The Bushman hideth...Izzy on board...psychedelic glamor punk string bands and Mummers Parades. We're headed to Thursday!

I don’t know about you people, but I’m ready for a few days of sun. Thought I was going to have to swim into Cosmic City yesterday. Like any other person in this part of the country, I’m always delighted to see rain, but I’d rather it come when I want it to. Eh well…

The Trump’s White House is all in a dither over the firing of Comey. The assistant deputy vice attorney generalist Rosenstein threatened to quit when the White House pointed at him as the impetus for the firing (he claims it wasn’t him). Even everyone’s favorite spokesman Spicy (henceforth will be known as Bushman) is on the run. He was discovered hiding in bushes to avoid having to face the media yet again over The Trump’s decision. Ho ho…this is without a doubt the most entertaining administration ever.

But, I digress…

The reason that I had to go into town yesterday was because the consultant from OKC arrived. Isidore Fettboden is the dude’s name. We had to go into town to get him because: 1) Izzy, as Cousin Fred is already calling him, doesn’t drive; 2) Greyhound no longer runs a bus line to Cosmic City (do they to anywhere?); and, 3) his ride, a bull hauler on his way to Dodge City, dumped him at the truck stop on the west edge of town.

Isidore informed us at the truck stop that he prefers being called by his initials, I.F., but you say it as it were the word, if. He also insists that if we address him in a note that it be a little i, and a capital F.

iF…makes sense, right? Cousin Fred just started calling him Izzy, at which the OKC consultant shrugged and pointed to his bags on the floor in the truck stop.
I ignored the bags, stepping over them and went outside to the vehicle. Cousin Fred, eager to tap Izzy’s expertise, gathered the bags and showed the OKC consultant outside.

As we drove back to The Compound, I asked Izzy about his experience putting on music festivals. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, but then pulled the sequined glove from his left hand and laid it across one of his legs.

“I have plenty, thank you,” was all he said. He turned his head and looked out the side window the rest of the trip.

So much for traveling conversation.

After settling Izzy in the upstairs apartment of the Cab, he insisted that we get to work. We took one of the tables down in the bar area to talk. He wanted to see the plans, permits, insurance policies, and contact lists that we had to that point.

Cousin Fred and I just looked at one another. Cousin Fred then went over to the trash can and dug out the napkin on which he had written various names before coming up with the festival name, A Clustering of Gigolos.

He went to explain to Izzy, who refused to actually touch the napkin, that we had settled on the name after deciding to go after the Insane Clown Posse’s audience at The Gathering of Juggalos Music Festival in OKC.

I piped in with a brief explanation of the Insane Clown Posse, but Izzy held up a hand to stop me.

“I am very familiar with the act, thank you.”

After a rather lengthy discussion of everything that needed to be done before we could even think of putting on a show, Izzy pointed out a flaw in our plan.

Namely, that everyone attending the Gathering of Juggalos is really drawn by the headlining act, Insane Clown Posse. Izzy suggested that Cousin Fred and I needed to come up with an act of our own. He suggested that we put our heads together and think about it. As Cousin Fred and I were thinking (it mostly amounted to the two of us staring at one another), Izzy got up from the table and poured himself a tall glass of vodka at the bar.

Cousin Fred, again (he’s on a roll) came up with a plan. He offered that we would start our own band and call it the Deranged Mummers Parade. I got up from the table and went over to the bar to pour myself a drink.

Cousin Fred said that he was in Philadelphia one New Year’s Day years ago and caught part of the annual Mummers Parade through downtown. Since a lot of the entries into that parade are string bands, he suggested that we (meaning himself and me) could do something similar. His plan includes me playing an electric ukulele and Cousin Fred will play an electric banjo. The music in his view should have a psychedelic glamor punk feel to it.

I continued drinking heavily at the bar.

Izzy considered that for a time and then declared it “positively genius.”

Somehow, I don’t think this will end anytime soon.

That is all!
 

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