It’s my funeral, and every single person cries and sort of half-laughs, and shakes there head in a wry, knowing, manner, as if to say something pithy like “god bless you, you beautiful bastard, you.” Then they put their arms around each other and go grab a beer because, dammit, today is not a day to be sad. He wouldn’t have wanted it that way.
I’m working in a cubicle, but I throw my hands up in despair, beaten down by the straight-laced, button-down world of corporate America. My chest puffed up in pride, I leave the office building (somewhere between striding purposefully and skipping gleefully) and dance through the streets of the financial district, picking up a quirky gang of like minded individuals as I go. Then at some preordained intersection, we burst out into a choreographed number that we all inexplicably know. We smile, laugh, and (you guessed it) GET DANCIN!!!!
Picking up a hitchhiker who has nothing but a guitar outside of some dirty prison in the Arizona desert. Also, one or both of us is wearing a denim jacket. Screw it, we’re both only wearing denim. Also, the radio must have an actual dial that goes left the right, horizontally, as you turn it. We should probably run out of gas somewhere and have to walk a great distance, just to complete this fantasy.
Oh oh oh!!! Tom Waits is here somewhere, also!!!