Waxing children, wet feet and the power of Arby's.

I was walking barefoot down the damp sidewalk outside of the old Rt. 20 home of Platterpus Records. I never walk barefoot anywhere other than in my house. And even that doesn't happen very often. I arrived only to find out that it was closed. Scooter was with me. But not on a leash. I was pleased to see that the Rite Aid was still there. I was dying for a snack. I noticed that my feet were slightly damp from the sidewalk. The sky was an ominous gray, but it wasn't raining. Still there was the overwhelming feel of wet. The kind that you can smell. Scoot and I shuffled into the fifty by fifty foot Rite Aid that only seemed to sell diapers and other plastic, sealed items that were anything but edible. There was a soft pink/yellow hue just behind the first racks of less than desirables. So I told Scoot to wait there while I checked to see if there were any food products in back. There's never actual food in places like that. Just food products. As I rounded the corner I noticed three men in doctors shawls. Facing away from me. Their heads down towards their patients. Concentrating. They each had dark hair and white robes to the knees. I could see the legs of what appeared to be very young children on all three lily white space age tables. It was as if these little legs jettisoned from the doctors stomachs like some languid version of the film Alien. The doctors were all moving very slowly. At the counter, to the left, stood two women. They were perfect looking. And by perfect I don't mean attractive. They looked like flyer models. Not Victoria Secret. More like Sears. One was handing a brochure to a man who was very shiny and also perfect looking. He was probably from the Marshalls weekly. Turns out that the back of the Rite Aid had turned into a place for body waxing for toddlers. Of course it did. Three bored mothers sat in waiting chairs flipping through magazines while their six year olds were having their bodies waxed. I was hardly surprised to see the shallowness of Hollywood making its way to Wastefield, MA. I can only assume that body waxing six year olds is more common than baptisms in LA. I told Scooter to stay inside and wait while I continued to search for food.

I was hoping like fuck that no one would wax him.

In the parking lot outside of the Rite Aid sat a twenty five foot high, bright yellow vehicle. The windshield was no more than an average length and height, but it sat at the very top of the vehicle's giant frame. The front end moved sharp and distinctly to a triangular point at the ground. It resembled an oversized Boba Fett helmet painted the most vain of yellows that I had ever seen. Even in the gray murk of the wet sky. A window opened from far above and Lesa Beso leaned out. She already knew I was about to ask for food. She simply pointed down the road towards the bridge and said

You're never going to believe what's over there. Finger pointing due East.

Really? What is it?

You'll see. She answered. I could see Henning in the passenger seat. He was reading something.


I took no more than two steps to my right and there was Miranda Brown. Her hair was shorter and kinda hip-ly greasy. And it was much darker than I had ever seen it.

I'm wicked psyched. She said without the slightest sign of being so. I am fucking starved. It was obvious to me at that point that Miranda had moved from Austin, TX to somewhere in shithole Jersey. And she had been there for quite some time.


Whoa! When did that get there? I asked Miranda.

Standing in front of us, just across the street where there used to be a Roy Rogers there was a brand new Arby's. But this was no ordinary Arby's. It was at least twice the size of your average Arby's. It was encased in ground to ceiling pillars. The entire building was painted a bland yellow/brown earth tone. The lights inside were dim. A giant, script-printed sign bearing the name of the restaurant hung alone in a deep green pool against the yellow/brown castle. A stark beam of sunlight hit the top third of the building. Wastefield's new Mecca.

I just drove by here last week to play golf with my Dad and that wasn't here. I announced to no one, really.


There was drool. I could feel it. I rolled slightly to my left and my ribs screamed at me for a second. I grazed the side of my lip with my right hand to clean the spittle from my mouth.


I was now on the top step of my parents basement. I closed the cellar door behind me and was greeted by a fake elbow punch to the stomach by JJ O'Connell. I stood for a moment, somewhat unsure.

He laughed. Oh relax! It's not that fucking bad.

I felt my whole soul relax.

C'mon. Spouse is playing up here tonight.

I followed him into an attic room in my parents house that doesn't exist. There was a round table in the middle of the room. There were three people seated at it. Jose Ayerve and a guitar. Abby Barlow. And one other woman that I can't seem to recall. I sat down at the table and took in the room. It was littered with an old rock/folk club vibe. Somewhere between Bruce Tull's old haunt on Woodmont and CBGB's. There were nameless show flyers covering the walls. Ashtrays and old beer cans covering the table. Cables and amps and guitars covering the floor. Abby and the other woman I can't recall were talking. Jose was encased in a lucite tee-pee. It was half Boy-in-the-bubble and half Cindy Crawford Designs presents See-Through-Bed-Sheets. He began to play an announced "new song." I looked away from him for a moment to find that Abby was gone, but there were several photos of her still on the table. A framed 5x7. A couple of cut out high school photos and some old Hospital news clippings. Peter Davies was now talking with the woman I can't recall. He was showing her pictures of Abby. He had one of them that he had ripped and placed around his left ear like we used to do with 45's when we were kids.

Everyone starting singing along with Jose and his new song. Jose seemed to be donning a tattoo on his left arm that was barely visible due to the tacky white silk shirt he was wearing. And it was hard to see things too clearly from the outside of his Cindy Crawford/Boy-in-the-bubble cave. The song was so lucid. So deeply arranged and produced. There were several more instruments audible but oddly there was only the one guitar. The song itself was pretty bad. I remember wondering if this might be the first time I had heard Jose write a bad song. He kept singing the same refrain over and over again.

Release me...release me...release me...


More drool. From the other side this time. Jen is up. Maybe I should get up too. And maybe I should remember to dream more often.