Wish your mate was a publisher. Bills come due and I don't have the trust fund or the royalties to fall back on. Always envied the likes of Burroughs and Richards, the Nanker-Phelge of heroin chic, for their access to the bread. But I always had the greater and the better dope, so swings and roundabouts.
Yeah, Burroughs knew how to write. And to play the image. But, mon, what a jackdaw. Tell him your stories in an unguarded, encouraged moment, when you picked up his next novel you'd find they weren't yours any more. Thieving junkies.
Anyway back to the list. Not so much of the old timer, my best years are ahead of me. Mary Shelley. Percy Byshe Shelley. Byron. Denny Laine. Ian Maclagan. Ronnie Wood. Jack Bruce. Eric Clapton. Bert Jansch. Donovan. Jeff Beck. Peter Frampton. Peter Lorre. Bob Dylan. Leonard Cohen. Tim Buckley. Tim Hardin. Kenneth Anger. Truman Capote. Bobby Beausoleil. Herman Goering. Winston Churchill. Lord Buckley. Charlie Parker. Maria Schneider. Phil Kent. David Bowie. Courtesy of Seth Morgan, Janis Joplin. Esther Philips. Mama Cass Elliot. Rambling Jack Elliot. Ezra Pound. Lyndsay Buckingham. Stevie Nicks. Peter Fonda. Lon Chaney. Do I get a prize yet? Mike Nesmith. James Elroy. James Lee Burke, master of the American metaphor. Bessie Smith. Marlene Dietrich. Yoko Ono. Paul Getty. Robert Kennedy, Jnr. Robert Downey Jnr. Peter Lawford. Kate Moss. Chet Atkins, Anais Nin. Thomas Merton. Anita Roddick. Art Pepper. Pete Brown. Ginger Baker. Blind Willie McTell. Charley Patton. Dennis Hopper. Bercholt Brecht. The wife of the guy who invented the hypodermic syringe. Debbie Harry.