This is Oona, not at Quitobaquito, but certainly at Chaco.
Alright, I am Bebob Lobo, Baby, child of the great snoring sleeping desert, the crazy puzzle desert that is the only thing beside me, the Bopster, the hilarious and mysterious me – that can cross through the ingenious designer border laid down by Lutherans and Mexicans for reasons known only to themselves and their pitifully shortened histories. I am Bebop, baby, on the radio, herzing over the Big Sonora at night, the full moon making the locomobile shine like the devil herself. And I snuggle my hoochiecutie next to me and she is so fine in the green luminous Bopstermobile with the HiLo Desert headers from the Moon and the Flaming Flowmaster tejano exhaust, the exhaust that sings like the tigers of the North.
And Bebop lays back and snuggles his baby and looks up at the moon and he is the Nightsmoocher, the man of moves, the slow-talking, time-delayed Night Howler.
And she says to me, Honey, let’s go home I bet the kid’s still wideawake and I say baby, watch the big desert, watch the Gila Woodpeckers in the Saguaro Hotels, watch the Diamondbacks whether they are smacking the ball or attacking your foot. Watch for a minute and let the big desert sky whirl around you. Your little sister is babysitting and it’s just you and the Night Wolf, sweetie and you are a thousand times pretty and she says, you got to work in the morning honey, you’ve got to go be Bebop Loco, the hilarious man of Mornings so let’s go home and I don’t care. Life is good, in this crazy life in the desert where the scorpions glow, where the snorty piglets sleep under the jumping chollas, where the radio plays some crazy navajo guy and his guitar all the way from Fourcorners. Where the Bopper is at peace and the Hoochiecutie loves him. And the night is forever young.