Two slightly tipsy, elderly men emerged from club Groove on West 3rd street, heading toward 6th avenue. The first paused to admire the mural painted on the club's facade.
"Damn! They got ALL the motherfuckers up in here," he said. He stopped his friend by grabbing his shirtsleeve. His friend weaved, righted himself, "What?"
"Check this shit OUT! They got all the motherfuckers...Dizzy, Miles..."
"B.B. King."
"B.B. motherfucking King. They got all of em."
The second man weaved again, and steadied himself by hanging on to his friend's shoulder. He pointed at more faces, "Damn! Ella, Sarah...whose this dude? Some actor?"
"Awwww man, don't tell me you don't know that dude, he's one of the Beatles. That's um, Paul or Ringo or one of them."
"Beatles?... up there with Dizzy? What do them skinny white mo'fuckers know about shit?"
The first man looked shocked. "I'll tell you what, those skinny mo'fuckers could write some songs." His friend waved him off with disgust. "Listen, those mo'fuckers could write a song...stick in your head and shit. Whatever you say, those ugly English mo'fuckers changed the WORLD."
"You're drunk man; crazy." He started to walk away, mumbling to himself, "talkin' bout some punk-ass white boys changin' the world and shit...stole every mo'fuckin note from the black man..." His friend followed, singing.
"Say you don't need no diamond rings, and I'll be satisfied..."
"Aww shit, you a fuckin' crazy mo'fucker..."
"tell me that you want the kinda things that money just can't buy..."
"up there with Dizzy...Dizzy be rollin' in his grave"
"I don't care too much for money, cuz money can't buy me love...can't buy me LAAAAAAAA OVE!"
"Don't be singin' that shit to me..."
"Everybody tell's me so..."
"I don't see no picture of Little Richard up there. Ask Little Richard how he feels about the mo'fucking Beatles."
"Can't buy me LAAAAAAA-OVE! No, no no, noooooooooo!