It's three-thirty, after the lunch I never eat;
I'm watching this hammer gore down the nail.
If I were carpenter, and you were a lady. Blah,
the rest. The room I'm in has one orange wall -
I don't know why. Some guy in the other place
is singing memories like Mario Lanza, and his
idea of modernity is to skip every other note.
It's his version, he says, of what 'hip-hop' is
really about. Trouble is, for him, I don't give
a rat's ass - a fuck - a troubadour's wig -
a fig-tree's flame. See what I mean? This
place I passed today had a '55 Packard parked
in the window, for sale. Nice, smooth tan color,
and the rest. I don't know the price, but I should
have taken it and it'll be gone tomorrow. How much
you wanna' bet? I love those old cars - you can really
mess with the owners, because there was no lock-out
on the hood. Just go there, flip the hood up. pull the
writes from the distributor cap and then put them all
back in randomly - it'll never start again. They had
particular sequences, the cylinder codes were etched
into the block - firing sequence, like, for an eight-
cylinder, which this probably was, it would say, '3, 7
2, 4, 1, 5, 6.' But unless you knew that you were lost.
The guy would be stranded for hours. Nowadays you
can't do that stuff, because the hood latch opens from
inside only, and there's no distributor in there - and
it's all computer code and plug-in diagnostic anyway.