The parking lot of Club LA, Cecelia, LA.
Breece D'J Pancake, The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake
Cotton Jones Basket Ride, The River Strumming
Cotton Jones, Paranoid Coccoon and Tall Hours in the Glowstream
I really thought I wanted to listen to Black Sabbath all morning before I got here, but turns out I wanted to listen to Cotton Jones, particularly their lo-fir-er, even dreamier side as Cotton Jones Basket Ride. These guys are kinda my favorite band right now.
I've been reading The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake with an acolyte's fervor, but it is wearing on me same as this flu, as this post. I wish I had a bowl of that Hare Krishna bitter melon before me right now to correct my humours. Pancake is an intact meteorite like Charles Bukowski or Barry Hannah, touching on a part of your soul that had before reading them quivered in you eager and unmolested, but once you are seven stories into the collection, you feel like you've moved into the trailer and there's no beer in the fridge. Collections of short stories are perhaps not meant to be read straight through unless concocted for that reason, and these weren't. Once you read them, you want to wait ten years and smile when someone else gets hit by it. And there's just the one collection, and he's long dead, arrived dead to most people I expect, and so there will be no ghastly revival. The collection sort of a total exquisite bummer, but wow, it's good.
Mused by Skeevy during a pool game sometime after the cockfight in "The Honored Dead":
I rub my hand across my face, hang my arm tight against the back of my neck, think I ought to be at home asleep with Ellen. I think, if I were asleep with Ellen, I wouldn't care who won. I wouldn't count or want to know what the signals mean, and I wouldn't be some dog looking for something dead to drag in.
from Soft Rock Renegade.