Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

In Which Realities Get Perilously Close To One Another

bobby-beard-finger

I don’t think that’s necessary.

“Huh? Ah, finger. It just, uh, resembles the bird. Holding the pick, gesturing dramatically.”

Oh, yeah, okay.

“Saw your buddy tonight.”

Chris Jennings, author of the award-winning Paradise Now: A Biography of American Utopianism?

“Yeah. I was doing a number with Wilbur–”

Wilco.

“–and I came off the stage, and there he is. You can’t, you know, you can’t miss him.”

Above-average height.

“Right. So first I thought he was Walton.”

He’s not that tall, Bobby.

“You didn’t let me get to my second thought.”

Sorry.

“It was ‘He’s not that tall, Bobby.’ And I was gonna keep on thinking, but he complimented me on my performance.”

He’s a polite guy.

“You bet. I was ready to be best friends with him.”

Really?

“Yeah. I’m lonely. Jimi Hendrix hasn’t been returning my texts.”

Sure.

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