We've pulled up at a Stuckey's somewhere along Texas' miles and miles of highways, and after everyone has chowed down their shakes and hot dogs, the Ramones break ranks to check the place out. Sitting at a table and chain-smoking along with Tommy (cigarettes are taboo in the Ramonesmobile, which has taken the lads to just about every nook and cranny of the continent on this, this first real cross country tour of the U.S.), I can tell just by the looks emanating from the faces of everyone in the joint, from employees to customers, that even though none of them have any idea who these leather-jacketed, t-shirted, jeaned and sneakered weirdos are, it's certainly the highlight of their day.

Joey seems to be drawing the majority of the incredulous stares, so I glance over to where he's rummaging through the souvenir rabbit furs. His "How did I ever get into this?" elongated body is drooped over the gift display, and from underneath his much too short jacket, his much too short t-shirt (turned inside out for maximum duty) is barely visible, leaving a good six inches of lower back out there greeting the furrowed eyebrows of the Chicano woman who's trying to coax her little baby into one more bite of her chili burger. Joey's jeans have pretty much disintegrated, especially around the knees, and comin' through the threads is a view of some rather nasty pink and red bruises covered somewhat by the kind of Band-Aids you used to show off to your pals after a heavy afternoon on the swings, slides and monkey bars— not only dirty but also a, little wet, so's you could ooze a little grime through the vents in the bandage area by pressing down slightly.