sonata I'd done last year, with some nag champa burning from an ashtray and a vase full of Trader Joe's riesling. The playing's a little bit scratchy, and the porch looks like Mt. St. Helens in '82, if the floorboards were mountainside and empty MGD cans were devastated timber.
*ROCKEFELLER OR TRAMP?*
Matt and Thom come over with take-out Gyros to discuss prospective adventures. Etymologically, just by stepping forth from the porch, we'd be having an "ad-venture." Fortunately, SG Seattle folks were having a "burning," which I'd heard about from the super-hip freckle. We stopped along the way at a Greenwood liquor store where Matt and I drank whiskey in the parking lot while Thom chatted on the cellular to the girlfriend in D.C. He assured her that he "wouldn't put anything in [his] mouth. *ROCKEFELLER OR TRAMP?*
At the beach, we got to watch some enthralling fire-play. I attempted to make friends with other SG-ers. Everyone was quite lovely, and the fire handlers put on a great show, accompanied by liberal-arts kids on their tribalesque drums. Other topics of the day were discussed, eloquently rerendered by freckle on her SG "blog." Anyway, *ROCKEFELLER OR TRAMP?*
Then it was off to the Lusty Lady - somehow scene wasn't as enthalling as I'd hoped. Maybe it was the gooey floor. Maybe the dancers needed firesticks. Or my blood sugar may just have been low. Whatever it was, we ended up wandering in and out of the hostel, after stealing poor foreigners' chips, and went to a bar.
The night ended - I got back to my little room and there was my spaniel, already curled up in the mattress. If that's tramp, I just don't wanna be Rockefeller.