Hot sandwiches are hot. That counts, right? I like the ones with the cheese melting. I like the British people in the bars with the machines that crush them. In New Orleans, there is po’ boy, and even in the great land you call Philadelphia there is a special one. You have to eat, right? Why not eat hot sandwiches? Maybe you can get a toasting iron on your boat and grill them while you travel to Sweden or France. If you are one that is eating meat, I will sell you some dead goat meat.
Me. I am schvitzing. Maybe a cold shower would cool me off. Lederhosen are hot, but they are shorts, so it is a little cooler. When I see others walking the streets in lederhosen and carrying the wineskin, I see a friend. Just a “Hey, we are friends” friend. Not a kissy-kissy-naughty-humping-time friend, just a “Hey, we wear the leather overalls shorts” type of “good morning.” Then we make some kind of party.
Fire is really hot. That goes without saying. But also, I am dancing around my home every day to that song that goes “Hey, mama” – you know, that one with the peas. I am draining the wineskin and dancing like a maniac. Don’t get in my way. And my neighbor is yelling, “Get your eagle on, Hornblower!” What’s he talking about?
This story is from the June 24th, 2004 issue of Rolling Stone.