On 14 Apr 11, 4.29PM CDT jquebc said:
Apologies for mithering you but you know you don't get round to thanking people for making your life that much more tolerable.
Back in the early 90s I was finishing up school in the northwest of England and managing to get my hands on your Tad Martin series. By 1992 I was driving coast to coast in the US with a friend - Martin - looked a lot like Tad. We did crank with the inventor of the infinity mirror in his Greyhound bus home at 8am in a truck stop in Mobile. Martin said, we've made it - we're in the States. We were 18. We stayed with punks in Lawrence, Kansas, whilst I pined to go knock on W.S.Burroughs' door - Martin crashed the car (our home) whilst I listened to Ginsberg read Blake in Austin. The stationwagon eventually died on the freeway, driving South from Vancouver. Bussed it to San Francisco and scored some acid on Telegraph in Berkeley - hid out in the cinema watching My Cousin Vinny - the judge (Hermann Munster) appeared to be my recently dead grandad. Green Day made us a farewell cake. They'll be big, I told Martin, but they're a bit shit.
I got into Yummy Fur and Jim and Eightball and Jizz, but it was Tad Martin and Tomkin's Trailer Trash that felt most close to home. Since my life has moved from one abject disappointment to the next, I wouldn't dare thank you for making me into the successful 21st century cut-and-thrust business bastard that I'm clearly not - I try and help troublemakers sustain their council house tenancies, or I get them evicted - what you did was define a certain point in my life and for that I'm truly grateful.
I wanted to let you know. Far away from where you are now, I think about you. May you be granted with inner, spiritual peace, 47 celestial virgins, a donkey, a crown and a tankard overflowing with foamy beer.
Cheers, pal.
-Jon
Apologies for mithering you but you know you don't get round to thanking people for making your life that much more tolerable.
Back in the early 90s I was finishing up school in the northwest of England and managing to get my hands on your Tad Martin series. By 1992 I was driving coast to coast in the US with a friend - Martin - looked a lot like Tad. We did crank with the inventor of the infinity mirror in his Greyhound bus home at 8am in a truck stop in Mobile. Martin said, we've made it - we're in the States. We were 18. We stayed with punks in Lawrence, Kansas, whilst I pined to go knock on W.S.Burroughs' door - Martin crashed the car (our home) whilst I listened to Ginsberg read Blake in Austin. The stationwagon eventually died on the freeway, driving South from Vancouver. Bussed it to San Francisco and scored some acid on Telegraph in Berkeley - hid out in the cinema watching My Cousin Vinny - the judge (Hermann Munster) appeared to be my recently dead grandad. Green Day made us a farewell cake. They'll be big, I told Martin, but they're a bit shit.
I got into Yummy Fur and Jim and Eightball and Jizz, but it was Tad Martin and Tomkin's Trailer Trash that felt most close to home. Since my life has moved from one abject disappointment to the next, I wouldn't dare thank you for making me into the successful 21st century cut-and-thrust business bastard that I'm clearly not - I try and help troublemakers sustain their council house tenancies, or I get them evicted - what you did was define a certain point in my life and for that I'm truly grateful.
I wanted to let you know. Far away from where you are now, I think about you. May you be granted with inner, spiritual peace, 47 celestial virgins, a donkey, a crown and a tankard overflowing with foamy beer.
Cheers, pal.
-Jon
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