My name is joey joey

 


My name is joey joey


This one has rather sad genesis but it involves a larger story of experiencing the tragedies of urban living in a big city.  Back in our younger years we ventured all over the city and stayed up late trying to squeeze some fun out of our hum drum lives. There was lots of pot smoking and a little drinking as beer or wine were more or less just a whistle-whetters for cotton mouth. As mentioned before the weed induced munchies were a common occurrence and sometimes that would drive us into the night in search of gustatory satisfaction. Maybe it was misplaced libido but we stuffed our guts with unhealthy junk food without a care for stomache health or the future. This might include full plates of Mexican food at 2 am, Topps chili burgers after the Oar house or the people's pastries known as donuts in the wee hours. There was a favorite in Greg's neighborhood on La Brea and Pico (maybe Kent would remember) and I swear it was called Toluca Mart but that is not right. They made fresh buttermilk donut bars we called Groat clusters from Firesign Theater records. These beauties were everything a stoner would crave since they were just sugar, grease and a mass of dough. You could stand looking through the greazy window and watch them pulled from the bubbling oil and then point to the rack where they sat still warm. One night on Saturn street we decidcd we had to have them donuts and we drove over with guts grumbling to the market where an unfortunate manic mental patient  was pacing and babbling over and over "my name is Joey...Joey...Joey" While it was not funny to Joey we took it as part of life in the metropolis and sometimes repeated his refrain to express our own confusion at the quiet desperation we experienced.



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