Yes, folks, it’s Colonel Bull Lee’s birthday. Celebrate him. I remember when Tuxedomoon was ushered into his august presence, back in 1979 in New York City. Winston and Bruce had already made his acquaintance, having brought him a box of Godiva shotgun shell chocolates, which he loved. They arranged through James Grauerholz, his secretary, for us to meet him. James came over to 217 Bowery, home of Ira Abramowitz, our New York headquarters, equipped with a tape recorder. He set it up and began to interview us, I suppose to screen us for idiocy. We passed the audition, so an audience was arranged for the following day.

Oh, be still my beating heart, we were ushered into The Bunker, his New York apartment in a converted YMCA locker room and sat around a table with William Seward Burroughs, our beat hero, our language is a virus, Doctor Benway Naked Lunch junkie guru. He served us tea and offered us a joint. We chatted most amiably about the ancient Mayans. He told me he remembered a poem I had given him when he had come to speak in Boulder Colorado in 1975 at Naropa Institute. Oh lordy lordy lordy me! Burroughs had read and remembered one of my things! Oh frabjous day!

We saw Burroughs once again when we played together at Paradiso in 1981 for the “One World Poetry Festival”. We shared a dressing room. We were his support group. He went out and read his Doctor Benway bit and that was that. What a gas.

Happy Birthday, uncle Bill, too bad you ain’t around to see the shape of things today. In a way, I guess you saw it first.

Burroughs film