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This is a tale that coulda prolly happened. Somewhere in the late '60s, it's a tale where the beatnik met the hippie...
With his tight leather pants and a swagger to embarrass Mae West on a bad night, the Lizard King entered the Waldorf elevator and saw Jack, one of his literary idols.
"Hey man, you're Jack Kerouac..." the shaman-like guy asked, mellow and low.
Thift shop chic and effortlessly handsome, Jack was in the Big Apple to deliver his latest manuscript and answered,"That's my name..."
"I read everything you ever wrote -- the name is Jim," his fan said. "I'm in town with my band called The Doors."
As he watched the greasy hippie walk off to his room, Kerouac thought, "I work my whole fuckin' life, hitchhike across the country and they call this fucking guy a poet..."
