Where I grew up from is hardly a town without a name, but it is most certainly devoid of a soul.
There are no mean streets to speak of, but I was once accosted by some bastard sons of dumb jocks who happened to assimilate into one third of a local high school baseball team and, piled into the designated prickmobile, tailed me going about five miles per hour on my bmx down main street, waiving bats out the windows, shouting abuse and generally trying to run me off the road. Presumably they were on their way to a ballgame, hence the uniforms and bats. They might as well have been on their way to the police academy.
Welcome to Mesa.
If you could get your hands on an indestructible stylus, and somehow manage to mount it to the small end of the biggest traffic cone you could steal, and find a good, deep groove in the sidewalk, then proceed to walk from one end of town to the other, the heretofore unknown, unholy tune that would be produced would no doubt divulge some cosmic and demonic truths which would make normal people shit out all suburban pretentiousness.
I hate Mesa. But not as much as I hate Scottsdale.
Still, the place speaks to me. From many miles distant, i hear it in a dull, monotone doppler effect, late, late in the evening. Or, maybe, it's all the curses I've left in my wake that echo on. Curses that cry like lost children. I think I would like that. The town could be full of curses besides my own. Most probably, it is. Or perhaps that sound is the forlorn regret of revenge unfulfilled. Does regret make a sound? Why am I asking you? I feel everything, except guilt. A curse is a work of art. Sleep.
There are no mean streets to speak of, but I was once accosted by some bastard sons of dumb jocks who happened to assimilate into one third of a local high school baseball team and, piled into the designated prickmobile, tailed me going about five miles per hour on my bmx down main street, waiving bats out the windows, shouting abuse and generally trying to run me off the road. Presumably they were on their way to a ballgame, hence the uniforms and bats. They might as well have been on their way to the police academy.
Welcome to Mesa.
If you could get your hands on an indestructible stylus, and somehow manage to mount it to the small end of the biggest traffic cone you could steal, and find a good, deep groove in the sidewalk, then proceed to walk from one end of town to the other, the heretofore unknown, unholy tune that would be produced would no doubt divulge some cosmic and demonic truths which would make normal people shit out all suburban pretentiousness.
I hate Mesa. But not as much as I hate Scottsdale.
Still, the place speaks to me. From many miles distant, i hear it in a dull, monotone doppler effect, late, late in the evening. Or, maybe, it's all the curses I've left in my wake that echo on. Curses that cry like lost children. I think I would like that. The town could be full of curses besides my own. Most probably, it is. Or perhaps that sound is the forlorn regret of revenge unfulfilled. Does regret make a sound? Why am I asking you? I feel everything, except guilt. A curse is a work of art. Sleep.