Drinking tunes for conquistadors with head wounds. One abnormally hot and rainy night at the end of October, not much like tonight an overworked doll in fuzzy slippers once worn by a young skinhead preacher was seen scampering across a busy downtown brooklyn street toting a ukulele, a clarinet and a scowl. Not paying much attention to her surroundings, or the traffic lights, she was struck down by Ford Taurus speeding away at a whopping fifteen miles an hour. This lady was too slow and too jaded to care. So she got right up, brushed off the used, fast food cup from her forehead and entered an unnamed local dive, on the corner and ordered up some embalming fluid. With the juices preserving her flesh she mustered up the nerve to stay in the land of the living for a little while more. But little did she know, that there is little use to call them, “the living,” when they pay little or no attention to what controls us all. From one shadowy figure, to the other when all is said and done, we all cry for answers and comfort when our heads are laying comfortably drooling in our luxury apartments and squat houses. In those few moments between unconsciousness and full awareness, we experience a death each and every night. That’s if you sleep. If you don’t then join her in a mission of charm and blatant car alarms. Of unfortunate heart breaks involving young writers who have gone over the edge, and their mission to find mediocrity in the opposite sex . Let's make the stories that cause the kids to wear their pants baggy again. But firstly, let us start caring about each other, one decibel at a time.
