2/8/81, kicking back, easy on my mind, Dusty - I wish to be your business manager and lawy
2/8/81, kicking back, easy on my mind,
I wish to be your business manager and lawyer, apartment
house manager, and boss at the radio station. I wish for no one
to know what we're doing inside until they see and hear us on
radio and T.V. I wish for it to then be too late for them to do
anything about it, like an arrow that has hit the mark, the
arrow I let fly when I walk down the street. That's the best
shot anyone can give or get, thinking of Pat Benatar there for a
I'm running on the third rail between my legs, like an
elevated train. They say that I'm always jumping on someone
else's train, but as far as I'm concerned they just got off at
the last stop.
I don't want to brag about how good I am, I just want you
to know that when I get off a bus I usually tell the passengers,
"This is Captain Morgan, at your service! Transworld Airways is
happy to have you aboard! Please fasten your safety belts and
prepare for takeoff! May you have a pleasant trip! God bless
Love, "Stingray" Shiloh Stewart, Superbee.
To all you beautiful people, through Dusty; up your hole, sugar,
all of them, and some you don't know about yet.
10:50 A.M., Saturday, February 5, 1983, On the street
Song: "I'll stop the world and melt with you!" That'll be the
end of time. We can slide from there on, no more running and
changing, except gradually, like a tree.
My dear old paternal parent, whom I called, Dad, told me over
and over again about how he wrote to his wife (my mother)
everyday, and his mother at least once a week when he was in
the army. (My parents got divorced when he got out, like a
belated "Dear John."). And how he couldn't understand why I
didn't care enough to write to him now and then. I tried to
keep him in mind, but it was 'out of sight, out of mind.'
Leaving his problems behind was part of what made it nice to be
a runaway. I believe I could write to you everyday (no promises)
because I like hitting you with my rythm stick. This could be
the beginning of a 50-page letter, but I really must get
downtown before the stores close. What's the biggest and longest
pole you can take up your cunt?
E-Mail Fredric L. Rice / The Skeptic Tank