“Hey.” Aw, no. No. Not talking to you, Woody Hayes. “Not him. Me.” I’m quite certain I haven’t been introduced to the backing band. “Not the band.” … Please don’t say– “It’s me, Red Metal Chair.” –that you’re Red…motherfucker. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen my cousin.” Red Metal Stool? No, not for a while. Bobby can … Continue reading In His Summer Home