Life on the road is hard on a man--bitters and blue ruin, these tin can dives and paper torn lives make for poetry but not living. Omaha is an old town, past its prime, nickeled and dimed like some cheap hooker too lost to ask for directions.
We're introducing puppets into the show and Omaha will be the first run. Tammy, the former assistant goat tamer, will narrate the show from atop a trunk full of dead treasure. I'm not optimistic about the puppet show--unless they burn the puppets at end and get some naked girls to dance around the flames.
At a truck stop, parked along some barely used highway, an old trucker asked me why I'm still on the road. Perhaps I should retire; join the VFW, buy a couple of lawn chairs and cheap cigars and relive my faded glory. I told him that entertainings in my blood and I'd just as soon saw off my legs than retire. He started to object when I told him he should zip up his fly before a couple of unwanteds move in and set up shop.
Over a sour mash and just desserts,
Lanny
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1 comment:
Yeah, I remember when I went to Omaha with my brother. I had such a bad case of the trots that I couldn't even see straight. No joke.
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