THE BEAT GOES ON
BUFFALO, N.Y.—He was walking down the street lost and alive, looking for a reason to exist, when he came across this garishly painted bi-centennial trash barrel sporting the listless face of George Washington. His hands began to tremble as he set out on a determined journey to the bottom of the garbage abyss.
THE BEAT GOES ON
On The Nod
BUFFALO, N.Y.—He was walking down the street lost and alive, looking for a reason to exist, when he came across this garishly painted bi-centennial trash barrel sporting the listless face of George Washington. His hands began to tremble as he set out on a determined journey to the bottom of the garbage abyss.
Halfway to his destination, he had to take a moment's pause to pass last night's dinner. Pushing aside the flyencrusted, half-eaten dog head he'd just found staring at him in dazed bewilderment—retch-gag-and enchantment—he plunged ever downward.
At the plateau of oblivion he ceased up, his eyes stinging from the crystilliferous gleam of a discarded MD 20 20 bottle. Moke sauce, he thought to himself, but classy nonetheless: the image of a half-eaten moke monster, head razored through his cracked iris. Further along in the maze of miscast mush he caught a fleeting glimpse of some Star Brothers Port: the MOR of Wineography. His fingers hurt. He persisted.