I Spit On Their Agony

My daughter kind of enigmatically warned me
not to get caught in "the hotel limbo".  It's been a month
now, and I haven't even turned on the TV in here.
Tonight, I got to feeling a little confined, the air conditioning
coming on and shutting off, that repeating pattern of
sounds starting to bore into me, so I pressed the button on the remote
and the TV fired up with channel after channel of nothing I wanted
anything to do with until black and white Anthony Quinn as
Zorba the Greek.

I guess I've never watched that movie all the way through. The orthodox townspeople
are twitching and snarling with blood lust, surrounding a long haired beauty in black.
Who is she? An adulteress, I'm guessing, and I just know they're going to stone her.
And what about the dead guy those glaring men carry on their shoulders, who is he?
The husband, wronged, who threw himself into the sea, I'll wager. Their brother.
Anyway, they eventually cut her throat despite brave Zorba's attempt to defend her.
Because a village has it's way of doing things, and you just don't want to buck that.

I'm going out to eat another bad meal prepared by distracted teenagers.
Not much of the food here has been much good, and I'm considering not eating
at all next month. So on to the Desert Flower, where I had such a good time a month ago.
But it's not there this time, that good time, it's fucking comedy night.
How much comedy can one small high desert town sustain?
I'm not feeling it at all, the people start looking to me like Zorba's psychotic villagers,
and I know it's time to go.

Out in the street
someone makes a big noise gunning his engine.
Wow, that car's almost flying -
for about two blocks.