REBASLIGHT NOT WORKING MOVIE
He read the Sunday feature about war veterans, then some melodramatic article about a movie star's retarded daughter and their fight to end some condition. Levi melted to his barstool and grabbed a newspaper from a barstool adjacent to him. The music dissolved into a din of glass sliding on wood, old hippies bickering about San Francisco and a toss-haired gay woman screaming into the sticky payphone at the other end of the bar. He remarked of their value to the bartender, but most of this was done with a hidden, weary impatience for both parties. Some of the more potable, lethargic musicians like Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, Ernest Tubb. America's forgotten innocence-all lightning strikes in the annals of history that he had wished he hadn't missed.
It was all a little inappropriate for Levi, a little sanguine. Its arm descended onto the spinning black surface and a Buddy Holly song began. And the old-fashioned jukebox reached down for another shiny black record. The economical way of the divine, to only feel you deserve nothing. Their image, their mutation from the divergent to the complacent, kamikaze sensationalists of the Nam era to cocktail drones drinking rail whiskey–it saddened him. Their pastel Hawaiian shirts and water-stained buckskin jackets clung to their skinny arms. Their hair strung, wet-looking, gray and twisted to just above their shoulders. They were leering off into the bar's long mirror, their cheeks swallowed up by LSD and mescaline and morning glory seeds. A little army of cobwebbed beachcombers in the bar.
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