fame is making it.
showing in some fancy gallery.
i left the burbs for my chicago opening.
faced rush hour traffic
with ten-shots of booze in my plastic go cup.
pour it on shaved ice...yum.
sort of like a slurpy for alcoholics.
i lit a joint at the ohio st. exit.
i arrived at the gallery...
red-eyed, stumbling, boisterous, fun loving, blah.
i brought in a crumpled brown bag
with a new jug of booze.
these galleries served cheap wine
tasting like vinegar.
so much for taking care of wealthy clients.
the food was shit, too.
finger foods and sushi.
i watched the penguins in tuxedos...walk in with trophy wives.
how do these dweebs get the pretty wives?
It was bullshit 'til my friend Charlie L. arrived.
He cracked his toothless grin.
His black face beamed at me.
"Hiya, Richie, he yelled."
They wanted to throw him out.
guess they thought he was a homeless person
so i interceded for him.
why did i start using caps?
charlie was one of chicago's great artists.
he was loaded with talent, and always loaded.
he never made the big time...still hasn't.
life ain't fair.
if it wasn't for him, i would have died of boredom, that night.
we pulled from that old whiskey bottle and laughed ourselves sober.
i ended up selling a lot of work.
i didn't insult too many people, either!
the gallery owners were happy, so they allowed my bad behavior.
charlie said, "you're gonna' be famous, homey."
i said, "big fucking deal."