The
Dude quakes in Tommy’s most excellent Harrisburg shadow.
He
takes rock ‘n’ roll down to the basement where it’s always thrived.
You
never have to worry about standing on ceremony with Mr. Jones because pomp and
circumstance is not programmed into his primordial code. He understands that to
get from point A to point C you have to slog through point B and in this
particular case B is for Bitch and Bastard.
I
woke up in the midsts of a fever dream. I was in Key West seated at a round
table covered in green felt. On my right was Peter Lorre. Next to Peter was
Ernest Hemingway and next to Ernest was Tommy Jay. Papa’s eyes were already
bloodshot and Tommy’s were not far behind.
No
one pulls off a jogging suit like Mr. Jones, except maybe Elvis. There’s
something to be said for a person who gets the true significance of being built
for comfort, not speed.
I
like knowing Tommy’s the one behind the drum set when I’m on stage because he
knows precisely how to smash through my glass walls, dragging me onto that
stage, kicking and screaming like an infant who doesn’t like hearing the word
no.
Charles Cicirella
11/9/15
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