September 27, 2017:
"He's a greasy fat pig," she said, although I could not reckon why. He was always decent and generous with me.
It was that moment post-Beatles-on-Ed-Sullivan when everyone was in a band. This one practiced in their living room with door open and raunch spilling into the common courtyard. It was a two-story yellow apartment building and I was, I think, maybe seven.
In the corrupt hindsight of fallible memory they sound to me like Canned Heat, with Bob Hite in the role of Greasy Fat Pig and garage-y blues rollin' and tumblin' through the doorway. C'mon c'mon let's work together. She'd have hated them even if he weren't a greasy fat pig.