To Maynard G. Krebs, who was, like, a real human being...

This piece flashes me back to Chicago in the waybackwhen...

See, when I was a kid, I hung out with some cats who were maybe the last beatniks in captivity.
Smokey basement coffee house.
Poetry recited with accompaniment of upright bass.
Maybe some flute.
Bongo drum.

These guys could just start jamming, no instruments at all.
Just scat-singing.
And really get cooking.

It was an awe-inspiring thing to behold.

Kind of like this.

I hope you dig it.


sj