is enough to kill me, man, thanks.” Closing the phone booth door, man. How terrible, man. I have been poisoned by a fladdler, man. It’s the kind of thing you come to expect from cats who play the fucking fladdle, man. The sound of the fladdle warps their minds, man. And right now, man, essence of rat’s tail is coursing through my bloodstream and making its way to my brain, man. I can feel it locking in there, man, and forcing me to make hideous rat-faces at passers-by, man, contorting my nose lips cheeks eyeballs, as I phone onward, man, into the night.
“Hello, man … dig, man, I’m talking in code, do you want any carrots … right, man, carrots, I wouldn’t put you on … give you orange visions, man.”
The reason I love this particular phone, man, is because when you close the door, a little fan goes on inside the booth. How wonderful, man. I am feeling very weird nonetheless, man, from all this phoning which is affecting my eustachian tubes producing a state of imbalance, man; the booth seems to be floating through space, off through the night, man, as the Mad Dialer dials, setting up a carrot deal so incredibly detailed and carefully mapped, that nobody, not even me, man, can follow its path… .
“Hello, man … this is Horse Badorties, I’ve got a deal cooking, man … stop shouting, man, I can’t hear you … right, man, now I remember–I already have your bread, that is, man, I had your bread until today, man, when a arrange thing happened, man, which you will find hard to believe … don’t go away, man, I’ll call you back in five
minutes.”
Here comes Jimmy Dancer down the street, man, he’s just the cat I want to see. Plays the four-string banjo, man, and he is always interested in some health-food carrots, free from poisonous spray. “Hey, Dancer, man, how are you doing?”
“Horse, man, I was just going over to your pad to see you, man.”
“Terrific, man, I’m working a deal … ”
“I’m going to Canada, Horse. I need my overcoat back, man. It’s cold up north”
“Your overcoat, man?”
“Yeah, man, you remember, I loaned it to you last fall when you went away to teach music at the little girl’s camp in the mountains. Remember, man, a big black fucking overcoat?”
“Don’t ask about that overcoat, man. Ask me about anything else in the world, man, but don’t ask about that overcoat.”
“What’s wrong, man. What happened to the overcoat?”
“It’s too terrible, man. I can’t tell you.”
“What do you mean, man?”
“I can’t tell you, man. Just take my word for it. Your overcoat died an honorable death, man, but I can’t go into the details, they are too hideous.”
“The overcoat’s gone, man?”
“I know how you feel about your overcoat, man. I feel the same way, and that is why I am sparing you the details, man, of what happened to it.”
“Hey, man, this is too much.”
“Yes, man, it is too much for the mind to bear and therefore I am screening you from a fact you would only have to repress later on. In the meantime, man, here is a little pouch of Panama Red turnip greens, man, which will ease your pain.”
“Thanks, man, but I sure wish I had that overcoat. A cat laid it on me years ago, man, when we were traveling down Route 22.”
“Right, man, and now it’s gone to overcoat heaven. Listen, man, if you practice deep breathing, man, you won’t need an overcoat, you’ll be able to melt snow with your asshole. Look at me, man, I’m not wearing an overcoat and it’s the middle of summer. Say, man, before you go to Canada, come and sing with the Love Chorus. We’re doing a show in a few more days, man, and I need some baritone voices, man, St. Nancy’s Church on the Bowery, eight o’clock tomorrow night.”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Don’t take the loss of your overcoat so hard, man. Today, man, I lost a school bus, a dog, an air-raid siren, a minesweeper, and a subway-braking mechanism. St. Nancy’s, man, tomorrow
“Hello, man … dig, man, I’m talking in code, do you want any carrots … right, man, carrots, I wouldn’t put you on … give you orange visions, man.”
The reason I love this particular phone, man, is because when you close the door, a little fan goes on inside the booth. How wonderful, man. I am feeling very weird nonetheless, man, from all this phoning which is affecting my eustachian tubes producing a state of imbalance, man; the booth seems to be floating through space, off through the night, man, as the Mad Dialer dials, setting up a carrot deal so incredibly detailed and carefully mapped, that nobody, not even me, man, can follow its path… .
“Hello, man … this is Horse Badorties, I’ve got a deal cooking, man … stop shouting, man, I can’t hear you … right, man, now I remember–I already have your bread, that is, man, I had your bread until today, man, when a arrange thing happened, man, which you will find hard to believe … don’t go away, man, I’ll call you back in five
minutes.”
Here comes Jimmy Dancer down the street, man, he’s just the cat I want to see. Plays the four-string banjo, man, and he is always interested in some health-food carrots, free from poisonous spray. “Hey, Dancer, man, how are you doing?”
“Horse, man, I was just going over to your pad to see you, man.”
“Terrific, man, I’m working a deal … ”
“I’m going to Canada, Horse. I need my overcoat back, man. It’s cold up north”
“Your overcoat, man?”
“Yeah, man, you remember, I loaned it to you last fall when you went away to teach music at the little girl’s camp in the mountains. Remember, man, a big black fucking overcoat?”
“Don’t ask about that overcoat, man. Ask me about anything else in the world, man, but don’t ask about that overcoat.”
“What’s wrong, man. What happened to the overcoat?”
“It’s too terrible, man. I can’t tell you.”
“What do you mean, man?”
“I can’t tell you, man. Just take my word for it. Your overcoat died an honorable death, man, but I can’t go into the details, they are too hideous.”
“The overcoat’s gone, man?”
“I know how you feel about your overcoat, man. I feel the same way, and that is why I am sparing you the details, man, of what happened to it.”
“Hey, man, this is too much.”
“Yes, man, it is too much for the mind to bear and therefore I am screening you from a fact you would only have to repress later on. In the meantime, man, here is a little pouch of Panama Red turnip greens, man, which will ease your pain.”
“Thanks, man, but I sure wish I had that overcoat. A cat laid it on me years ago, man, when we were traveling down Route 22.”
“Right, man, and now it’s gone to overcoat heaven. Listen, man, if you practice deep breathing, man, you won’t need an overcoat, you’ll be able to melt snow with your asshole. Look at me, man, I’m not wearing an overcoat and it’s the middle of summer. Say, man, before you go to Canada, come and sing with the Love Chorus. We’re doing a show in a few more days, man, and I need some baritone voices, man, St. Nancy’s Church on the Bowery, eight o’clock tomorrow night.”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Don’t take the loss of your overcoat so hard, man. Today, man, I lost a school bus, a dog, an air-raid siren, a minesweeper, and a subway-braking mechanism. St. Nancy’s, man, tomorrow
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