The day the parade marches crisply down Broadway and pivots smartly onto Bolinas, with nary a twitch or tarry, will be the day it’s all over for Mayberry-on-Acid.
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Yeah, that 65 was a peach. So good I had to hide all the names and genders and blur the details. And by good, I mean juicy. Innermost stuff. Deep, dark, judgmental.
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Robert is nuts. Sure, he pretends to be nuts — wild, unpredictable, a cat to keep an eye on (standard show biz ruse — I mean, Carrot Top pretends he’s nuts). Doesn’t mean he’s not.
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I’m sitting at the center of the universe. But it’s not at the corner of Bolinas and Sherman. And Rev. Kang is nowhere in sight.
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What accident of spacetime, whose god, what astrophysics, biochemistry or legerdemain could have delivered us to each other’s company in this faraway corner of Eden?
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He never talks about sports or girls. He talks about men — dead men, electrical engineering geniuses like Nikola Tesla and Philo Farnsworth.
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Gleb said the first night — with Wendy, Dave and the band and drop-ins and Sonia’s lasagna in the back room — was the best of his trip.
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