June 30th, 2021
The Cheeseman on the radio announces the GREATEST HITS OF ALL TIME. Pronounces. Announces. Denounces. I find myself irritated by the presumption that what came before is better than the new. Or worse, that it is better than what is yet to come. In fairness, ‘He Ain’t Heavy (He’s My Brother)’, is a gorgeous fucking song. Though it reminds me of 1980s and Trocaire famine ads. ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’ is next, and it is definitely A song of all time, if not the greatest. In light of the aforementioned association of the previous song, it does make Jagger et al sound like ingrates.
What are ya at Cheeseman? The Cheeseman on the radio is telling Sherry that she works too hard, that she deserves a drink, that she doesn’t have to wait till she finishes work. Cheeseman’s voice is generic. Forced cheer. Like a SupermarketSantaTM . I suspect it is the sound of purgatory. This Purgatory sounds the same in all languages. It is typically found in the low 90s range of an FM radio. ANYWHERE. ANYTIME. “Have a drink Sherry” , “Oh, haha, I think I will Chris, I think I will.”
A Man at the laundromat is spending too much money trying to win a stuffed animal with one of those robotic arm yokes. It’s kind of sweet and kind of sad. There’s a Dollar General next door. He could have bought three of them by now. But, sure, I suppose it’s not about the prize so much as the feeling of winning and losing. Maybe. What do I know? Maybe he likes moving the robotic arm and bouncing the stuffed orange sloth frustratingly close to the metallic canal that might birth little orange slothy into the outside world. The laundromat. The strip mall. The street. The Zip Code. The county. The State. The country. The continent . The big blue planet. Be born, be free little slothy.
No, no, off the canal he bounces, silently back into the cage. His glass eyes peering through the plastic into mine.
Don’t tell me slothy. I don’t think I’m ready.
I drop another quarter in the drier.
I haven’t had a drink in a year. One whole year tomorrow. Woo ha. The celebration emoji is a bottle of champagne, so I suppose I’ll have to express myself the old fashioned way, with combinations of letters, that make words and words that combine to make sentences that combine to make no more or less sense than a robotic arm reaching for a stuffed orange sloth. Maybe.
How ya now, Pilgrim?
I don’t think Baker Street is one of the greatest songs of all time.
AWay ta fuck with your ‘ Wonderful Tonight’ . I despise this song.
Now you know.
Don’t Thread On Me Man is buying a trolley load of Hot Dog buns. One might confidently assume there’s another trolley of Hot Dogs and a party. Safety in Numbers for the Bright Yellow Shirts.
Greene County Willy Nelson has a red pickup truck that sounds like a lawnmower and smells like a chemical fire. Scrap metal. Something that might have been motorbike handles, and pieces of a barrel? Maybe. He has arms like the branches of an old peach tree. A not unfriendly glorious “I don’t give a solitary fuck what you think of me” smile. Jesus, I’d love to have nine pints with this fella, but oh, yeah, I’m not drinking right now. So, I’ll use my ‘magination.
How many flags are required to prove one’s patriotism. How many patriots voted in the recent local elections? Wrong, wrong, wrong…
I bought a record player. So I could feel timeless. And present. All of the times. Anytime.. All of the time. I bought the best of the Temptations. So I could feel joyful and inspired. I did. It’s four records. It’s all gold. IF Cheeseman announced the Greatest Hits of ALL Time and played the best of the Temptations, I might nearly agree.
What do you think Sherry?