Monday, January 06, 2014

Kara Thrace For President

Kara Thrace For President    by Scott Seward


Old records are haunted by ghosts who leave tracks. Not just the obvious tracks on a groove, but also numbers and fingerprints and stamps and names and signs and a glyph here and there. The anal among us find this unacceptable, but I feel it is the right of all working men and women to exact revenge on their possessions in any way that they see fit, and no matter how I ended up with a 40 year old piece of plastic housed in cardboard, it lived a life without me and it will lead one without me again someday. I am merely a temporary custodian of an artifact. I don’t care all that much about you, but I do care about keeping art safe for the aliens. They are gonna love Link Wray. I can feel it. And no matter how you may feel about the filthy rich of the world, they keep those million dollar paintings in *really* great shape. Would you? I highly doubt it. You’d wreck that shit in a week.
People, in general, are horrible creatures. The worst of the worst. There is no competition. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, that this planet would be much better off without us. Since nobody can actually predict when that blessed day will come to pass, when the destroyers are finally wiped off this rock, all we can do is wait and pray. Until then, the only solace we can find in humanity is in artistic creation. Art is the *only* worthwhile contribution that humans can give to a place that was perfect without them. The only offering. Now, the fact that most art is intrinsically worth less than a single leaf on a single tree or a single butterfly or even a single dung beetle, is neither here nor there. We have already established that humans are 99% worthless. But that 1% of good stuff makes up for a lot. Not enough, but a lot. And it is this 1% that the aliens will put in their vast space museums. Which is why I keep my records in nice shape. The nuclear attacks or warming-induced tornadoes *might* miss my house. I *might* be the only owner of Dave “Baby” Cortez’s The Happy Organ in North America. Who can say? All I can do in the meantime is keep that record, and others like it, in dimly-lit rooms that are free from moisture and extreme heat or cold until the day of reckoning and hope for the best.


I’m gonna sell my book to hippies!

That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Hippies don’t read, you dope!

Well, they used to. They could do it again.

Do you have any idea what the average hippie is like in the 21st century? These are not your grandmother’s flower children. They aren’t working on the farm until they eventually go to law school. These people now are one step away from being corpses. They don’t do *anything*. They don’t even have money for drugs!

But they just don’t have anything good to read! They’ve been stuck in a van with Carlos Castaneda for decades. And Carlos just doesn’t *speak* to anyone anymore. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get your hands on peyote in this day and age? I actually have no idea how hard it is…but when was the last time someone tried to sell you some peyote? It’s not gonna happen. Proper psychedelic experiences died with the Dead. My book – and this is the genius part – will be about a modern-day Phish fan who will be much smarter than the average Phish fan. I’m gonna flatter them, you’ll see. And they will *have* to buy it, because it’s about a Phish fan, and Phish fans have to buy anything with the word Phish in it! Tell me that it isn’t a foolproof plan.

But then you’ll actually have to write a book about a Phish fan. Ever think of that, smart guy?

I have! And it’s doable. I simply write a book about the wacky adventures of a music fan traveling the countryside following his favorite band and all the chapters will be named after Phish songs. Voila. Ras Bodhi Weinstein will be the Valentine Michael Smith of his generation.

Oy. Is this trip inspiration for a Phish book? I don’t know how I feel about that…

I actually just thought of the Phish thing a couple of miles ago. I don’t know anything about Phish. Or their fans. I think it’s a good idea though. And it won't get in the way of any record buying, I promise. 

I’d probably rather read a book about Juggalos, to be honest. An action/adventure kinda thing. If I still read books. I’m telling you, nobody reads anymore. Even Oprah fans are happy to be let off the hook. Too much pressure to keep up.

Oprah fans still read. They love reading. Oprah instilled a lifelong love of reading in them. She made them crave knowledge.

They still hate that one guy though. The nerd who spurned O.

The Corrections guy? Yeah, he fucked up. I don’t know what that guy’s problem was.

Did you read that book?

The Corrections? No. I can’t read that guy. I’ve never been able to read John Updike either. I’d probably have an easier time with William Dean Howells. Or James Branch Cabell. I *tried* to read it. I couldn’t get past the first paragraph. It’s a doozy. That paragraph transfixed and mystified me to no end. I couldn’t go any further. I spent so much time staring at it, and it was like a locked door I would never be able to open no matter how hard I tried. It might be the worst first paragraph in literary history.

For real?

Well, maybe not the *worst*, but it blew my mind a little bit. Would you like me to recite it to you?

For real?

Sure. For real. I memorized it. Every once in a while - it doesn’t happen often - God sends you a sign and that sign says: DON’T EVER DO THIS. So, it makes sense to pay attention when this happens. Wanna hear it?

Sure, I’m not going anywhere.

Okay, here you go: “The madness of an autumn prairie cold front coming through. You could feel it: something terrible was going to happen. The sun low in the sky, a minor light, a cooling star. Gust after gust of disorder. Trees restless, temperatures falling, the whole northern religion of things coming to an end. No children in the yards here. Shadows lengthened on yellowing zoysia. Red oaks and pin oaks and swamp white oaks rained acorns on houses with no mortgage. Storm windows shuddered in the empty bedrooms. And the drone and hiccup of a clothes dryer, the nasal contention of a leaf blower, the ripening of local apples in a paper bag, the smell of gasoline with which Alfred Lambert had cleaned the paintbrush from his morning painting of the wicker love seat."

Sheesh, that paragraph drives me crazy. And the whole northern religion of things comes to an end. Firstly, I REALLY want to know how apples ripening in a bag adds to the "madness" and "disorder" of an autumn prairie cold front. Secondly, I ALWAYS imagine that the storm windows are actually IN the bedrooms. Like, they are all on the bed shuddering. Though, that at least does imply some sort of madness. Thirdly, is the "gust after gust of disorder"...wind? Do empty rooms and yards free of children also add to the "madness" of a cold front? If there are leaves and acorns and ripening apples it can't be THAT cold yet. Are leaf blowers and clothes dryers ominous symbols of mother nature's fury? And are the trees smoking a lot of cigarettes and pacing a lot? What exactly makes them "restless"? So many questions…zoysia! I’ll give you zoysia…I read that paragraph and it makes me think the person who wrote it has only read about going outside. Or only seen pictures of outside.

That is pretty dumb. No wonder I don’t read.

You should read. Books are great. That guy though…There is another great line in that book. A sentence for the ages:
"It's the fate of most Ping-Pong tables in home basements eventually to serve the ends of other, more desperate games."

Ha! I love that one. Like some sort of demented Tolstoy quote. Eh, what are you gonna do? People are so confused these days. Words and thoughts come hard to people. Words were all people had once upon a time. Now they’ve got all this other shit.

Wait, where are we?

Look at the map. We’re somewhere.

Jesus, I can’t believe we’re using a map. Speaking of “all this other shit”, remind me why we couldn’t bring phones or computers on this adventure.

I told you, I wanted to go record hunting like our forefathers did! A car, some cash, and, you know, some reasonably comfortable motel rooms.

We can watch T.V. in the motels though, right?

Yeah, sure, I’m not trying to torture us. I just wanted to get away from all that crap for as long as the trip lasted. It’ll be nice. Refreshing. We are both on the computer *all* day long. Forever. It’s a nightmare of sorts.

I kinda love it though. And hate it. I miss Facebook a little bit right now. What if someone dies? What will I do?

It’s okay, someone else will die when you get back. And someone else will have a birthday. Facebook is an endless cycle of birth and death. Like life! And just as aggravating. But that’s the only internet as life metaphor you’re gonna get out of me. I’m sick of the whole business. Everyone has become so dumb. Dumb as dirt. Have you ever noticed how much dumber something like the New York Times seems online. You can look at an actual copy, and, I swear to god, it still resembles the paper of record. That great gray-ass lady of yore. When you see it online, you long for apocalypse. What happens to it? Someone should do a study. All the vanity and greed is so glaring online. The headlines are soaked in blood and money. Or maybe it has just become money-soaked in general. Same with the New Yorker. Not like they were ever prole organs or anything, but they at least put on a good show of noblesse oblige. Good leftie types. They’re both starting to seem obscene to me. And I’m not even an occupier! Record collectors are the .001%!  We keep our heads down and go about our business. We don’t get in the way. We’ve never seen the inside of a voting booth. There are no records in a voting booth! But even I can’t ignore what I see anymore. Nero fiddling while Rome burns? I see a lot of people who should know better jerking off all day over pictures of cash. Not even their own cash! Just cash fetishism. It’s an epidemic. That’s the plague the bible talked about, I’ll bet. The great greed and coveting plague. The bible talked about a plague, right?

I…think so?

It’s in there somewhere. You wanna stop and eat something?

Can we eat trash?



Jesus, what was that in there? A hospice?

It was pretty depressing. Like I imagine a TB ward would be like.

Everyone looked so fucking sad. Ronald was the only one smiling.

They should sell oxygen tanks with the fries.

When did it get so hard to actually swallow that stuff? I used to love that crap! It kinda tasted like poison coated in salt. Like they were *really* trying to hurt me.

Hell is watching people who look like they should be on gurneys eat Big Macs.

Hey, I think we’re close to our first stop!

Finally. Sad people I can relate to. Onward and upward!


Man, I hate driving. 40 or 50 years ago was the time to drive a car. They were as big as the Taj Mahal, and there was nobody on the road. More cows. Farms. Americana up the ass. Now…

Yeah, it can be a bummer. So samey unless you get off the highway. And even there…

It’s the uniformity. From sea to shitty Applebees. Makes you feel like Robert Crumb. Get the hell out of here. Hide. Run. Even the local color hides from view. Used to be everywhere. They should give out free copies of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road at the highway visitor centers in the Midwest. Let people know what they’re in for.

Traveling great distances by car makes me yearn for motels. They are the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I love them. My reward for enduring the endless billboards and ugliness. I love how they smell. I love the bedding. So itchy and cheap and wonderful. Lying on a motel bed, turning on the t.v., and sipping on some vending machine coke with a big plastic bucket of ice next to me, it beats anything I can think of. It beats the Grand Canyon! Fuck a hole in the ground. Motels rule. You’re safe. No one knows you. No one cares. The local news is from another planet. You don’t know the name of anything. Murder seems exotic. Fires blaze out of control, and it’s like you’ve never seen a fire blaze out of control before. The fires might as well be a million miles away. There are so many fires. This planet is constantly on fire. Every minute of every day. But in a motel room? It’s like watching security video of Mars. I can totally understand why people hole up in motel rooms and do endless amounts of drugs. They aren’t really on earth even before they get high. That Do Not Disturb sign is magic. You might as well be locked in a vault at Fort Knox. It’s like getting in a time machine that doesn't go anywhere! The hotel industry doesn’t get enough credit for keeping people sane. And for giving people perspective on life. If I were a wealthy man, I would stay in a different hotel every night. Room service, premium cable, mini bar…man, that’s living.

I agree completely. Hotels and motels allow you to forget that you had to be outside during the day. And for that they are a blessing. When you’re at home, there is always some annoying reason to go outside. You gotta find the cat, you gotta get the mail, take out the garbage, ugh, it’s like living in the stone age.

So, hey, what are you reading if you aren’t reading The Corrections? Just curious.

Well, what about you? You say you don’t read books, but I don’t believe you.

Oh, yeah, you know, I read, but I’m on the computer so much, I rarely want to read books. I read *all* the time online. A little of this and a little of that. Like everyone does. Then I go home at night and I dive into Netflix and it magically takes me wherever I want to go. I still buy books occasionally when I see something cool for cheap. I *own* books, you know? I just never get around to opening any. I admire the covers and the blurbs on the back.

Yeah, I hear you. It’s an effort. You have to unplug everything and that can be a herculean task after a long day. What do you read online?

Anything. Literally anything. Ebay listings, Youtube comments, every other link on a message board or on Facebook. Stuff I google. Newspapers. Craigslist listings. A zillion blog posts. I look at a lot of pictures of records online. Record porn, basically. I read extensive fansite reviews for things that I have no interest in. I spent hours one night reading endless reviews of military strategy board games. Despite the fact that I have never played one in my life and will never play one. In all honesty, it was fucking fascinating. The web is such a boon for sociologists and sociopaths.

I do all that too. I still try to do the hard copy thing though. It’s a different experience. I don’t think as much when I’m reading online. Books still manage to make me think. In solitude. The web can be such a cacophony. And it makes me anxious. Caffeinated. Like playing a slot machine for hours except there is even less chance of winning anything of value on the web. Dumbly clicking links and going back to the same pages over and over. It’s actually a pretty great addiction as addictions go. Very clean. You can maintain a semblance of a normal life. You just have to remember to bathe occasionally and feed yourself. As far as books go, well, I hate to feel like an old fogey before my time, but I read the moldy and forgotten mostly. Someone has to. I think it’s great if David Foster Wallace speaks to people younger than me. Young, brainy, computer-literate indie rock fans. More power to them. And if people get a kick out of Michael Chabon comic books and Jonathan Lethem graphic novels and Jonathan Franzen cultural manifestos…actually, I shouldn’t include Chabon in there. I think he’s probably a good dude and I enjoyed The Mysteries of Pittsburgh when it came out – more than I enjoyed Less Than Zero or Bright Lights Big City – and I loved the Wonder Boys movie even if I didn’t read the book. They’re probably all good dudes. Rick Moody is probably a swell guy. . but…I can’t help but feel that you aren’t gonna get the truth from nice guys. There’s something inconsequential about a generation of writers so self-obsessed. They feel limited. There’s a lack of fierceness there. I don’t mean that they have to be tough guys, but they seem so insular and collegiate. Not insular…I just don’t get the impression that their lives are on the line. And I feel like future internet generations will mimic this even more intensely. People sitting in a room. Forever. Writing about what they think about in their rooms. And only knowing what they see on their screens. Like bad lo-fi bedroom computer blog electronica. All the resources of the world at their fingertips, and no life or death reason to share. Sharing for sharing’s sake. But it’s a shabby time we live in. Shabby times require diversions of small consequence. I dunno, I still love art. And books. I love the act of creation. I still worship the impulse to build and make and sing and write. When I read old books I get such a thrill because not only did the people writing them possess a high level of craft, they were just so obviously obsessed in general with words and writing and everything that goes with making a book or a story or an essay. When they weren’t drinking or smoking or whatever, they were reading and writing. Maybe they caught a movie or a play. Or had an affair. But words were *it*. And they got really fucking good at it. And now, well, you get hybrid workshop/screenplay exercises in boredom by people with a natural facility for writing, but not much intriguing to tell me. I crave intrigue. And surprises. And some sort of sense that I live on the same planet as these people. Or a sense that I would *want* to live on the same planet as these people. I don’t really want to live on Franzen World. It’s a weird cramped bitter world where everyone avoids each other. You are much better off reading genre fiction. Teenage werewolves will tell you more about the planet you live on than Rick Moody ever has. Plus, you get werewolves! Everyone wins! In general, people are better off reading good genre fiction. Literary fiction is so anemic. You get robustness from a good science fiction novel. And tons of interesting ideas. And, hopefully, good writing. I stick with the 50’s to the 70’s with SF. Such richness. I’ll take one good story by Clifford Simak or Frederick Pohl over most current lit fic. They were genuine prophets. They asked *every* question there is to ask about existence. And they did it with humor and top-notch storytelling skills. Post-academic nerdbots write stories like it’s a chore. More grad school homework. They should read more Bradbury. He’s not hip like Dick or Delaney, but his imagination was boundless. Completely boundless! He had more good ideas than he knew what to do with. And that’s true of most great SF writers. Sometimes they’ll cram enough ideas for ten novels into one story. They were *burning*! And they did it for decades. They wrote and they wrote and they wrote, and it wasn’t all gold, but, damn, if you’re looking for a good writing influence look to them. Look to the stars!  But everyone’s too self-conscious. Straight sci-fi isn’t cool enough or something. Everyone is afraid of not being zeitgeist-y enough.
What they don’t understand is, you can’t write a straight literary novel anymore and be zeitgeist-y. You can’t compete with Twitter. You can’t compete with a video that popped up on Youtube five seconds ago. Novels take years to write, and by the time you are done, the intellectual and cultural universe is unrecognizable. You can write histories. You can write anything you want about the past. Or you can just not give a shit about the here and now which is an option I heartily endorse. Or you can write science fiction. Unfortunately, brainy indie-rock writing workshop dudes *suck* at writing science fiction. They try and write PoMo “fabulist” novels or they collaborate on horrible comic books or graphic novels or they write snoozy Paul Auster-ish brain teasers that have no real brains and rarely tease. They’re only really good, when all is said and done, at slice-of-life wistful thinking nostalgia prose that is half musty Updike and half over the hill Pynchon and none of them can write anything as mechanically flawless or as emotionally charged as the slightest story by Alice Munro. And she’s an old lady! From Canada! I would still have her babies though. I love that woman. Not that they have to write as good as she does. It’s not their fault that they can’t. An Alice Munro only comes around once a lifetime. People will be reading her books for hundreds of years if there are still people. All those serious dudes should take a cue from the sci-fi masters. Write one or two books a year. Perfection is dead. Flaubert is dead. James is dead. Give it up. It’s never gonna happen. You’ll never get that kind of education anymore. Those dudes were fluent in Latin when they were four years old. Write fierce blazing short novels about fucking and fires and hurricanes. Print them up on a mimeograph machine in Brooklyn and hand them out on street corners. It’s time to think outside the box. A little hippie/punk d.i.y. action wouldn’t hurt. Of course, most d.i.y. lit and zines and poetry sucks…but what are you gonna do? At least they’re fucking trying! What the fuck have you done! God I love Minor Threat. It’s a shame about Fugazi and that eyebrow guy who ruins all their songs…

Tell me how you really feel.

It’s fun to talk. I feel like I’ve been cooped up at work for months and I have to be nice to people all day, you know? I’m a person with opinions too. I’m not just a shopkeeper. It’s good to vent a little. And good to get out of town. Clear the cobwebs. Hey, this is our exit! It won’t be long now.

Heaven is a place on earth.


Poems were trees! They were thick, sturdy, solid and strong. They had weight. And like trees, they gave us air. No more. Poems live where the air is thin now. Their leaves are brown and wilting. Dying, dying…

I can’t remember the last time I read a poem.


What went wrong?

There are many theories. Probably. I’m not about to do any research. Something nefarious happened on college campuses in the 80’s. That much I know. People were led astray somehow. There were a lot of “ideas” floating around that absolutely nobody talks about now and for good reason. These confusing “thoughts” turned a lot of good people off and away from writing. All of a sudden you had to be some sort of friggin’ expert to write a poem. Or a short story. Or a novel. It also became increasingly difficult to make any money writing no matter what you wrote. Making money making art became like winning the lottery. So the only people left devoting any time to it were people who didn’t have to worry about money as much. This is true in the music world and the arty art world too. The hyper-educated upper middle class took over the creative consciousness of this country for better or worse and lemme tell you it was for the worse. Making things even worser than worse, the upper class in the U.S. lives forever now. Almost. The average mortality rate for the rich is closing in on 200 years old. Maybe it just seems like they live forever, I dunno. In any case, this results in a complete lack of urgency on the part of artists. They can craft the living hell out of their deadly boring poems or vanilla singer-songwriter tunes or their “conceptual” installations and since nobody is eagerly anticipating whatever they end up with anyway, they really have no motivation to light the world on fire. They don’t want fire. They want a nice little gastropub within walking distance of their apartment.

That's pretty far out...

Lemme tell you a story...

Yeah, go for it, the radio blows so hard around here...

A week or two ago, I went to lunch at this Greek joint and I brought a book with me.  A Jacques Barzun Reader. When I left the restaurant, I didn't forget to take it with me, I just left it there on the table. I had ordered a fried chicken thing and taken a seat that faced the big front window because I didn’t want to look at the miserable Greek restaurant owner in the corner sitting on a high stool staring at his laptop while teenage girls ran his business for him. He was pretty cliché as far as miserable Greek restaurant owners go. Cliché as far as the east coast of the United States goes in my limited experience. I have no idea what Greek restaurant owners are like in Greece. Maybe they are all sunshine and good cheer. The food sucks at this place and about all it has going for it is the steady stream of cute young girls this guy hires to do all the work. He has an eye, I’ll give him that. The girls usually only last a month or two before the oppressive atmosphere chokes their young lungs and they head off to Rite Aid or Walgreens or some other retail oasis. This sad dude’s joint had been around for years and if he closed it tomorrow nobody would even remember that it had been there. A long narrow anonymous hallway of a restaurant that could be transformed into a tax preparation place or a union strike headquarters or a junk store in an afternoon. Nobody would be the wiser. Nobody would ever ask where the brooding Greek guy went. It would be like the removal of a public pay phone. Was it ever really there? I could have sworn there was one there yesterday.
I had brought the book in to read, but after I got my sloppy chicken thing covered in tzatziki sauce I knew that I wouldn’t actually be able to pick it up and read it. So I ate my thing and just stared at the book. I had been trying to read it for weeks. The book is filled with essays from a lifetime of work. A loooong lifetime. The dude wrote a zillion books. My problem with the collection was that it felt like reading the introductions to a hundred books I hadn’t read. To be honest, it just felt kinda fuddy duddy-ish. College lecture-speak written by someone from another century. Plus, when smart people write about sports I groan a little. Barzun was a big baseball fan. They take it all so seriously. And pop culture is not their first language. If you actually used to hang out and party with Lionel Trilling, I probably don’t want to read you on long outs and moonshots. As a rule. There are no doubt exceptions.  In fairness to the Barzuno, baseball is hard to write about, as it is simultaneously dumber than dirt and more intricate than you can imagine. Old world gentlemen enthusiasts rarely capture the extremes of quantum physics and bloated hot dog bellies contained in a single game.
So the book sat there on the table unread, the Greek dude fumed silently in the corner, and I was reduced to looking out the window at whatever action I could find on the street. Not much doing that day. The usual scufflers and juggalos pacing back and forth in front of the for-profit social services office like late-period capitalism’s lab rats. A life of quick computation and agitation. Figuring out how to make the SSI check last long enough for a month of Big Gulps and bad drugs.  Massive bags of shag pipe tobacco hanging out of the pockets of droopy drawers. When the revolution comes they will be my compatriots. I will lead them into battle. After we hit the armory the first order of business will be to burn the courthouse down. Then the jail. And then anyone else who has ever done them wrong. Well, in my dreams anyway. I’m kind of a scaredy cat when all is said and done.
I left the restaurant in a hurry with that disgusted feeling I get after a craving for crap chicken and onions and goopy sauce. I couldn’t seem to get my hands clean which is why I just decided to leave Jacques sitting there forlornly in that deadly quiet space. Never any laughter in there. Even the spinning meat spins mutely. Making small talk with the sad man behind the laptop would only be a cruel trick. His attempt at a smile painful to witness. Why do I ever go there? I’m never going there again. Even the leaky soft serve ice cream machine weeps silent tears of boredom. I’ll be back. I always go back. Wait, I had a point…

It’s probably in there somewhere…

Ah, now I’ve got it! Just the forgettable nature of it all. Nobody was gonna remember the Greek place a month or two after it was gone when it finally called it quits. Nobody was gonna remember me after my immediate family bit the dust. Nobody reads Barzun anymore or any of the other GREAT MINDS of the Western 20th century outside of some masochistic and archaic college courses within the archaic and crumbling social system we are stuck in. When was the last time someone picked up some Bertrand Russell or Lewis Mumford for, like, fun? Someone under the age of 70 that is? Do you know how astonished senior citizens are if you tell them that you know who Russell or Mumford were? They act like they’re the last people on earth with knowledge of these people. These people who were as well-known back then as any pop star is today. And, to be honest, they are kinda the last people on earth who remember them. Those oldsters. I don’t count because those dead geniuses aren’t important to me and I don't speak their language and I have to ignore all their dated cluelessness. And I know what happened. I’ve got hindsight on my side. They didn’t change anything. They were seriously smart motherfuckers, but they couldn’t sway history. We still beat each other over the heads with rocks and we never learn from the past. Which is why I only read science fiction now. There is hope in it and I never have to see the failure of that hope. I’ll be gone before then. My religion is based on hoping that we will evolve even though I know it’s too late and we can never do it fast enough. My god is Kara Thrace. A fictional warrior who never gives up and who always keeps searching. She is the future we will never have, but she brings me comfort. She gives me a reason to keep going. Legends are all we have. All the best and brightest minds we have had on this planet have sat and watched as we have killed and died over and over and over for thousands of years. We are death. And it won’t be long now before it’s all over for everyone. The storms just keep getting bigger and bigger. The death toll rises every year. The mosquitos and rats are living high on the hog. So I dream of Kara Thrace and I remain eternally astonished by the art of the past. And I realize we are goners and that the people who have it all - including me - can never give up their comfort long enough to evolve and save the world.

Yeah, it sucks. Totally. How long to the next record shop?

Should be any minute now! It’s supposed to be great digging. It’s in the middle of nowhere, maybe that’s why. People don’t dig like they used to.

More for me then! Full speed ahead!


Blogger DJ Dutch said...

nicely done

8:26 AM  

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