Friday, November 04, 2005

Desperate Pink Living Flamingos


With the wings of the Sweet Black Grievous Angel icing up, the Liquid Ghost Tour made an emergency landing in the town where husky drag queens have been cajoled into ingesting dog poo on camera, Edgar Allen Poe died and Johnny Unitas deigned to walk among mortals.

After we bounced to a stop, our Baltimore man-friday, Rudi, cut us out of the wreckage, put Bactine on our boo-boos and escorted us smartly across the street to Dangerously Delicious Pies.
To our surprise and bewilderment, they seemed to be expecting us.

Our spirits bolstered by sweet potato pie and Bohemian National Beer the Atomic Elf and I each delivered rousing performances whilst those in attendance grinned back at us through crumb and berry filling smeared faces.

Inevitably, things turned Marxist (Groucho, Chico, Harpo, Zeppo) with performer and spectator alike tossing desserts with abandon. Things escalated to a dangerous level when Shelby got a spoonful of yummy peach cobbler right in the eye and laid low her attacker with the deft brandishing of a pie crust crimper and much honking on her Harpo horn.

Before things turned truly tragic, the melee was diffused by the musical stylings of the shop’s owner, Rod Henry, whose song about being a paper boy reduced me to sitting on the floor, rocking and wailing. Concerned that my carryings on would bring the authorities. We implemented a tactical retreat to the Full Moon to witness the twangy guitar wizardry of Al Wildcat in a smoky (up yers, Mr. Bloomberg) beer and costume filled atmosphere.

Then we were handed off to our hotelier for the evening, Wedge, who entertained us ‘till the itty-bitty hours in a salon type atmosphere with strange and wondrous tales of heart melting mercy and brutal, bestial savagery.

Next morning we were a bit frayed around the edges, what with the bon mots aplenty and the witty banter and all, but nothing the purchase of a bright blue 6-string ukulele couldn’t fix. That accomplished we barnstormed into Frazers on the Avenue for an impromptu set with our new ally Rockin’ Al Wildcat. Though the Ravens’ close loss briefly doused the spirits of those in attendance, joy was plentiful after an exhibition of crack Dodgeballsmanship by the local team who was then kind enough to all sign a ball and feed it to Dolly/Dali (urp.) The uke came in quite handy as Halloween brought the usual helping of zombie hula girls, vampire Don Hos and not one, but three people in full Sol Hoopi regalia.

Ricky and I managed to bamboozle a wiccan lady (who seemed to be channeling the spirit of a southern gentleman, say Jack Daniels or George Dickel, or both simultaneously and in great plurality) out of the phone number for a 12 year old guitar magi. All proceeds from his sale will go toward the Dolly/Dali Doggy Dodgeball Defense Fund.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door.

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