Grateful Dead

...on the way to OZ. It seems that Guido was once again being forced into the role of "The Family Hammer" in this sprint to get to the great Oz,, who, it seemed, had two good bitches and two bad bitches under his control, plus a few other freaks missing vital organs, who were part of Hippy's crew. One of the evil bitches had command of the squad of flying monkeys and Guido thought there might be some easy way to use them to to make the hit on Oz. Hippy was a bad influence though. He spoiled all his bad plans with those poppies, making everybody feel like they were lost in a Chinese Opium den in NYC in the 20s. Something had to be done about this intractable situation. But what?

am i awake,asleep,dreaming what is this road here all yellow made out of bricks and what are all they flapping hairy things flying above somebody.......

Flying monkeys are quite rare, and humans that interact with them are rarer still, so to say that Hippy and Guido had something in common is akin to saying that twins have "something" in common. But despite their obvious physical and philosophical differences, Hippy and Guido shared one other quirk of fate: they were blessed (many say "saddled" or even "cursed," but don't count Hippy or Guido among those naysayers) by their parents at birth with names that carried...expectations. Guido was raised in the Family, and the Family had a Business. Guido grew into his name and his business like corn grows in Iowa. In his early days, he acted as an enforcer for the Family: when gentler arts of persuasion failed to convince Family clients to do right (which is to say, pay up), Guido was adept at using brute strength, baseball bats, tire irons, lead pipes, and found objects by the dozen to bloody noses, bust jaws, break arms and legs, and shatter knees in order to convince recalcitrant clients to pay what was owed the Family. Even in later years as he rose through management, finally becoming a Boss, and then the Boss of Bosses, Guido remained hands-on in many of his business dealings. When it came time for a stupid, stubborn client to pay the ultimate price for crossing the Family, Guido always took the task on himself, and by himself. He had a sawed-off shotgum cunningly hidden in the trunk of every car that he owned, and used the weapon to dispatch his targets. And everywhere he went, whether it was the swamps of Jersey, the plains of Spain, the cornfields of Iowa, or that poppy field just over the rainbow from Kansas, Guido knew just the spot to stash the body where it would never, ever be found. Guido lived up to expectations, and he prospered. Hippy's story was a little different, as there was not really a family business nor history to live up to. To be honest, he grew wide at the hip in his mother's womb, causing so much grief at childbirth that she insisted that he be called "Hippy." It's right there on this birth certificate, notarized and sealed. Hippy eventually grew into his hips and became quite hip in the process. Hippy entered the burgeoning "hippie" scene in the Bay Area (what's up with that odd spelling, he often thought, as if the New York Times had any clue as to the proper spelling of "hippy"). Hippy was a hippie's hippie, admired and trusted by all. No object was more closely identified with Hippy than his 66 VW microbus, hand-painted (and over the years, hand-painted, and painted, and painted, until many wondered if there was still any steel left under all that paint) and lovingly maintained by Hippy for decades. The van has been driven over every continent but Antarctica (today Hippy looks at the shrinking ice mass at the bottom of the world, wondering if he'll get a chance for a roadtrip there before he dies), and is fast approaching the 3 million mile mark...or so. Hippy's van's odometer goes only as high as 99999.9, so keeping track of that 3 million miles has been nearly as much a challenge as keeping the old flower-powered warhorse on the road. Hippy began a tradition of, wherever he was, throwing a big party every time the odometer turned over. Usually 5 or 800 of his closest friends would show up in time for the festivities, but there was this one time in upstate New York, on a farm owned by a guy with a funny name, where things got a little out of hand. Half a million people showed up for the party, and the house bands (more and more just kept showing up) played and played and played. Hippy had grown into his name like hemp on the side of the road, and he too prospered, after his own fashion. But as much as Hippy and Guido had in common, it was their differences, especially their differences over the flying monkees, that set them on a dangerous path that one could not conceive of ending well.

poppies poppies poppies....

.......yawn!!!..........stay........awake.......poppies.......hee....heeheee......zzzzzzzz...

...had been opened way to often and the result was all these flying monkeys and buried mimes ambling about. Funny, it used to be a lot more transcendent when that box got opened back in the day. "Should I take them to OZ", he mused? If we follow the yellow-brick road past the poppy fields things are bound the get better, though there was bad blood between some clans of the flying monkeys. Ahh well, it always seemed a rather jolly time after a jaunt through the poppy fields.

the hallucinogens again....

The lonely Coors party ball back in the yurt began to pine for the missing monkey murder as it secretly longed to be with them given their original flight plan. It harbored secret desires to go tilting at windmills where it had heard such things might happen, and had little desire to be sentenced to either Iowa or Kansas. No, it had heard of far more interesting fields of grain, and it longed to see them. And so it began to gently strum its guitar and sing to itself, very soft, yet very clear. Guido, Tony and Bob were astonished at this display, their jaws hanging slack in amazement, but hippy was completely nonplussed as he and the beer ball went way back. "Far out, ball! I hear that," he said. "Maybe we should swing by and pick up the mimers, too. I'd bet they could use a nice vacation on the Costa Del Sol right about now!" As he was looking up the fail-safe money recall code for the day, Bob snapped out of it and said... Conversation is always more interesting than recitation, so speak your mind and not someone else's.

That swans are mean birds... really they are.. although not as vicious as turkeys, those damn things will chase you down and corner you! "It's got no signs or dividing line and very few rules to guide"

hmmmm......