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K.K. Brownrigg

I miss Moondog too. I never got my Viking helmet back.


The helmet is gone forever, I'm afraid. Another thing. The trouble with drawing cartoons on drugs is you lose that tiny monitor in the brain that calculates affect -- as well as the part that regulates intake of Oreo cookies. It's a matter of process, I guess, when you accidentally inhale sevenral herbal jazz cigarettes and weird nighttime avant horn music is playing on the radio and you get out your sketchbook and numbly funble your pen and ink like a ballplayer practicing scrimmage against a line of parked cars. Don't worry. The stuff is out of my system, and I'll soon be back to microfibers and martinis and the modern age. Howl.

Wee-Bone Talker

But I dig what you're laying down here. The inspiration only revs the groove higher. More RPM's, more Crazy Fog, more Voot. Viper mad, baby - all the way downtown. Mop, mop.


Yeah, I'm hip. Tonight I'm smoking some peyote and getting out the watercolors. You know, singing the body electric. Go man, van gogh. All that stuff.

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