There Goes A Well-Known Gun    

It’s a fantasy I may have had in my younger years - I’m sitting in a room with Wreckless Eric and Steve Jones from the Sex Pistols.  What girl wouldn’t be thrilled? English rockers, architects (builders?) of some of the best records ever.  Potentially dangerous. The things they know!  The heights and the depths they’ve scaled and plummeted, secrets few of us can imagine. 

It’s real life, it’s happening.

And they’re talking about the weather.  And what kind of hairspray Margaret Thatcher uses.  And a sad little store in England called Millets.

I drift off for a minute, bored into a stupor.  Wake up, they’re still going on about Millets.  Then they talk about the topstitching on jeans, and the weather again.

I’d heard about how great this Steve Jones radio show, Jonesy’s Jukebox, was. And popular?   I don’t think I was expecting John Peel, or Teri Gross, or even Joe Franklin.  But this is absurd. The only music he plays in the entire hour is the soundtrack from old test patterns they used to show on television.  He and Eric talk over this for a while, the atmosphere becoming even more soporific. This man is so the opposite of dynamic, he’s possibly a zen master.  Hold on, I think I’ve been in L.A. too long.  And it’s only been a day.