We take for granted all that easily obtainable marihuana of our teens, and that ever-so-precious peyote gobbled in our twenties, and all this easily obtainable Xanax of our thirties; back in the day, there was just booze. You didn’t have to go cop, and everything you did score had rigorous quality control. Your only worry was making sure you got to Manny’s Grog n’ Groc before the Tick Tock Lounge called last call. That, and being certain you had a little something stashed for the moaning after.
Liquor should carry a Surgeon General’s warning that it will not make you Fitzgerald or Miller or Hemingway. With a little luck, though, it will neither make you Myron Funk.
The city has upped the numbering of Bellflower’s Burton Street from three digit to five, so it’s impossible to say which was Mrs. Lund’s home. They likely all have booze and ironing boards, but perhaps the residents are now inside sparking bongloads and playing Illbleed. Like, copacetic.
So we’ll leave you with an image of fingersniffing, ladykilling Funk, a man to have obviously been played by John Belushi in the biopic. Belushi, the man whacked by Cathy Smith, a woman whose body Mae Lund’s soul vengefully haunted.
