by Rod Drake
The old radiator in the corner of my Village apartment knows things, has great stories stored in its rusty pipes but refuses to say a word. Bob Dylan lived in this apartment in the 1960s, wrote some of his songs here, jammed electric with the Byrds, argued art and politics with Andy Warhol and Lenny Bruce, smoked dope with the Beatles, probably slept with some sweet-faced groupies and generally "turned on, tuned in and dropped out." And the radiator saw it, hear it all, like a fly on the wall (or in this case, a radiator in the corner). But will the radiator tell me anything, regale me with stories of these psychedelic glory days, about the leader of it all holding court, right here in this apartment? No. The radiator hums and steams in the winter, but it never utters a single word, just stands there silent and knowing.
Rod Drake is hiding out in Las Vegas behind sunglasses, a white jumpsuit and an Elvis wig. (Thank you, thank you, very much.)