Last Saturday morning, as the dawn sloughed off its Chicago overcoat and lifted its red face like a Russian flag on a Florida honeymoon, a hipster hit the streets.
And then a parked bus.
Arthur Oscar Ramone IX blamed it partly on not having his specs, and partly on the juice jolt iron boxes of the mainstream that pollute our atmospheres and alleyways.
“I used to know this guy,” Arthur began, “who had rabbit’s blood and the face of a Harlem sunset. He only hung with Roundheels and always knew his groceries. Man, that guy knew his groceries. EVERY night was littered with dead soldiers and boiled cabbage. People–mainstreamers–thought his roof was leaking, you know, but he was straight from the fridge.
Then he lost his glasses.”
At this point, we assumed that Arthur had sustained head injuries. And it wasn’t just the vomit of re-purposed Bud Light Platinum that gave it away.
“I used to know this guy,” Arthur began again.
Luckily, the EMTs arrived in their mainstream red and white and took him away.