OCTOBER 2003
"Dang! They stole my ditties!" screams the Man, as the hit songs are extracted from the back pocket of his chaps and two sniveling vagabonds go limping into the storm drain.
Reginald gets into it and dances extra hard for Denise, who has to stand back and clap her hands to keep them away from her barrettes, because once they're out and clattering on the sidewalk, who knows what'll happen?
Stanley shakes his head and ducks into the corner store:
"World's going to hell Ndjayan."
"I cannot help but agree, Mister Mister."
"Yes, yes yes. Well, I'd like twelve scratch cards, Ndjayan. One Wall Street Hootenanny, one Cash n' Dash, one Fat Slacks Jackpot, one Hold de Dough, one Extreme Coins, one Spank the Bank, one Succubucks, one Clam Bake, one Purloined Pesos by the Case-O's, one Nice Dice, one Run to the Bills and, let's see...an Itches n' My Britches for Riches."
"Here you go. I wish you the best of luck in your scratching of the cards."
"I don't need luck. Ndjayan. This is the U S of A, where a man makes his own luck, pulls himself up by his bootstraps. Throws his hat in the ring."
"Indeed, I agree. But if it were not for the generosity of--"
"Hot Dog! I won a million dollars, Ndajayan!"
"Oh my goodness."
"One Million large ones. I finally hit it big."
"Did you really, Mr. Mister?"
"No, I didn't. Well, that's not entirely true, I won a soft serve cup. Is the soft serve machine working today?"
"No it is not, mister Mister."
"Well then this ice cube tray full of frozen coke syrup will have to suffice. Mmmm. Yes, not a bad way to end the day.
Outside, it begins to snow. Reginald packs it up and walks Denise back to the milk bar, the man in the chaps high tails it home to Tulsa, newly inspired to write the greatest songs of love and rejection ever conceived, and the banter of the passing Gilmore girls' becomes so dense that a white light forms between them, bending time and erasing everything ever said by anyone.

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      Because seconding the misery of a deceased musician whose music has been a great friend to me accomplishes nothing at all, I have replaced a depressing, self-important homage to Elliott Smith with this picture of an incorrect-looking yellow smurf:

    The car door is open, and my aunt signals to her dog-- a nappy terrier with one lame leg and a pelt that feels like a vacuum bag containing, of the three hundred million unloved Barbie-doll-heads discarded since 1962, the fifty most profoundly unloved Barbie-Doll-heads.
"Get in," she says. The dog tremulously climbs into the passenger seat and barks once at the roof. My aunt gets in and says "...Jerk."
I laugh. She hears, turns to me, and suggests that I "Try living it!" Then she makes a sign-of-the-cross and drives away.

OLDER