Here’s how I like to start one of these things. I lunge a bit forward and put my lips right on the mic and I breath into it:
“Awlright. Alright. awriiiight. Baby.”
This is Bebop Loco, baby and I’ve had it with tragedy. There’s just so much bad news lately. And I’m so old that the bad things seem to come in quick flushes with hardly a breath between. I’m assuming the mantle of the Bebop Boy, the Loved One, the Descendant of the Desert, the Swift-Running One, one who gets off work in the middle of the night and gets into his luminous green egg and sails out the old roads to the outskirts of town and the inskirts of the Desert and goes home after a quick Burger at the Frisko Freeze in FunFun Town to sleep until mid-afternoon and get up and go to work again.
That’s Bodie in the hat up above. I didn’t really run over him, I guess, but I did hit him while backing up slowly. He’s about sixteen now and his back legs got strained pretty bad and I just felt like hell until some xrays were taken and the true nature of his injuries revealed. Still…..
I can’t make these kinds of mistakes. Life is too swift.
Too much, too much of consequence. I’m looking forward now to summer, when the old guy will put on his stupid straw hat and waddle out to the pasture to search the ground underneath the posts where the crows get fed.
Two newish chapters of Beaver Teeth are up, over there on the right. I’ll get this up and running and maybe notify the FST list of the fact that I’m doing something here after what? two months of zero nothingness? Lost the hardrive on my computer two weeks ago and had to replace everything. Trying to redo the kids house and sell it in the worst real estate market in human history.
Ran over my own dog.
Summer better get here someday, that’s all I have to say. That and some order to life. And purpose. And direction.