| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Newo |
Posted - 05/23/2005 : 06:06:52
So there's a new Bill Hicks biography. I liked the Cynthia True one but she'd never met the fellow, this here is by one his friends.
I found some extracts of it too:
Kevin Booth
Tripping was very ritualistic for us. It was something we'd prepare for. Meditation. Fasting. Flotation tanks. We even had meals prepared for the comedown, and usually had instruments set up as well so we could play music together to ride out the end of the trip. We weren't just taking psychedelic drugs and running around like crazy people.
But I heard something, and Bill had heard the same thing that metaphysically you are made up of three things: 50% is your soul. 25% is your parents, and 25% is what your mom was encountering when she was pregnant. Those aspects are put in to you when you are born. He heard that and it seemed to resonate with him; and he tried to analyze it.
It almost always involved us going to my family's ranch near Fredericksburg, Texas. It was seventy sprawling acres of hill country, pocked with enormous live oak trees. There was a 2,600 square-foot track home with a garden and an orchard. Out back was the pond. The reflection of the sun setting over the water made even the monochromatic Texas heat come alive with intense color.
Parts of Bill's routines weren't comedy or jokes, they were directives. When he was talking about mushrooms and he said, "Go to nature. They are sacred," he wasn't kidding. Tripping would allow Bill to commune with nature.
Bill, David, and I went out to the ranch to trip. We planned and timed everything out. Shrooms were sacred, but they weren't the only thing on the menu. This time we were taking acid. We timed when we dropped so that we would start tripping right as the sun was setting. Once we were tripping, full on tree-vibrating star-dripping wigging out, we often had a separate sense of what each other was doing. There would be times when something bad was happening to one of us, and one of the other would just appear. We'd come together and work through it. Then we would have times when we all went out and drifted off on separate paths only to reconvene at some unspoken spot hours later.
At one point on this particular trip I came across Bill as he was looking pensive and distraught. He was in the yard all by himself, walking in circles. And he was quickly wearing a groove into the grass. I heard him muttering to himself over and over, "What is this thing? Godammit, what is this thing?" He just kept circling and muttering, circling and muttering. "What is this thing?"
I asked him: "Bill, what are you talking about? What's going on?"
"I don't know, dude. There's just this thing. I don't know what it is, but I've got this thing in me." Bill was pointing to his side, right where his pancreas is, as he was saying this. "I've got this thing inside me," he said. "It needs to come out. It's like an upside-down cross inside of my body. It needs to come out."
Right when he said that-the "upside-down cross" bit-I broke out laughing. Sometimes everything is funny when you are tripping your nuts off. Unless, of course, something is distressing you; and this was obviously distressing Bill.
Fuck. Too late. It sent Bill off.
"Oh, fucking forget it," he fired back, and then, visibly agitated, he stormed off into the woods.
I followed after him. ""No, I wasn't trying to make fun, Bill. What's up? What's wrong?" This was my friend. We were tripping but, shit, he was trying to tell me something important. It got fucked in translation. Drugs'll do that.
I tried to assure him I wanted to understand what he was talking about, but he was not going to risk getting laughed at again. "Forget it. Nothing," Bill said. I put up a few more minor protests. He brushed them off. And that was that.
That was the summer of 1982, more than a full decade before Bill died of pancreatic cancer.
Dwight Slade
To me Bill's humor was about violation. Violation of common sense. Violation of personal space. Everything you look about his act-and a lot of comedy is-but the idea of violation comes up in his humor over and over and over. And certainly in the characters we had and the relationships that I saw, there was violation and he would stab back with humor.
But I heard something, and Bill had heard the same thing that metaphysically you are made up of three things: 50% is your soul. 25% is your parents, and 25% is what your mom was encountering when she was pregnant. Those aspects are put in to you when you are born. He heard that and it seemed to resonate with him; and he tried to analyze it.
One of the things later in life-in the late 80s-I found a channeler. He was a psychic, and he would channel different entities, then he would give you a reading of these different entities. And it was really good. So, I recommended him to Bill and he had a reading done, a channeling. And in that channeling-and this is something that struck a chord with Bill-something that came out of it was that when Bill came into this life, he chose his parents primarily because of physical attributes.
When he heard that it helped explain the friction in his family, because he felt like he was the odd man out. If you look at the Hicks family their fucking shoulders are just massive. Mr. Hicks is this big barrel of a guy. Bill and Steve, I had never seen guys that were just this barrel of power. And I've tried to get Mrs. Hicks to talk about the rather odd genetic make up that is in the Hicks family. It's just unusual for a Southern family to have jet black hair, slightly Asian appearances and black eyes. And I said to her, "Where's that come from? What side of the family?" And she just would not talk about it.
But Bill was really fast. Really powerful. He was a great pitcher. Strong. He took karate early, so his balance and coordination were great. He was also a little older in terms of physical development. He was born in 1961. Everyone else in the grade was born in 1962. So, he had that advantage of great physical prowess and ability and that gave him a certain level of confidence throughout life.
Unquestionably, he had an inner confidence, but when I think about it, it certainly didn't relate to women. When it came to athletics or stand-up or comedy or spirituality or intellectual conversations, he had that fucking fire in his eye that said," You're not going to win this. So whatever you want to do, go ahead and bring it on." But the one thing about his relationship with women, especially early on, was that he was over-swinging.
Since we were the same age-we went through high school and middle school at the same time-we talked about women at lot. Girls. At the time "girls." But Bill would just try too hard. He was an artist and a romantic; but women don't like guys who are overly romantic when they are teenagers. The last thing you want is a love letter when you are 16 years old. I know he wrote love letters. I know he was writing a lot about women in his journal. That's one of the reasons he started a journal.
I think he later threw out all of his journals because there were some very, very harsh things about his parents that he didn't want them finding out. I do know that most of what he talked about in his journal was his anger toward his parents and girls. And also, early on, it was also his career. Those three subjects were always there.
Ron Shock
Bill was genius and knew he was, without putting those words in his mouth. He was 21, 22, 23 years old. Jesus Christ what were you like when you were 22 and 23? You were pretty wild. We all were. And they were giving him free drinks. It was just a phase. I don't think it hurt his career at all.
It wasn't that long of a period that there was that heavy drinking. A year, year and half at the most. Bill did do a couple of shows in Austin where I remember reading a review that said he was drunk as a skunk but the thing is Bill Hicks drunk as a skunk is funnier than anybody else is stone cold sober. It was just a phase. And he was young, real young.Bill and I had some wonderful mushroom trips together and LSD trips together. Bill and I drove to Atlanta, this must have been '83. His name was already getting out and the Punch Line was open. They wanted Bill to come over and do a set because they thought they wanted to book him, but they wanted to see him first. Bill's car wouldn't make it and I had a brand new Mazda truck. He told them: "Okay, but you've got to give [Ron] Shock a guest spot, too." They didn't know who I was but I got to go because I had the car.
So we go over there and do the spots and I end up getting a booking from them, too. So on the way back, right at Montgomery, [Alabama], we decide to take some LSD. And what a trip. Oh my goodness gracious that was great fun. You know acid trips, and it's been a long timeŠ I only remember two things. I remember having to stop the truck and both of us having to get out because we were laughing so hard that we can't continue. We're sitting on the side of the road with tears pouring down our face we're laughing so hard. Over what I have no idea.
Then when we get to Jackson, Mississippi, we decide we're hungry. And we're really fucked up. We know we can't go into a regular restaurant so we decide to go to a KFC and get some chicken. We get in line and these people behind the counter-I don't know if they really were as ugly and bizarre looking as they seemed to be to us, but I've got to pee real bad. I tell Bill, "Here's some money. Get us some chicken. I've got to go to the bathroom."
And Bill said, "I don't know if I can do this."
"Yeah you can do it, Bill."
So I come back and Bill is standing out in the rain and he's holding the boxes of chicken. He's got so many of them that he has to have both of his hands clasped together down around his waist, and the chicken piled up on top of them up to his chin. And he's laughing and tears are running down his face.
He's sopping wet, standing out in rain. And I go, "What are you doing out here and how come you have so much chicken?"
"I couldn't decide, so I just started pointing at stuff and this is what we got." And he said, "I couldn't stay in there and you locked the truck. I didn't want them to think I was weird so I came out here." And I said, 'Oh, that'll work Bill, they won't think you are weird now."
That's the final bonding we did. That's when we knew we were meant for each other.
Kevin Booth
But for that period, they really were brothers; and they were there for each other. Even if it was stupid shit. If one of them was saying, "Hey, I need a $100 for this hooker," another one would reach into his pocket and tell him, "Well, I've got this $100 to last me all week, but, shit, take it. I'll get by somehow." There was something laudable in that, skewed though it was, but when Bill went sober, and watched all those guys through clean eyes he had a massive awakening. He was able to look in the mirror and he didn't like what he saw.
There were parties at Houston House, but I wasn't around that many times when there were tons of people in Bill's apartment. He wasn't too into crowds in his place. A lot of people would come and go from there, it did become like a flop house. It was so much against Bill's grain; so opposite of what he was like before. He was a private person.
It wasn't all debauchery. Sometimes when I went to Houston a lot of the comics who might otherwise loiter would disappear. Bill would put on a different face, and we would get to work on Ninja Bachelor Party. Much of it was shot at Houston House.
The roof shots we did by ourselves. We put the camera on a tripod and did some horribly bad kung fu fighting on the roof of Bill's building. David Johndrow, who was actually living in Houston for a time, helped us film some of the fight scenes in the streets. There was also a struggling comedienne friend of Bill's, who came out and shot camera for us as well. Those scenes were in front of Houston House. The fight scene in a gymnasium: that was in the weight room at Houston House. The scene with the large industrial laundry machines: that's Houston House. The scene where we go running into a lobby, that was the front desk of Houston House.
The experience was uniform. Friends and family or even bystanders would find out what we were doing and make a comment like, "Oh wow, you guys are making a movie Š" They'd hang around long enough to see us running around in goofy costumes. That would put an end to the ""Oh wow." The great first impression would give way to the reality that they were watching these two dumb guys behaving like idiots in front of a dippy little video camera.
We were acting like we were making this really serious movie, but that only confused the people we knew. They would look at us like: "Are Bill and Kevin being sarcastic? Do they not realize this is some horrible home movie they are making?" They didn't know whether to laugh with us or at us. Or course it got to the point where we didn't know, either. We were in so deep we couldn't turn back. We were going to teach everybody a lesson by finishing that thing no matter how stupid it got. The more stupid the better.
When he was living at Houston House, Bill also started dating hairdresser Pamela Johnson. She was a small-scale model of Laurie Mango, and bore a resemblance to Illeana Douglas. She was older and had two sons. Pam was a bit of a mystery woman, the girlfriend Bill kept a secret; not a good secret. I felt like I was segregated a bit from her and never got to know much about her.
Bill was jealous and protective over her, so he purposely kept her on the outer edge of the loop of his friends. Bill knew he could leave Laurie with his friends; he knew she wouldn't do anything with us; he knew we wouldn't do anything with her. Not so with Pamela. He was much more paranoid with her. She had already slept with Wilks. That's how they met. She was cutting Pineapple's hair, then started seeing Wilks. She became a sexual obsession for Bill, a little closet prize he was very protective of.
Later, when Bill started making money, he actually bought one of her sons a car. Then at some point when they were fighting I remember Bill saying: "My dad wouldn't even buy me a car and here I am buying a car for her son. How crazy is this?"
We all knew about her. But almost none of us knew her. Except maybe Mark Wilks. He was sleeping in the next room, oh, and had already slept with her. So he certainly knew her Biblically.
Bill never wanted to get tied down with any situation, and was careful about getting himself involved in something he couldn't get out of. He didn't accumulate stuff. If he wanted to up and move, it was a process that, by design, required about as long as it took to fill the car with gas.
That's what was particularly weird about his relationship with Pamela. She seemed to have a hold over him. I know it was sexual. She was an older women but was this skinny, wiry brunette, like an older porn star. I actually shot some footage of Bill and Pamela French kissing and put that in an early edit of Sane Man. Mary Hicks saw it and said, "Remove that right away. I don't want to see Bill kissing that girl."" It was like she wouldn't even say her name. "That girl."
Bill had an affinity for Raleigh, North Carolina. Once asked when he was happiest, Bill replied: "March 6, 1986, 3:30 p.m., Raleigh, NC." That was during a week of shows he did at Charlie Goonight's in Raleigh with Andy Huggins and Jimmy Pineapple.
In January of 1988, Bill was back in Raleigh. Back at Charlie Goodnight's. He was appearing with James Vernon. Vernon's first bona fide gig in comedy was opening for Bill at the Comedy Workshop in Austin. Vernon had been sober for about 5 years at this point and attended AA meetings daily.
fter the second night's show Bill went on a bender, then had to go pimp himself at 7 am the next morning on a local radio show. "I was up all night with the most satanic thoughts, thinking 'I have chosen evil,'" Bill said. He spent the duration of the radio interview thinking he was going to die.
When he got back to the hotel he found Vernon and asked if he was going to an AA meeting. Vernon told Bill he had been waiting three years to hear him to ask that. The next day Bill went with Vernon to an AA meeting. That night on stage Bill was drinking Jack Daniels straight. "We'll start over again tomorrow," he told Vernon.
A few weeks after, Bill was appearing in Southern California when a friend introduced him to Jack Mondrus. Mondrus was a manager whose star client was a dummy. Seriously. Willie Lester is a ventriloquist and Tyler is his wooden sidekick. That was the marquee name on Jack's client roster when he was introduced to Bill. Lester had appeared in numerous variety specials as well a handful sit-coms.
Mondrus saw Bill perform at the Laff Stop in Newport Beach, about an hour south of Los Angeles. Mondrus said of Bill's performamce, "I believed that he'd thought of every word he was saying right there on the spot. It was like that every time I saw him. I never thought he was doing material." When the two had a meeting the next day, Bill told Mondrus that he wanted to get back on Letterman. The only television Bill had managed to land since the curiously edited Letterman show was Dangerfield's HBO special. Mondrus wanted Bill to do more television in general. He wanted Bill to make money while and where he could. And he was ambitious about the kind of money Bill should be making on the road.
Bill was immediately Mondrus' star client. And it wasn't until Jack took over he was hit with the sober reality of Bill's hard drinking days. The residual reputation was still making him a wild card as a booking.
Mark Wilks
The old folks clearly went home and talked to their friends about what they had seen. Word got around; but word also got around to the kids because, Wednesday night, the crowd seems to be about half-filled with younger folks.
It's night two, and the alcohol is coming into play. We are going up on stage drunk. It's nothing new, but it's not going to help. It was a corner stage, and on the adjacent wall the club had hung pictures of comedians who had performed there. During his set, Bill goes over to the wall. He takes the microphone and he goes through the pictures one by one and taps them. "This guy? He's not funny. This guy is not funny. This guy? He's kind of funny. This guy? Not funny."
They were super cheap frames with super thin glass. Bill tapped one of the pictures a little too hard and cracked the glass. He wasn't overtly trying to break the picture. Of course, now the waitress is unhappy: "Oh, we love that guy."
They all hated us. They hated our music. They hated Frank Sinatra. They hated The Replacements. They didn't like anything we were doing or saying. We are sitting at a table and the manager comes over and yells at Bill, "Hey, You're going to have to pay for this picture."
I reach in my pocket, pull out a $10 and say, "Hey man, I'll pay for it." The manager replies, "No, he's going to pay for it," pointing angrily at Bill. Bill says, "It's okay Wilkie. It's okay," and tosses him some money. That doesn't solve the problem or dissipate any of the tension.
The next night, it's Thursday and now it's mostly kids. We are also starting to feel like something is going to happen here, something not good. Bill and I notice there are a couple of plain clothes guys from the hotel standing in the back of the room, watching what's going on. We figured they're cops or some type security associated with the hotel, in either case they are not there for our protection.
So we take the offensive and at the end of the night go on stage to tell the crowd, "Hey guys, we gotta get a standing ovation or these guys in the back are going to beat us up." We get the audience to sing with us and Frank-"Don't you know that it's worthŠ"-and we get a standing ovation. We're also just really full of ourselves. The crowd is on our side, so we think we are safe for the time being.
Friday night the thing grows a little bit more; and Bill is getting further into a bender. The Creole girl is starting to not want any part of this. Friday turns to Saturday and the place is packed. The waitress hates us. The manager hates us, which doesn't make much sense because, antagonistic alcoholics aside, we have been packing the club. And the kids love us because we are dismissing authority.
Again, the same plain-clothes guys from the hotel are there along with uniformed cops. It's like a Lenny Bruce show; and we can't believe it, we are just feeding on it. The booze is flowing and we are feeling all of this power. It comes time put on Bill's music. I come off the stage and hop behind the bar and I go to put on "Bastards of Young." The emcee goes up and a cop comes over and accosts me.
COP - You know I can put you in jail right now. Do you have a bar license?
MARK WILKS - No.
COP - I can put you in jail right now. It's against the law for you to be behind this bar.
MARK WILKS - Well, man, how about you come put on the music then?
COP - I don't know how.
MARK WILKS - Well, that doesn't surprise me.
COP - I want to talk to you outside.
Bill sees this and bolts right over:
BILL HICKS - Hey, man. I'm the headliner and I need this guy to help me do my show.
COP - (Pointing a finger at Wilks) If you weren't on the show, you and I would be outside right now.
Mixing alcohol and law enforcement was bad enough, mixing sarcasm and law enforcement was way worse. And the police officer is blatantly telling me he is going to take me outside and kick my ass. We weren't even doing anything that radical. It's just that they hadn't seen anything as powerful as Bill before. Even though he was drunk, it was still very powerful.
James Ladmirault
What the comic saw was that Bill was getting laughs from it. So he started doing it, started cutting his own hair, then started talking about it on stage. I couldn't believe it. I thought it was kind of naive in a way, "Jeez, you're up here because you think funny, but if you can't write your own material why are you even doing this?"
This is the thing that people don't remember, though: they always think of Bill as this legend, but they don't know how many times Bill cleared the fucking room. Even when he wasn't drunk, he'd be so angry some times, or he was off on some tangent. And someone in the audience would piss him off. He'd just go off. And you almost felt sorry for him.
It was fun for me though because I knew what was coming. I'd grab a drink and pull up a chair. That was when the show started.
Bur back then nobody looked at Bill as some kind of God. He was one of the guys. He had bad shows like everybody else. And he had as much respect for some of the other comics as they did for him. But I used to love to follow Bill because it pushed me. It was a good competition, a healthy competition. Bill liked to follow me for the same reason. Same thing with Kinison. I had no fear of following Sam, nor did Bill, nor did we resent Sam for doing what he did; and it was hard to follow him because he didn't do a standard stand-up set.
Kinison could be very funny. But the second he started making it, he turned into a sell-out. His whole things was be became a celebrity and not a comic. We saw him as wasting the opportunity. We used to talk about "getting the message out." The first one to break out there had to get the message out had to change all of the shit going on in comedy. He was the first out, and he didn't do it.
We believed that it was all about the stand-up. That's why I absolutely loved Bill. We were almost comedy soul mates, because we believed that it was all about stand-up. We had such a passion for it. The image of Bill as a preacher, Bill as a social activist, Bill as a whatever, I don't think Bill would have liked that. Bill wanted to be known as a stand-up. That's what Bill was down to his core, a stand-up comic. He did these other things, but essentially he was a comedian. I read all of this other stuff about him, and I never get that.
Every time we went on stage, we were always trying to learn. No show was ever good enough. I don't care we killed or destroyed, something could have been tweaked, we could have gotten more a laugh out of this joke. A lot of our conversations were about that: Remember what this show was like, remember how that show could have been better.
That was another difference between the Houston comics and comics that came here from other places, the comics on the road; they were always talking about getting this job and who was hiring. We talked about comedy. It just annoyed me when other comedians talked about work. And they were right in a way because they had more successful careers. They were obsessed with getting work. I was obsessed with being funny. And they went a lot further. They got work. But I believed it was more important to be a better comic. And that's absolutely the way Bill was.
And that's probably where we messed up. A lot of comics used to say, "We could just follow Pineapple and Huggins or Hicks around and take their ideas." The stuff we talked about off stage, we just threw these things out. We came up with great ideas but never said: "Hey this would make a great TV show." When that's what we should have been doing.
When Bill died, it took a lot our of me. It is very hard to find someone like that to work with. The comedy, that's what it was all about. God, we had a lot of fun. Talked about everything under the sun, but a lot of it had to do with comedy and other comics.
Bill returned to Little Rock for his 32nd birthday. He also wrote letters to David Letterman and Jay Leno. In his Letter to the former he was still seeking understanding about what happened on the show back in October. He gloated mildly about contributing to The Nation, the left-leaning magazine; and enclosed a copy of his first submission to the same, as well as a Macanudo cigar. Returning the favor of the Cuban that David had given Bill on the ill-fated show.
He closed the letter: "P.S. I'm writing you on the eve of my 32nd birthday. Christmas is just around the corner. You know what I want, besides us clearing up the air? A copy of my last set on your show! My folks think I fucked up!"
To Leno he gloated mildly that he had his own show going in the U.K., and once that 'bug' was out of his system, he would be happy to talk about doing Jay's show. Also the things he had said about Jay's show,they were also said by others and Bill hoped they weren't taken seriously.
He had been writing. Not just letters. He was getting more offers from publications to contribute, and off of the Letterman publicity there was interest by publishers across the board in a book. He was maybe being as prolific as could be given his condition, but quality varied widely. The thoughtfulness in an essay on his love of smoking and the freedom to choose was averaged down with an outline for a banal TV show idea called "Free Press." It was centered around an independent newspaper in a college town. The characters were amazingly archetypal. Almost central casting templates. The paper started by the son of a wealthy but unethical industrialist and staffed by Rainbow, the free spirit; Dutch, the ex-athlete sports reporter; Tricia, the gung-ho journalist major. Etc. The mission of the paper (much like Bill's) was "to speak for the disenfranchised." It was not Bill at his creative best.
Rob Fiorella
Bill called me the day he was diagnosed.
I wasn't part of his cadre of other friends. I didn't know his other friends. The day he got diagnosed he called me, he told everybody else a lie. He even told me he was going to tell everyone else a lie. "I've got pancreatic cancer," he said. I almost dropped the phone. It was unbelievable.
If there was anybody who could have beat it, it was Bill. That's the way I felt from the very beginning. Bill had no idea what his prognosis was. That was the best part of that first few months that he was ill. As soon as he told me what was wrong was him though, well, I knew what the statistics were for pancreatic cancer. I knew how dismal that particular prognosis was. Back then you're talking 99 out of 100 people died. It was awful. The statistics aren't a hell of a lot better now. Plus, Bill didn't even have health insurance.
He had everything possible going against him, including the fact that he didn't have good doctors and that he was traveling all over the country. He wasn't located near one good hospital. He was getting a number of opinions.
Kevin Booth
Not long after Christmas Bill was getting another tumor marker. This was it. This was going to be the miracle. We were all hopeful, and looking back maybe naively so. We wanted to believe so badly, but even at Christmas Bill looked so frail and his stomach was distending. The day of the marker, I never heard from anybody. No news was bad news. If it had come back smaller, the word would have spread to everyone quickly.
The next time Bill and I talked was in mid-January. The subject of the marker never came up. There was a planetary alignment that month, another harmonic convergence he was telling me, and that he wanted to do something together for it, but was too sick.
I stayed in Austin and took mushrooms with my girlfriend Jere. We went for hike along the Barton Creek greenbelt. No spaceships. No cosmic revelations. It was largely uneventful. The only thing out of the ordinary to happen was that a large owl landed next to me and starting hooting. Looking right at me. Hooting. I came back and talked to Bill later that night. I told him about the owl. He sighed. Very resigned. Like it was bad news. I didn't get it. I talked to David Johndrow later that night and I told him the whole thing. He told me that to many cultures-some Native American and African-the owl was an bad omen, a harbinger of death.
A few days later I was walking on the creekside trail behind my house, another one, a giant barnyard owl, it started screeching at me. Then I had another owl incident at the ranch. Bizarre. It kept happening. I didn't tell Bill, but I told David and he kept telling me, "Whoa, dude. That's heavy."
Ron Shock
I talked to Bill the day before he died. He called me up and he goes, "I'm going to die tomorrow." And I asked him, ""How do you know that?" He said, "Sam came to me in a dream."
And it was like Sam possessed me there for a moment. I go off into this rant and I'm doing Kinison talking to Hicks. "You're a pussy, Hicks. All you have to do is step through the veil and you're going to be okay." I'm doing Kinison perfectly, and I can't do other people And when I get through he goes, 'That's exactly what Sam said to me."
"There you go. I'll see you on the other side, Bill."
He said, "Okay. Goodbye."
I got back from the club in Lexington and I got the call. My wife called me and told me Bill died. I said, "Yeah, I know. He told me last night he was going to today. Bill always did what he said he was going to do."
I didn't go to the funeral. I don't do funerals.
--
"Here love," brakes on a high squeak, "it´s not backstage at the old Windmill or something, you know." |
| 1 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
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Posted - 05/23/2005 : 11:57:32
War and Peace was more succint. |
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