Sigh. I don’t know. If I found myself transported back to the hometown of my high school years (1972-1976), I’d be all over the place, taking in the sights and sounds, dropping in on family, friends, and old loves, visiting the places that are gone.
This tired old fuck sits on a park bench. What is it with people in this strip with park benches?
Looks like the Fourth of July festivities have ended; the good folk of late-20th century Westview have gone home to watch The ABC Sunday Night Movie, and they’ll be rolling up the sidewalks soon. Old Funky sits alone, enumerating, in order, the things that occupy his thoughts: the economy…his elderly father…and…what’s my son’s name? Oh, yeah, Cody, uhh, Cory.
Son of Stuck Funky 