The matchmaker comes in with his
bromide stick, listening to some
1940's big-band record of putrid
sound. Pillow-encasing broadsides
could be no worse. Listen now to
this little man singing Sinatra anew.
At Carlisle House in - yes - Carlisle,
PA, they line up outside Bob's Big Boy
to dine. They call it that for real and in
all seriousness - still watching old black
detective shows on a large-screen TV.
It really pathetic : you can hear someone
yell, 'Carlson, get down!', in a panic, and
then three shots go off. Carlson's been shot.
No real reason, just to advance the plot. He's
black, and this is some race-relations episode.
I'm just traveling through, on my due west;
driving through sideland mounds of nothing
at all - small, crumpy town, one heap after
the other. It's as if a kingdom of donuts and
waffles have taken over the land, but I just
keep moving on. I can't establish the
investment to stay anywhere at all.