legalize bluegrass

"The months roll past the love that you struck dead, did you love me only in my head?" -Doug Hopkins

If I were a bettin’ man, I’d bet everyone else in the world were eating two hot dick sandwiches right now. You and I are the only two able to successfully avoid the hot dick sandwich temptations. We (if you were around, asshole) could be the two folks that save the world from dick sandwich infestation.

You may be wondering why I wrote “legalize bluegrass” on the top of this correspondence. It’s because I wanted you to know there’s always a place for you in my heart (or bluegrass band) and for all time I don’t think you’ll be forgotten, at least by me. Additionally, if you’re ever out of work and need a bud, I’d learn to pick the banjo right proper like and you can “play the jug” in my bluegrass band. That’s just the kind of friend I am. If you fell on hard times, you couldn’t count on me to support you but you could count on me to voluntarily put myself in your shoes or a similar situation and then I’d naturally start a band to make money. In summary (or what I’m really trying to say) is that if you ever needed me (and I mean really needed me), I’d fabricate a situation where I seem needed back and I’d be able to help you out (hopefully) by giving you your fair share of our band’s take on any given night. I would never jump in your boat, but if yours were different than mine, I’d totally get in on that, heard?

I CANNOT SAY THE SAME FOR YOUR SELFISH ASS.

I realize it’d make more sense, if you fell on hard times, to simply say “hey bud, stay at my place” then keep my situation “as-is” or attempt to improve it, but honestly, I’ll tell you what. Sunset sensibility can eat two dozen dirty hot dick sandwiches. I’m me, and as such, capable of far more than the average asshole. But, whatever. I reckon that type of faithfulness doesn’t much matter anymore these days what with the kids on the old twitter and facebook and such.

What do I know about wooden pens? Only that they’re the bee’s knees and that the cat’s pajamas have a habit of finding their way to my bedroom floor. You’ll have that though, it happens.

REM (the band, not the sleep cycle) broke up not long ago and the nostalgic dipshit in me immediately ran to the old I-P-O-D* and it was all butterfly decal, rearview mirror, dogging the scene. Withdrawal, in disgust, is never the same as apathy. Do you remember when they were relevant? I remember when we were relevant and I suppose that’s a little more important.

Wooden pens. Bow ties. Typewriters. 35 millimeter cameras. The tribes-folk naturally dislike these things. Harder, smaller, faster, stronger are the cries of the zombie apocalypse of uniformity.

Swimming towards the open ocean instead of the closest boat. Live together and die alone. Damn near one hundred miles in the wrong direction and humming along full steam.

What news does our future hold? Grimness, destruction, withering and sadness until it’s all over and the sweet release of death sweeps us off our feet and beds us both. The next morning he’s gone and never calls.

Regards,
Javier F. Nelson
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