An electronic message here this afternoon: What's the story with the ping-pong bat? Who cares?
It’s wet in Texas. A grey day of Gary Gilmore who was born in a hospital in McCamey (about five miles east of the Pecos River along Route 67). Brunt home of wind and oil.
Of Louisiana crept up the map.
There is rot here and rules that don’t help.
Next week will be dry and sunny and many from all corners will come to Austin for SXSW and then turn away again for colder parts, but in the back rooms and the holes, the back yards, squared yet visible behind chain-link fences and their patrolling scarred dogs (dogs with tattoos and gang faces), the rot will continue and do what rot does.
There are no crusaders here and irony lies pale in an unknown bed. And you’re right, perhaps for the first time all day; no one cares. That’s the only story with the ping-pong bat.
Get a handle on the full-moon, if you can, and take your wishes where you find them.