Dispatches+from+the+Moonshine+State

The moon shines dimly on our humble chunk of the map. It shines as dimly as any other chunk, but the city lights in West Waywood dominate the reflected and refracted light waves of the earth's satellite sphere. The homeless stumble over tumbled garbage, while the homemore stumble over tumbled homeless. The delis of the city mask the scent of the homeless. They don't so much mask it as overpower it, much like the city lights do to the moonshine over West Waywood.

We, the apartment-havers, laugh at this dynamic. This battle between the two light sources, this battle between the two social classes. It surprises us how analogous they are. Which is the more beautiful? Who is the more privileged? We attribute the continued existence of the battle to the lack of a true winner.

In these streets there are few things to see, but many things to do. This pleases the blind. The blind can do things. But seeing things is their problem area. Anywhere else, people talk about how beautiful it is. In West Waywood, there is way too much to do to take in the scenery.

John Candy, of some distant relation to the actor by the same name and named after that same actor by the same name, is the baker. He's called the baker, but his specialty is his steak. He actually can't raise a loaf for the life of him. He's more of a chef, but no one has a "chef" in the city. The field of "chefery" is booming in West Waywood, so to deem one chef "THE chef" would please few and insult many. He bakes some cookies every now and then, so the name is not entirely inaccurate.

He always tells stories of his time in the army. He brags of toting guns and crawling through dirt in the pouring rain, shaving his hair and climbing walls. He never deployed, but he doesn't tell anyone. After all, a fantastic fantasy is better than a painful truth.

Did I mention we make and sell moonshine?

For some reason it's very popular. I don't see it. I don't understand the appeal in making yourself stupid. Recreational nincompoopery is an epidemic, and it's going to be the death of us all. But who am I to judge.

Well, I guess it's my job... I am the judge. The town judge. Not very many towns have a town judge. But ours is one of them. And I am that judge. It's us, and I am it.

The mayor pointed me a few years ago. He pointed me. Our town is so small that he literally pointed at me, and said "YOU!", and raised his hands up to the skies, as though there was some ancient prophecy which my presence had just fulfilled. The clouds opened up, and the angels cried tears of joy. God stamped around on the hardwood floor, and shoved forks in the power outlets. The lights dimmed, and a crazy crazy rave began in the heavens. The prestige of the position of town judge rushed over me. I grew weak in the knees and fainted. When I awoke, my vision was blurry. When it came into focus, I noticed that the mayor was watching over me with glistening eyes. He leaned in to me, and said "Welcome to paradise", as he waved his hands across the tropical landscape that laid before me. Out of nowhere, steel drums played their soft ballad. Palm trees dotted the sandy beaches, and white waves teased the shores. Little children tripped over seaweed, and slightly older boys laughed heartily at their misfortune. At beach-side bars, men in white brushed wooden bamboo tables with even whiter dish rags, quickly placing cool smoothies on the waxy clean tops.

Well, maybe not. Maybe I just said, "Okay", and my life continued as usual, except now every time someone's upset at someone else, I have to determine who's right and who's wrong. Maybe I still have to work at this dumb old bank, giving dumb old people their dumb old money, when the mayor and I could be skipping around in Malibu with frosty drinks in our hands. Not that I'd like to spend time with the mayor, but if he really has to be there, I would still go.

(VERY INCOMPLETE)