I was going to write something profound and challenging, but then, dammit, there was this tune running through my head all day, and after I'd medicated myself to a peaceful and quiet state, I just couldn't get to it. Maybe it was the hullabalucinations:
They're selling postcards of the hanging
They're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
Here comes the blind commissioner
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
And the riot squad they're restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row
Guest Bloggery: Be sure to visit the natatorium of The Mighty Corrente Building, and tell the lifeguard the guy who lives in the tiny room under the stairs sent you. (You guys from The Corner: The safe word is "specimen jar.") But whatever you do, don't snap your towel at the hungover-looking guy wearing black socks with his crocs that nobody wants to sit near.-Lambert
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