ANYONE WHO WANTS TO play our game may. That includes the stupid-ass crybaby Buddha freak who jumped off the stage with his guitar and thought he'd be the Jesus to break up all the bad boys out front. He didn't seem to get it. Nobody needed him and he wasn't part of it until he elected to get near it. The Airplane were supposed to provide the soundtrack, not put up a fight. We made him an example to stop that attitude for the rest of the night. As if a musician had a place among Angels in our pit!
We looked at him dumfounded for a minute. After all, he is famous. Sunshine wouldn't have anything to do with it and told one of the 'Frisco boys to show him his stick, if he was a man. Well, didn't take long for the guy to hit it. Why didn't she call on me? I am her man.
The show is ensconced right in front so that our guests of honor, the musical acts, can have the best seats from onstage. We make the stage, the dances occurring at David Crosby's feet as graceful as migration or death. Why he neglects to throw us jewels I do not know.
Fatso wants to pick and play so he tugs at Martian Nigger like he does me, parenthetically. Pulls his kinky hair, part of another gesture of surveying the crowd or again checking his back or bike. When I was a prospect, he knocked out a tooth. This I did not replace with gold. If Martian Nigger knew better--what I know--you don't take Fatso too seriously. His attention span is short. This is his equivalent of mercy. He is mean but absent-minded. He's fat so he sees the world by touching it, getting in its way, rubbing up against its people.