At one time I thought that the world would consist of long-hairs driving GTOs with skinny blondes at their side. The music on the radio was Grand Funk Railroad. Once I graduated from college my delusion of grandeur narrowed to an aspiration of driving a motorcycle around the Lower East Side high on heroin with a raven-haired temptress. Paris with a movie starlet. Blonde thin and a good cook. Our car was a Fiat. Thailand. A go-go girl. Yamaha 400 cc. Beach sun beer. Forever cool.

Sadly my friends along the way have become square.

They worry about their position. They think they are important. Some of them really are VIP. Some of them could call a number. The next hour I would be dead.

If I was someone other than who I am that might be true.

But I have remained faithful to my code of ethics.

“No commercial value. No sellout.”

Those are the words of Pascha Ray and that old reprobate knows the truth.

He ain’t no square.

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