Go ask Elric

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Up From the Skies was rattling the windows. Sammy never played Hendrix at less than concert volume, no matter the hour, whether his parents were home or not. It was one of the things Pogo admired about him.

“Church,” Sammy said, and took another hit on the bong. He puffed out his cheeks like a trumpet player, trying to hold in a cough.

“Yeah. Man was God,” Pogo said, nodding. “Is God.” He started to reach for the bong, but decided that too much dope would interfere with the rush when the acid hit.

“You know he’d hate it now,” Sammy said. “All this shit. Gerald Ford. Hardly any acid. Disco.” He waved his hand in a loose'wristed gesture that summed up and dismissed the entire decade of the Seventies to this halfway point. “He’d be bummed.”

“Fuckin’ A.” Pogo flopped back into the beanbag chair and contemplated the decor of Sammy’s room. Roger Dean album covers, an M.C. Escher drawing with self-absorbing chameleons, and three different portraits of Jimi Hendrix were thumbtacked to the walls. The walls behind the pictures and all of the ceiling had been painted black and covered with whirlpools of white stars — the artistic end'product of a weekend’s speedathon. The northwest'Corner stars were little more than blobs. Sunday afternoon, Pogo remembered, when they started to come down.

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