King of the Hill, or How I Was Shot
In any small county town there is an eatery with a couple of microphones and a name like “Alevtina”, “Hummingbird” or “Maracas”. In any such cafe there is a forty-year-old hipan, a local celebrity and a rock star, who is proud that he drank with BG in 1993, and he, of course, invited him to perform together, but business, business, business - I had to refuse. Such a John or Beard always calls his establishment an art club. I was in Porkhov once.