block party

Last night, typing diligently with a view from the window, an elongated van the color of a burnt hot dog rolls up, trailer in tow. My cross-street neighbors, America’s fave carnie-friendly folk-pop band les D3c3mburrists, bound out in procession like clowns emerging from a toy car, embracing a sole Tecate and screaming my name from below. It is as if someone has ordered me a Queen’s English candy gram, to be played on lap steel. I am disappointed the trailer contains instruments and not baby performative Clydesdales. They have not been home in 30 days, doing sold-out shows at le Grand Ole Opery and, like, Spaceland; Fonk lowers himself to push-up position and actually kisses the ground, which is disgusting because of the rats. For 10 minutes, it is fam-reunion, block-party style. The van, comically huge like Willy Wonka’s hot air balloon, takes up the entire drive-way, so that even kids rocking bikes must find alternate routes. It is like that Janet Jackson video* w/Cab Calloway & Syd Charise, attached to which song I cannot remember.
Absence, hearts and whatnot. Welcome back to the gulliest well-turned ankles representing Irv Park.
*or the EMP Funk Blast (RIP) [sans weird racial subtext], or actually, now that I think about it, nearly every Janet Jackson video ever from like, 1987-1991 (“Pleasure Principle” excluded–that was a celebration of self.)