Chicken Out of Hell
An Andrew Hamlin Joint

Last Call Dept.: On the #16 bus skirting the edge of Queen Anne Hill on Aurora, early July 1995:

"So what do you think is gonna happen to music now that Garcia's dead?" said the man in the Hoody (founded l977) cap and full beard.

"I think music's gonna keep on going," I said.

"You know back in the seventies the Dead started using ghostwriters," hewent on. "You noticed that you can't use certain phrases anymore, that's 'cause they copyrighted them. It's like, you can't use 'it's getting to the point,' anymore because they have a copyright on that, or 'Uncle John's," anything to do with Uncle John, they copyrighted that. Elton John and Steve Miller, they copyrighted stuff too. It's like if you send in something that says, "Big Ol' Jet Airliner" or even "Big Ol' Airliner," they send it back red-penned."

I don't say anything.

"This guy that I used to know named Rick, you know the 'U' in place of 'Y-O-U.'? Rick made that up. Rick used to work for the US corporation in Seward Park and that's why Brittania jeans doesn't make Brittania jeans anymore. They all got drafted into Vietnam except for two or three or four, and five or six who ran away to Mexico. And some of them formed the Jordache jean company after the war. And he wrote lyrics for Booker T. and the MG's.

"I used to put music together and send it into ELO about l974 that I'd put together on my computer. I haven't touched a computer though since about l986 because we did a series of ads that went from about l984 to l995. And after that comet comes in l997, what point will there be in doing work? The only thing that will save us will be time travel. Either speed up the earth or slow it down so that it'll miss us. Or maybe both at the same time..."

Midnight Special Dept.: "You don't want to read this book, unless you're going to do time, because you won't be able to get the sickening images out of your head," reads the jacket blurb of Jim Hogshire's You Are Going To Prison, and for the first time since Helter Skelter's "The story you are about to read will scare the hell out of you," the publishing world the jacket copy that is not just hype, but fact. Author Hogshire takes a certain sassy pleasure relating how neophyte prisoners are "savagely fucked up the ass until their assholes literally gush blood," (not to mention placing those words with Esquire), and read beginning to end the book drags on like prison time itself, a grim train where brutality finally eats monotony for scarcity of other victual.

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