Bumping with Wonderfulness.

So yeah. You're a rag tag bunch from where the sun dont shine and the glass is murky with steam from the kids pressing their noses to the windows and saying 'I wanna be like that when I grow up'. When it rains, it pours, and the moon always casts long shadows on the men in the back alleys trying to barter your soul for another ounce of smack. Its the best and worst of times, no realization of that long forgotten dream, and just when you're starting to look up in life someone comes around and beats you in the face just for smiling. Insert pause for a drag. Exhale.

Dont fret, its just the way life is - sherrifs got to find /somebody/ to beat on, and that happens to be your gang. Stick together and you might find that the night is darkest just before the dawn and our cellophane clothes dont help to keep out the cold. "Now lissen here childe" We hear our mothers muse, "You gotta be strong if you wanna be in the big league." And boy, was she right. But whats one man, if not a mouse, then is he a lion? One man compared to a hundred just doesnt seem that right - but take a whole bunch of men and put them all together in one gang...A gang with all kinds of colors and signs and uniforms. It just might survive the night.

You might come to me after listening and say 'I can dig, cat - But can /you/ dig?'...And maybe I'll pause...Maybe I'll look to the cloud covered sky and remmenisce of my lonelier days. Maybe a tear will drop from my eye and maybe one wont. But eventually I might say...

"I can dig pretty deep."

The only use with digging is if you hope to make a trench, and even then - the moment comes when you'll have to run out over the top into an unknown texture of an alien world and not a single unmarked helicopter in sight to up-whisk you away to a safe location, pending a further investigation from the appropriate authorities... most likely the SPSD - Sherriff's Department, for those that may not have heard - for crimes up to and including theft under $1, 000.

There's more than a few hands out here from the old West, livin' off the fatta' the lan', having migrated with the times; though, with their spirit still liganed to a ranch-style fence of passive intuition. There's always a nice view from the bridge.

Mice and men? The only thing with talking to a lion is not to worry while it listens but at the moment when it decides to reply. Unless it clenches it's teeth and calls out to the East, it'll be hard pressed to open and say 'West'.

Anyway, enough about me. What are those Rain Dogs you keep mentioning?

Diggin' is only good when y'got a body that needs rid of.

Diggin's a good way to get a free trip to china, my friends.

All around though, I've got nothing much to say about in disagreement to either of you - though that would be a lie. I could go on and on about the raindogs and probably bore you to the point of going running a bath and openning your veins. That would also be a lie. The Rain Dogs are a large, regimented, gang of miscreants and maniacs. Most of that would be a lie. In fact, most of what I'm going to say will be a lie. Or maybe it wont. No, I dont think it will.

Theres not much to know about 'em, would be the truth. Either that or I'm not looking hard enough...Tis a shame that such an interesting group of blues listening vagabonds doesnt have that much to tell about them.

A wise man once said "When a man who is quiet finally speaks, everyone will listen." Perhaps these 'RainDogs' are of that breed as well?

A wise man also said "Ignorance is bliss."

Perhaps it is best not to dig further into the rabbithole?

"'How do you know so much about everything?' was asked of a very wise and intelligent man; and the answer was 'By never being afraid or ashamed to ask questions as to anything of which I was ignorant.'"

Wise men don't condone ignorance. Keep digging, boys. We'll hit the bottom before the sun checks out and the streets go black. I'll brew another urn, and get some friends on the line. With any luck, these Rain Dogs'll just be a hoax. All the better, I've left the engine running - tonight we head west 'til the horizon falls off.

West be the place to go. Far west where the sun shines high and the old injuns deal their white powder to the vagabond passerby, who doesnt know that the devil inside it wants to devour his soul. They say you're crazy, babe, but they say I'm a demon - and done bun cant be undone once you've dug down into my lair.

There wont be no rain and the only dogs will be the cayotes on the horizen, watching you hungrily.

Dig until the blood from your hands stains the dirt of the earth on which we reside. Answers will be uncovered whether they are found wanting or not.

If you gotta dig til you bleed then they either dont exist, or your better off not knowing. I myself will dig until my shovel breaks. I'll be wearing gloves to stop the splinters and blisters from ruining my ever so dainty hands.