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.