Here’s a double-play for the evening: an early Brent-era gem recommended by Ministry of Information for the Cascadia Liberation Army Mr. Completely: 11/23/79 from San Diego–specifically a set-ending Music Never Stopped>Sugaree that was so powerful that it temporarily de-stabilized the Deutschmark, the Franc, and the Kroner. (TotD officially misses all the old money.)
Looking at Mickey’s hat, I was about to say that, out of the Dead, Mickey was the most likely to be a model-train enthusiast, one of those dads hiding in the basement, thinking about the Chicago Zephyr and cocktails and freedom from those hideous children upstairs.
But, it’s Phil. Let’s be honest: Phil is the quintessential model-train guy.
PLUS I had to restrain myself from naming this post “Jew Jew!”
Other things Bobby’s sweat can do:
Bobby’s sweat has special properties: pheromones that alert stone-cold teen foxes to his presence; oils forty times more viscous than supercooled helium; amino acids that have a palliative effect on cuts and bruises; lymphatic fluid that somehow flashes red if Bobby’s in danger; unique, Bobby-only bacteria (Bobteria?) that remind him where he left his keys; and urea, which is a fancy name for pee-pee.
The circus had been there last week; the place still smelled like exotic shit. Lion and elephant shit smells different from horse shit. Not that he could tell: thirty years of unfiltered Camels will do that to a sense of smell. Parish told him so and he believed it.
Was he going to one of the small, darkened rooms he preferred? Or the stage that paid for the rooms? For what went on in there. To or from, don’t matter: he would end up where he wanted to be. No one could ever argue with him, everyone dutifully chorussed after it was over.
Try this: hold your thumb up, or your phone, or your pet’s remains up to the screen and cover up the left side of Garcia’s face. Your left (unless you are standing behind your computer or viewing it upside down or via a mirror or you are a six-dimensional being from three realities over and experience direction as color, in which case you should cover up the mauve half of Garcia’s face.)
Do you see the Old Campaigner–that man of twists and turns who knows sorrow and infinity and infinity’s horrible twin exfinity? (Infinity is everything that ever was, is, or will be. Exfinity is the stuff that wasn’t, isn’t, and won’t be. Lot of early potential in exfinity.)
Keep covering that left side, continue the face-ectomy: Garcia can see forever, but knows that forever’s a mighty long time. And he can tell you: there’s no such thing as an afterlife. Shit, most people barely have lives to begin with.
There are rocks, then water, then money, then water, then rocks; and then it starts again: we are all the Buddha because we’re all full of shit. And then we try for holiness and fuck it all up. We’ll do it together.
We’ll do it together this time or not at all.
Now cover up the other side: that Garcia has no clue what city he’s in.
Reasons for a backup piano:
I am a big fan of those “soldier returns home” videos, especially the ones with the animals. (I don’t care much for the familial reunions.) They’re almost all dogs, at least several of whom are so excited to see THE GUY that they give lie to that nonsense about dogs not having a concept of time. occasionally, there are videos with cats: these are played for laughs, because cats do deadpan better than Christopher Guest and also hate America, so they don’t much care about the service member’s arrival home.
What’s missing is a video in which the soldier keeps exotic pets that don’t remember him at all because they’re tigers or emus or whatever crazy shit idiots are allowed to keep out back; instead of welcoming him home, all the animals are just frightened by the sudden appearance of a strange person and the whole menagerie goes to town on him: mauling, goring, clawing, toothing, talonning–all the animalling there is.