I went to a party last night. A "dance" party, or something of the like. You know the scene; somebody has an immaculate collection of records and they insist on a rotation that includes all the "unknowns"; the bands everyone else should know about but don't. Maybe it wasn't that bad. I like the guy who had the party, actually. I don't drink or get high anymore, so it seemed that way for a bit; a long tedious bit. There were a couple of rooms in this apartment and a lot of people on slipperry floors with beers in hand. And a lot of girls. That's why i was supposed to be there. Kira Lynn Cain and Jeffrey Luck Lucas insisted, so I went; intending to only stay briefly. They wanna save me from myself by finding me a girlfriend. I'd prefer my wife but that's done, I think. Kira and Jeff have a great friend, though. Rick Cooper. He used to work with Chet Helms and Bill Graham, Charlie Musselwhite used to live with him, he still hangs out with Stanley Mouse and wants me to go on some weird trek with him because my totem is "the bear". A good fucking guy, well into his sixties; looking like Willie and smoking like him, too. And his stories are endless. He showed up there. Yeah, he showed up there and so did I. The youngsters; the thirty-somethings, they evacuated into another room. Rick and I took over the fucking record player for a while and played nothing but shit we wanted to hear. I told him about my wife and our situation. He told me about his. I told him  some of my stories and he told me lots of his. I listened and I sat down. i relaxed. I loathed the happy people in the other room for a bit and i picked up a detuned guitar and played along to Brinsley Schwarz and John Lee Hooker. Rick asked what key the song was in. The song was "Serves Me Right To Suffer". I said "c, i guess", 'cause I was playing in c. Some guy named Eddie walked in and said, like an uppity little fuck, "It's in f". I told him it wasn't right now, not to me anyhow. He took the guitar, retuned it, and played all over the fucking place. He was good, sure. He was real good. He tried to give it back and I said no thanks; it felt like Clapton had cummed all over it. I asked him who he played with. He didn't have much time, ya know, because he can play and I play "all primitive and shit". He had to find his girlfriend. He said it a couple of times. His "old lady", right? What band did he play in, I asked again? Oh, I don't play so much now, he said. He mentioned something about a band with "Magic Christian" in it and said he used to play with Prim Soul, or it sounded like that. He lives in Austin. He stood up, was saying bye, asked my name for the third time and said, "Keep playing, who do you play with?" in passing. I told him about me and Bob, the touring, the record with Chuck. He sat back down. "Your'e friends with Chuck?". I was fucking sick of it by then. "You like me now, huh? Because I know Chuck? Because I've been in Rolling Stone or because I went to Europe and shit?" He looked liked a sick dog and I wanted to watch him puke up all the earthworms he'd been chewing on all day. He wanted to keep talking. I wanted to talk to Rick. I have bronchitis I think. Rick has shit to say. He can play the harmonica, though not so well. I prefer it that way. Don't come around here with your haughty eyes and your quick fingers,; your jean jacket and your pretty girl. Yeah, Eddie, Chuck Prophet is my friend. No, I'm not telling him you said hello.