Blues for Zoey Read Online Free PDF

Mizra had been t rying to bring her back ever since.
    Of all the things that were interesting and eccentric about Dave Mizra, the oddest thing about him wasn’t his clothes, his car, his p retensions of being an artist, or his crazy idea that Evandale was a paradise. No, the most surprising thing about Dave Mizra was his deep, abiding, seemingly bottomless love of se venties punk rock and glam. Seriously.
    Everything I knew about the Ramones, the Clash, David Bowie, Slade, Iggy Pop, Patti Smith, T. R ex, the Jim Carroll Band, and so many others, I had learned, improbably, from Da ve Mizra. In order to educate me musically, he was always bringing over CDs from his cherished personal collection.
    â€œI have brought you something special today,” he said now, obviously trying to shift the topic from whatever had distracted him outside. He slid a CD jewel case out of his man-purse and clapped it between his hands, holding it like he was praying. “I think you are finally ready for this.”
    â€œWho is it this time?” I reached out for his hands, but he pulled away.
    â€œHow do I know you are ready?”
    â€œIt would help if I knew what I was supposed to be ready for.”
    He nodded as if my wisdom had impressed him. “Of course. There is no way to prepare.”
    He opened his hands and rev ealed a CD. The plastic case was scratched and worn, but the cover was clear enough. It was a white square printed with something like a Rorschach test, one of those random ink blots a psychiatrist uses to r eveal whether you want to have sex with your auntie or just torture rodents.
    The blot itself resembled a spider, ex cept each of the eight legs weren’t hairy or insect-like. Instead, each one was the bare leg of a woman, complete with eight pointy stilettos. Sprouting from the legs was not one but two naked torsos. What you ended up with was the silhouette of a twin-stripper-slash-eight-legged beast. In heels.
    The only words we re at the top, printed in a tiny font like something clanked out of a broken typewriter:
    Shain Cope
Freu dian Slap
    â€œKaz-o-matic 3000, it is my pleasure to introduce you to the genius of Mr. Shain Cope.”
    â€œ Who? ”
    Unlike the other CDs that had come to me via Dave Mizra—all of which had rung vague bells somewhe re in the back of my head—I was certain I had never heard of Shain Cope before.
    â€œâ€˜ Who ,’ he says!” Da ve Mizra was clearly disgusted. “In every age, there is a—what do you call it? A maverick. But in those days— oh ! Everyone was a maverick! That’s what made Shain Cope special. Here you have the maverick of the mavericks .” He leaned over his pile of shirts and pressed the CD into my hand with both of his. (Dave Mizra is the so rt of guy who’ll never, never, never discover d ownloads. He’s too much of an old-school fetishist for the tattered little booklets that come with CDs.)
    I did what I always do when he brings me new music. I turned it over and read the names of the songs, not that the name tells you much.
    â€œâ€˜Colt’s- Tooth Blues,’” I said. It was the first song on the album. I liked how the consonants bumped rhythmically over my lips. The words kind of forced y ou to hold the vowels a bit longer, almost as if you were singing. So maybe I was wrong. Maybe y ou could tell something about a song just from its name.
    â€œ Yes ! A classic!” Dave Mizra hummed a bar from a tune I almost recogniz ed. “Do you know this? You must ha ve heard it!” It was the same incredulous question he asked every time he came over with a CD.
    I flipped it over again, e yeing the lurid ink blot. Just as I did, Mr. Rodolfo pounded up from the basement. I hadn’t even known he was down there.
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” he asked , looking over my shoulder at the C D case. Before I could answer, he reached over and plucked it out of my hands. After