Just to follow up on this post: well, Terry and I did meet for a coupla drinks this afternoon, and goddamn if it was great to see him again! He’s put on 80 lbs — and he’s convinced the Secretary of State is “that butler guy from the ‘French Prince of Bel Air'” — but other than that he’s healthy and sharp and upbeat. He’s even planning a tour this summer, opening for Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods on a mini-swing through the southwest — provided, of course, he can find his “lucky leather lid, the one with the brass eyelets that Sacheen Littlefeather blessed on a vision quest that one weekend up in Bakersfield when nobody wore pants, remember?” I do. And don’t ask.
Well, goodbye to you, my trusted friend. The stars we could reach were just starfish on the beach, indeed…*
Remember all the movies, Terry, we’d go see trying to learn how to walk like the heroes we thought we had to be?
And after all this time, to find we’re just like all the rest, stranded in the park and forced to confess to…
Yes, I remember. I remember slow dancing in the dark on the beach at Stockton’s wing. I remember endless juke joints and Valentino drag, where famous dancers scraped the tears up off the street, dressed down in rags. Running into the darkness, some hurt bad, some really dying. At night sometimes it seemed you could hear the whole damn city crying. Blame it on the lies that killed us, blame it on the truth that ran us down—you can blame it all on me, Terry, it don’t matter to me now… When the breakdown hit at midnight, there was nothing left to say. But I hated him, and I hated you when you went away…
Uh, Jeff? That wasn’t me, dude. That was Jersey shore Terry. Remember? You dated his sister that one summer?—blonde, used to sit barefoot on the hood of a Dodge drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain? Really nice ass?
Just saying. Because it sounds like that whole thing didn’t end well.
Christ, you’re right. Sorry about that. Man, I wonder whatever happened to that guy.
Last I heard he was working as like a gaffer on some Kevin Smith movie. No shit. And I think Jason Mewes was banging his sister, even know she’s married now and has two or three kids.
Strange days in Jersey, my friend.