While likening cool weather to Walt's cryogenetical brain in low degrees that discolor finger tips & toe nail beds & labial *****, I cut my 1-day ticket to confetti. The loss of a $120-chit doesn't make me less of a Venezuelan millionaire. I could sit for days watching pigeons being fried on the curb-side or scaling fish-heads at the burned-out laundromat. It's a baleful trip to the dog-ovens where dogs are baked on lower settings. Motor oil on cabbage under a bridge doesn't do much for diesel mechanics when the cops are slaughtering rebels in the streets during regulated business hours. "Down in space it's always nineteen eighty-two," sang David Bowie while Caracas smoldered a flat flight from Brixton where Jamaicans frolic because chicken is cheap and nobody's sacrificed a goat there since the E.U. folded because there's mud in their eyes and bruises on their thighs and pus on their bow ties from cutting the wrong guys as it takes all sorts of people to make a McDonald's "beef" patty. There's José & Shirley & Moses & Lenny & Curly.