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Camper Stacks arrived at the offices of BURN magazine on January 14, 1989 in a state of unaccustomed joy: Lou Reed was going down.
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Serbs and Croats? Hutus and Tutsis? The east coast/west coast thing in hip hop? Lou Lou and more Lou.
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Henry noted the live hips rubbing against his and thought it cool. It was not often that parts of the female anatomy made contact with his own, still mutating, parts and so there was a brief thrill of the unknown spiking along his vertebrate, small explos
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120011
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The drive back to Sac does nothing to sober me up, either, and although Avaline and I are ready to hurl, she takes me to her afternoon support group, “Lean On Me: A Place for Manic-Depressive and Bipolar Sufferers to Come Together.”
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The Anarchy flag will not be removed from the balcony of 38 Marigold Court (hereon referred to as ‘Rebel Commune.’)
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Here and there, paper boats smeared with ketchup drift against a tide of brochures: PETA, Planned Parenthood, Greenpeace, while we rage: a joyful storm surge threatening the levy of bouncers.
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I took four of them, and put on “Heroin” by the Velvet Underground, and sat in the bathtub, filling it with warm water. Submerging myself, I watched the water level dance in front of me, listening to Lou Reed wail, dragging him under the water level.
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How long does it take to know someone?
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