My dog ghost Max is happily satisfying Freddie Mercury in the bedroom, as I escape in spirit only form to the lounge. Sad sack Jack is sitting in the corner, oblivious to the gossip the Knobs are spreading about me. I feel sorry for him, at least slightly. I suddenly materialize next to him. Max must have finished up with Freddie.
“Why are you by yourself?” I ask Jack.
“Oh,” he seems startled. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“At least hang out with Mike. He’s our age.”
“I don’t fit in.”
“I’m moving to Bowie’s castle in Lausanne to be with Mike. Where will you stay now that your folks have left?”
“I guess I’ll go back to the States.”
“You’re giving up? Don’t you want to be in the Boss band and do the Bowie tour of Europe with us?”
“Not if you’re going to be mean to me.”
“You are so warped. Get over being in love with someone who doesn’t even know you. We’re touring every city in Europe plus Istanbul. You can go back to your fancy college with some firsthand experience about other cultures.”
“You want me in the band?”
“You’re impossible. I want to play guitar with you, but not if you are some love-sick drip.”
“Let’s check with Mike. He needs to approve you as well.”
“Do Amar and Emile need to like me, too?”
“They’re fifteen. They have no opinions.”
We go to the detached studio where Billy and Bowie are still playing guitar together. Casper is nowhere to be seen or felt, having taught playing from the heart to the two rockers
“You’re still playing.” I note.
“It’s the first time I’ve been able to feel the music and have the guitar sound like what I feel.” Bowie gushes.
“I’ll have to up my game if we duel the Ziggy songs on stage.”
“I’ll cut you some slack, so I do not sound better than you.”
“Don’t handicap yourself.”
We both smile. I change the subject.
“I want Jack to come stay with Mike and us. He’s in the Boss Band.”
“You’ve made up? I don’t want you passing out again.”
“Have no fear, Ziggy’s here.”
“With Ziggy #1’s drug habits?”
“No. Being a space alien junkie is not attractive.”
“What about Jack, any bad habits?”
“I have no idea, but I bet he will fall into your bed with a little encouragement.”
“You are pawning off ex-lovers?”
“You may be his only hope for love at the Bowie Castle.”
“It’s only rented and Duncan may be shocked to find him in my bed.”
“Duncan will adapt.”
Everything is arranged; I pack up my few belongings. We take off in the Aston Martin, all five of us, with Duncan sitting in his dad’s lap and steering the sports car.
“Faster, Dad, faster,” he demands as we take the winding road to Lausanne.
“When do I get to drive again?” I ask.
“Never. You’re a crazy teenager.”
“No longer. I just turned 20.”
“Well, get your license. I’ll consider it.”
Duncan turns around and yells “hah,” at me. We start to go off the road. Bowie takes over.
“Keep your eye on the road, sonny.”
Somehow, we make it home. I miss the Lake House’s Jim, with his unexpected treats just when teens need then. Then I remember I am no longer a teen. Do I need to watch my weight now?
The Turkish musicians are on the patio, hitting the hookah, much like the Knobs. I have been playing with them for several weeks. Though they are friendly, I have not made the effort to get to know them.
“Were you a separate band before Bowie recruited you for his new album?”
“You mean ‘Lodger’?”
“Is that the name of your band?” I am clueless.
“No. It’s David’s name for the next album. We call ourselves ‘Krautrock.’
“That’s ironic, since you’re all Turkish.”
“Don’t tell anyone. We’ve lived in Germany for five year.”
“Were you a band in Turkey?”
“Yeah. We were called Yardım then.”
“What does that mean?”
“A Beatles ripoff band?”
“That was our secret for success.”
We all laugh. They invite us (except Duncan) to hit the hookah. I am instantly high and become paranoid that I will relapse.
Mike sees my eyes twirling and takes me for a walk. Jack tags along, my bad luck charm.
“Don’t say anything,” Mike tells Jack “Laz just needs to come down a bit.”
“How do you know for sure?” Jack asks.
“I have four older brothers who are all pot heads.”
“David will fire me if I become addicted,” I find my voice.
“You can’t get addicted to pot,” Mike reassures me, putting his arm around my shoulder.
We explore the Castle. It is like a grand hotel with only residents and no obnoxious paying guests.
Mike leads us to the basement studio. We all grab guitars and create discordant hard rock guitar anthems. We are not Jimi Hendrix.
For once Jack takes the lead and plays us one of his own songs. It is like a Gregorian Chant, slow and ponderous.
I listen to his guitar and mimic the notes but at twice the tempo. Mike starts yodeling. We are really terrible.
“You ruined my song,” Jack complains.
“It couldn’t get any worse,” Mike argues.
Mike starts dancing to his own music. I play a rhythm that matches his moonwalking dance. Jack does a counterpoint to emphasize when Mike changes direction. Jack and he moonwalk together. My feeble dance efforts draw their disdain. Mike stops and pushes my hips to the beat that Jack repeats. His instruction helps. Soon all three of us are playing a doubletime version of Jack’s Gregorian chant while we line dance the moonwalk together.
“White boys got rhythm, for once.”
“I need you to start me up, so I catch the rhythm.”
We rock the Stones old hit, dancing around each other. I slide the Keith Richard leads, failing to get the sound exactly right. Jack goes to the sound board and suddenly we actually sound like the Stones.
“How did you create that sound?”
“I ran the leads through low powered twin capacitors and added a fuzz box,” Jack explains.
“Who taught you that?” Mike asks.
“Can I tell him my secret?” Jack asks me.
“As long as it doesn’t involve me,” I loosen his leash a little.
“Casper taught me. He’s a ghost.”
“I call him Spirity. Like the spirit of rock and roll .” I know Casper from my past.
“The one who taught the Knobs to play?” Mike knows.
Jack keeps quiet. I realize there is much more to the story. I dare not go there.
“Let’s get Krautrock in here and introduce them to Casper,” I suggest.
We rush back up to the ground floor patio where the Turks are in varying degrees of passed out. Bowie left to put Duncan to bed. Our pleas to hit the studio are dismissed out of hand. Too wasted. They pass the hookah and we join them.
Mike shows me where he stays and finds a room for Jack, who looks disappointed.
I tell him, ‘We don’t want to worry about your homo tendencies while we’re asleep.”
He turns bright red and looks forlorn.
Lying in bed together we discuss the change of scenery.
“No more sleeping on the couch in the lounge,” I reflect on the room upgrade.
“It feels like the Dorchester in London.”
We sing ‘Life in the Fast Lane’, how American.
We wake up keeping each other warm, with all the covers on the floor.
Usually, I am awake earlier than Mike, I look over and see tears running down his cheeks.
“What’s wrong, moonwalker?”
“Nothing is wrong, snowflake. It makes me sad that nothing lasts forever.”
“I’ll always be your best friend,” I move over and hug him.
“Things are already changing. I can never have girlfriends like you. Jack and you have all this music bubbling up. You even share Spirity, the ghost.”
“Casper is his name, the friendly ghost.”
“Will friends be enough when we grow up? I feel so lonely sometimes.”
“What your dad did to you is criminal, but you can be married, adopt kids if you want. We’ll be old and gray and still be best friends. Don’t write me off. I’m probably gay and just don’t know it. I know we love each other.”
“But will it last?”
“Did you take a downer pill?”
“Maybe it was the hookah last night?”
“Let’s go find croissants and coffee, the French Super Food.”
No one is up and about. We scour the kitchen and pantry – no croissants! Off we run to find a patisserie.
We return with a dozen croissants to find Bowie anxious to leave for swim lessons. It is a fair distance to Montreux in morning traffic. Mike and I crowd into the back of the Aston Martin so Duncan can sit up front. Croissant crumbs litter the sports car. We are halfway to Montreux before I realize we left Jack behind.
“You snooze, you lose,” Duncan crows.
Duncan runs off to be with his friends. Mike and I join Bowie under the Willow tree for guitar lessons. David is hyped to pass along Casper’s playing from the heart technique. Soon Casper shows up and helps the kids become more confident about their fingering. The kids all achieve breakthroughs they never thought possible. Bowie is lauded for his great teaching technique. Many kids express an interest in forming their own bands.
“Let’s go swim with the dolphins,” I suggest, “who are already playing with the learners in the shallow water,” The kids run down to the Lake’s edge singing the favorite lyric from Bowie’s ‘Heroes.’
I, I wish I could swim
Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim
Though nothing, nothing will keep us together
We can beat them forever and ever
Oh, we can be heroes, just for one day’
The dolphins respond by flipping out of the water and tickling the learners. It is a day like no other for swim lessons.
Suddenly the dolphins’ mood changes. They leave the shallows and head out into the Lake. I see a large black dorsal fin swimming silently by itself.
Enter the Black Dolphin.
I strip to my swim suit and swim after the dolphins. ‘Click click click click,,’ I send my message for the dolphins to bring me out to confront the aggressive male. Two of the larger ones return. I quickly am riding to confront White D’s nemesis. Black D attacks the first dolphin to confront him. I am still too far away to help the smaller defender who quickly is dispatched by the larger enemy. I stand on the dolphins backs
and we rush to attack Black D. It menacingly flips into the air as I approach. Before it can land back into the Lake, I fly off the dolphins backs to tackle it and bring it down. I have it by the dorsal fin and an arm under its mouth. Black D thrashes, but I hold on. Diving deep underwater it continues trying to shake my grip. I hold my breath, refusing to let go. Casper and Max suddenly appear underwater, asking if I am about to die again. I refuse to let go. Max grabs Black D’s tail and bites it as hard as possible. It shrieks and shakes me violently off its back. I surface and take a deep breath. The pod dolphins rush to protect me. It is unnecessary. We watch Black D swim limply away. The dolphins are able to feel Max and swim around him, rubbing against all his favorite spots. Casper is floating above the scene. He and Max fly after Black D who dives into the deep and escapes. I float quietly to calm my breathing. Soon the dolphins return me to shore. Everyone gathers around Bowie’s Willow tree as I relate my exploits and battle with Black D.
“Will it attack White D?” the kids worry.
“I won’t let that happen,” I brag.
The kids learning guitar from Bowie and Casper instantly create a song to warn Black D to ‘fuck off.’
Nazi punks, fuck off!
Nazi punks, fuck off!
If you’ve come to fight, get outta here
When you ape the cops it ain’t anarchy
Nazi punks, fuck off!
Nazi punks, fuck off
You still think swastikas look cool
The real Nazis run your schools
They’re coaches, businessmen and cops
In a real fourth Reich you’ll be the first to go
Nazi punks, fuck off!
Nazi punks, fuck off!
You’ll be the first to go
You’ll be the first to go
You’ll be the first to go
Unless you think
Songwriters: Jello Biafra
Nazi Punks Fuck Off lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
I like the energy, but the politics may be questionable. The kids are thrashing around and fake punching each other. Our friendly gendarme rushes over; we calm everyone down. We won the battle with Black D; no sense pissing off the authorities. They are clueless about what has us so excited and violent.
“Les adolescents sont trop excites. La musique est un exutoire pour leurs sentiments,’ I explain.
“Bien sûr, mais gardez-les sous contrôle.”
He waits until we start to leave, giving me a thumbs up.
Walking to the Lake House, I notice that Duncan has been thoroughly thrashed, with grass marks all over his clothes and on his head.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“Fuck off,” is his answer. David looks pained but says nothing. Youth will out.
Jim has prepared lunch. The youth get greasy hamburgers and pommes frits while David has a more sophisticated meal of ground steak, Swiss Cheese and onion on a sesame seed roll with potato salad on the side. He sits on the pool deck with us as I regal everyone with a description of my battle with Black D. My heroics are cheered.
“You defended your lady’s honor,” Bowie remarks
“Max was defending me when I ran out of air under water.
Max barks when I describe how he attacked the dolphin. Several kids look all around, sure they can hear my brave dog.
After lunch I call Henri at the Casino about Siouxsie and the band playing in Saturday’s show. He indicates they had agreed to play. Since he sent travel expenses he has heard nothing. I place a call to Siouxsie in London. She has a phone in the hall of her Bed/Sit in the West End.
“Siouxsie Sioux, Siouxsie Sioux. Call from Switzerland. Call from Switzerland,” I hear the person who picked up yell for my sweetheart (I wish).
It takes a few minutes for her to come to the phone.
“What’s up?” is her drowsy response. I can tell I woke her up. It is 2pm in London.
“Do I need to come there to rescue you from the dope fiends?” I threaten.
“Naw. I’m doin’ alright.”
“Well enough to make the show Saturday night?” I ask. “We got all kinds of tricks and ploys to make it magical. My girlfriend White D is going to put on a show at the harbor.”
“Girlfriend? You have a girlfriend? We’re breaking up?” she wakes up. “White D? Is she a rapper?”
“You snooze. You lose.”
“You still want me to play. I ain’t going nowhere if you just ignore me.”
“Don’t pout. You’re my real girlfriend,” I reassure her. “Henri says he sent the travel money. He wants to book the flights.”
“Just like you said, the guys spent the cash on dope and are locked up in an opium den. They can’t travel. They’ll be busted.”
“Aw, man. We had it all planned that both bands will alternate playing while Bowie sings Starman. Don’t worry about the money. You can stay here at Bowie’s.”
She starts crying. It is her dream to play with Bowie.
“You got to come anyway. We’ll take care of you. Leave when you can. Are you jonesing?”
“Kinda. I had to leave them by themselves.”
“Let me get David. He can hook you up with methadone in London.”
“Of course. He cares, too. He wants to play with you, band or not. Hang on.”
I leave her hanging on the phone
David comes on the other line.
“What’s up, sweetness? When are you getting here?”
All she can do is gulp, overwhelmed that her idol is speaking to her.
“She needs your help, David, with dope sickness. Can your doctor in London get her methadone?” I interject.
“What about the rest of your band?”
I am about to say to forget those losers, but she asks David to help them too.
“Do they really want help? You can’t make them get off the dope unless they really want to.”
She gulps and answers, “Yes I can. We’ll do anything to play with you.”
“Take down this information and my doctor with set you up,” He tells her where to go.
“Call back when you’re ready. I’ll have Henri book the flight to get you here tonight,” I complete the plan.
“Thanks, guys. I love you.”
We both answer, unsure whom she meant or if it is both of us.
After the call Bowie calls a meeting for Mike and me. Amar and Emile do not usually come to the Lake House after swim lessons.
“We need to arrange three bands, not including Queen, playing together, onstage together as three separate acts, not just a jumble,” David states.
I see how it can turn into a mess, confusing and uncoordinated.
The big entrance will be Bowie singing ‘Starman.’’ I suggest. “Then the three times you sing ‘Let the children boogie,’ first the Boss band will do ‘You’re not Boss of me”, then The Banshees will do ‘Hong Kong Garden’, and finally both bands together will back Siouxsie on ‘The Lord’s Prayer.’
“What?” David is astounded. “We can’t do a prayer. I’m an atheist.”
“You have to hear it. She riffs off the prayer. We’re all Catholic.”
“I’m Baptist,” Mike informs me, “but we know how to do gospel.”
“This is going off the rails already,” Bowie notes. “Do I have to become Catholic again?”
“You could be Muslim?” I note.
“Oh, okay, Catholic. Its au courant to come back to the Church.”
Bowie shakes his head. Maybe he is trying too hard to be young. Anyway, we all laugh.
“I need an entrance, like we did in London.”
“No flying on wires outdoors,” I note. “How about the stage crew build you a set of black stairs so you are above us and can be moved around the stage?”
“Deus ex machina?”
“We’re speaking Latin now?”
“When in Rome…”
Everyone agrees. We decide that Bowie will start the show, come back before Queen plays, and close the show with ‘Heroes as well as several versions of ‘Yassassin.’
Henri is not pleased the stage crew must make the changes. We trust his Swiss make-it-happen attitude will succeed.
It all works out and we are at the Geneva Airport at 10 pm to pick up Siouxsie and the band after their flight from London. They all look worse for wear. No luggage. No equipment. Just junkies on the run.
French Customs can spot degenerates; quickly the whole group is whisked off for secondary inspection. Henri immediately explains that the drugs in their possession (methadone) are legally prescribed. It is not his first rodeo with rock bands.
Mike and I run up and hug our favorite punk gal. She rushes up and hugs Bowie, her true infatuation. We will always be lesser lights.
“The boys need to get to the hotel,” she informs us. They look ready to fold up and go home.
“The hotel is in Montreux, so we will all be near each other,” Henri announces. He omits that he will be able to keep them under a watchful eye.
I whisper to Siouxsie, “You can stay with us at Bowie’s.”
She shakes her head.
“The band thinks you tried to sabotage their gig to get me here by myself to go solo.”
“Aren’t they smart,” Mike admits. “But we want you to stay with us at Bowie’s”
That gets her thinking. We will work it all out. It is Wednesday night, three days until the show.
We all end up staying the night in Siouxsie’s hotel room. We are a bit shocked to see how much she needs her methadone shot after the flight from London. Once fixed, she relaxes and wants to know all about ‘this White D girl.’ Mike plays up the Black rapper persona, not an actual white dolphin.
“Laz had a big battle with his rival Black D this morning. They fought at the Lake in Montreux in front of Bowie and all the swim kids. Black D was trying to rape her.
“Rappers are so misogynistic,” Siouxsie observes. “How did Laz fend him off?”
“Max, Laz’s Black Lab, bit the attacker on the butt. The rapist ran off with his tail tucked under him.
“She must really love you now, Laz.”
“It’s mutual. Just like you and me.”
“You stick with your gangsta lady. I ain’t sharing with anyone.”
“We ain’t just friends, I know that,” I argue.
Mike steps in, “We’ll all be at the Lake tomorrow morning. I gotta see how Laz handles two girlfriends at once.”
“I ain’t no one’s girlfriend. London was a one off.”
“Do I have rivals there?” I ask.
“I ain’t playin’ your games, boy. And, I donna need no one ta defend me.”
“Y’all sound like a African,” Mike looks for an ally.
“My mum’s Rhodesian.”
“Whooee, we’s all related.”
We leave it at that and decide to show Siouxsie the lights of Montreux. After a tour of the Casino (where we had played) and the low lives hanging about Taboo, we make it to the Lakefront where we sit under the Bowie Willow tree.
“Here is where David teaches guitar to the local kids. We’ll all be here in the morning.”
She shakes her head in disbelief.
To prove our point, several boys run up to find out what we are doing at the lake after dark.
“Hoping to see your girlfriend, White D,” one boys busts me in front of Siouxsie.
“And why you boys here?” Mike asks, “or, shouldn’t I ask.”
“Why would you two care,” they are defiant. “Who’s the lady?”
“This is Siouxsie who I met in London. She’s singing with our band on Saturday night in Geneve.”
“Can you get us in?”
“It’s outdoors a La Grange. You have to sneak in.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Who’s your girlfriend’s band?”
“We’re the Banshees,” Siouxsie answers for herself.
“I know them. You’re Suzie Sue.”
“How come you know so many stars, Laz? Are you a drug dealer?” a kid asks.
“Yeah. Drug dealer to the stars?”
I get the sense from their comments that drug dealing may be their reason for being out at night. Time to beat a hasty retreat.
“See you guys tomorrow for swimming.”
“Will Bowie be here?”
“He usually comes.”
“More star ass kissing.”
We walk away.
“Looking to score?” Siouxsie asks.
“No. And we’re spending the night; You and your boys are not returning here.”
“Ah. You’re no fun.”
All three of us holding hands, we skip singing back to the hotel where Siouxsie’s room has a large Queen-size bed. We all flop on top and scoot to the head of the bed.
“Ain’t we just cozy,” Siouxsie remarks as Mike and I lay on either side of her.
“Confession time,” she decides. “Who wants to confess to Sister Siouxsie?”
“I have no memories, so I can’t confess anything,” I claim innocence.
“What about having sex with Someone 12 years older than you?”
“Who told you that?”
“Freddie. In London he said you are a sex machine.”
“He doesn’t count. I have a surrogate who takes my place when he wants me that way.”
“Freddie doesn’t notice? Does he keep his eyes shut?”
“It’s complicated. Just believe that I dissociate and float above them while they’re doing it.”
“So, your body is doing it, while you watch?” she is a sharp interrogator.
“Max takes over and is doing it. I don’t watch, just wait until it’s done.”
“Max? The dog who bit the dolphin?”
“Yeah. He’s a great defender.”
“And Freddie doesn’t know you switch. Do they do it doggy style?”
We all start giggling and finally cannot stop rolling around the bed together.”
“Your sins are forgiven,” she blesses me. “Max is going to hell, though.”
“Any other new memories?” she asks. “If not, now it is Mike’s turn to confess all.”
“I’m in love with Diana Ross.”
“Whoa, she’s fifteen years older than you. You boys have mommy and daddy issues.”
“You are crushing on Bowie,” I accuse her.
“More of an infatuation.”
“That makes you fatuous,” Mike jokes.
“I’m neither silly nor foolish about him,” She denies her obsession. “Yanks have no respect for the Queen’s English. Bowie’s my hero. When no one understood me, I knew he would.”
“No other sins you may regret?” I ask.
“I let Sid Vicious fuck me.”
“That’s gross,” is Mike’s first reaction.
“How’d that happen? I need to know.”
“Ya do, do ya?” she laughs. “He was the first drummer for the band. We got carried away after our first show.”
“Was he a vicious fuck? Did you become transported to Viciousland?”
“It was horrid. I did all the work and then he told everyone so he could look like a stud.”
“A stud junkie,” I laugh.
“In my limited experience junk and sex are incompatible.” Siouxsie philosophizes.
“Let’s make a pact,” I suggest. “No sex while we sleep together.”
We all laugh and roll over. I learn that girls also snore.
I am up early and run to get fresh croissants. We all sit around with large cups of coffee and charge up on the French superfood. Duncan insists he have coffee. He has a total meltdown and has to ride in the back of the Aston Martin with us, while Siouxsie rides in the passenger seat. Jack runs out just in time to crowd in with us in the back.
“You need a bigger car,” I tell David.
“So much for being cool,” he responds.
At Freddie’s, I ask if everyone has swim suits. Jack claims he can swim in his briefs.
“Those funky briefs will get soggy and look like you left a load in the back,” Mike claims. More derision for the rich American.
Siouxsie claims she doesn’t swim.
“I thought you wanted to meet White D?”
“I don’t need to get wet to meet some skank,” she mistakenly claims.
“Well, that’s where we get together.”
“I’ll watch from shore.”
“I won’t have you spying on us. I want you two to get along.”
Freddie tells her to come pick out one of Mary’s bathing suits.”
“Oh, we’re going bathing, are we?”
With all these interruptions, we are tardy getting to swim lessons. The kids let out a cheer when we arrive. They all want to meet Siouxsie. The kids from last night at the Lake gossiped. I look out but am unable to see the dolphins.
David organizes the music lesson so the kids will accompany him as he sings ‘Heroes’ by the Lake. We all march to the wall above the Lake with Siouxsie holding my hand. The kids are playing acoustic guitar and backing up Bowie on vocals
The acoustic version has a long intro. Siouxsie and I are in the water up to our knees when we see the dolphins swimming in our direction. They are flipping into the air and surrounding their queen, White D.
When Bowie sings,’And you, you will be my queen,’ White D flips high into the air.
“She’s beautiful,” Siouxsie gasps, pulling me deeper into the lake. We swim together and White D approaches cautiously, swimming circles around us, coming close enough to nuzzle me and letting Siouxsie stroke her back. We both clasp her dorsal fin, and she pulls us rapidly away from the shore. The pod becomes a circle as we float, still clasping White D. The other dolphins put on a show for us. They flip and dive deeply. Several come next to us, brushing us and letting us stroke them.
“Still jealous?” I ask Siouxsie.
“You rat. She’s a fish, not a gangster rapper.”
“That was your imagination. Dolphins are mammals, like us. She loves me like Max, my dog, loves me. Unconditional true devotion.”
“You are so conceited, a complete misogynist,” she complains. “I love it.”
She kisses me, like we did before.
Four dolphins appear and push us from behind. We sit between their heads and hold hands. They push us to shore with White D flipping and spinning ahead of us. The kids run out to greet us and start cavorting with the pod. Bowie is still standing on the seawall, grinning at the exuberance. Siouxsie climbs up the wall to be with him.
“I’ve never believed in magic but how can this be anything other than that?” she states.
“Laz has certainly added magic since he was revived,” Bowie blames me. “You know, he was brain dead before coming here. Dr Jacques brought him back to life, claiming Lake Geneva water is magical.”
“He told me you have misgivings about my song ‘The Lord’s Prayer,” she confronts him. “Surely this magic will convince you that prayers can be answered.”
“Now you want me in Church?”
“Can’t hurt to be open minded.”
“Bob Dylan is a reborn Christian, and he’s Jewish.”
“Come to rehearsal this afternoon. Laz has his own take on my ‘Lord’s Prayer.’”
“I’m up for anything right now.”
“All praise White D.”