Surveillance Pelicana Chapter 6: ‘Waking the Dead at MacLand and Bobby’s’




The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:

Chapters 1-10:

Chapters 11-20:

Chapters 21-30:



Waking the Dead at MacLand and Bobby’s

Mac Long and Sarah Ivy, friends of Tyger, hold

court at MacLand. They make local derelict Clyde get out of the

trash. Some bongo jamming takes place. Later, Tyger, Mac and

Armor’s go to Bobby’s Club by the streetcar barn and listen to an

rock and roll group called the New Neanderthals. They return to

the paradise recalled that is MacLand.



“Waking the Dead at MacLand and Bobby’s”



Chapter Six




Pretty little black girls, all in a row. One flies southward,

the others walk home.

Beautiful monochrome pigeons rock last laughs at that across

Oak Street cat who looks over his shoulder grabbing bats last.

Next image.

Gipper will and Nancy won’t. They party down in these last

hours of their Alzheimer’s miracle.

Hey, who is really in charge here — Baker, Casey, Weinberger, Bush?

Nobody knows.

History trudges along leaving an indelible mark. Holy, shit,

Batman. Molecules is ‘xploding.

Atoms, particles, and inexplicable physical phenomena

stretch from pillar to post mocking man who is powerless to a

fault. Like wow, mind-blowing shit.

Currently being transported mystically to this state of

mind is Tyger detector returning to this place for the umpteenth

million time. He is an existential moot point transmogrified

by events beyond his camera’s eye through time. Hark!

A blade of light in a silver streak sparks these thoughts.

“Good things happen to those who wait.” “Bad things happen



Chapter Six




to good people.” Conversation drifts along between

Mac Long and girlfriend Sarah Ivy.

Another silent explosion divisible by the hands of fate.

Welcome to a slice of paradise amended. Recollections of a

feather nest upended. Fly you little blackbirds as we recall.

“Hey, there has been some bad shit happening lately, baby”

“Bad shit happens to good people.” “No shit.” “Shit.”

“Forget all that shit for now.” “Aw, shit on it.” “You are

shitting me.” And like “Shit.”

Disembodied voices once lost in time are discussing the

absent Tyger. “What do you suppose he thinks he’s doing?” “Wha?”

“Yeah like, hear he has got a what ya call it?” “Job.”

“Yeah, like wow. Job. Ihought he was independently

wealthy.” “Like, he’s cracking up.” “No shit.” “Shit.”

“Armor’s told me he was following people around.” “Groovy

Anyone we know?” “Never know.” Little feathers floating on a

couch in a room in a house by a square in the Carrolton section.

of forever young New Orleans. Elusive illusions mark forward progress.

“Hey like listen to this.” Cascading down a million big bang

explosion African drums Mac expands the universal principle of

order made from chaos. “Yeah, I like, cool, ” Sarah coos.

Impulsive implosion. Entropy. Reverse exact replay of a

certain moment. Another joint jointly disappears.



Chapter Six




Here ye hear ye. Have another hit.

Sweet joy in these made-for-television actual

real-life true remakes of previous news fake items.

What is it this time? Good things happen to bad people.

Obviously, they have met a few.

Digging outside in the trash like a ferret like a groundhog

like a little black rat is dear old Clyde, a local semi-derelict.

Hey Clyde, get out of the trash. He is a neighborhood guy.

“Uhh well, just you know, looking,” Clyde swings, and misses,

strike two behind in the count, wandering past

an open gate through the small green yard up a few steps and

on the porch in front of a three-bedroom shotgun dwelling.

Get out of the house, Clyde. “Like, well I was just looking

around and you got any spare change? Want to buy some clickums?”

(Note: Clickums were marijuana cigarettes laced with pcp or

some type of animal tranquilizer that made a person somewhat

lightheaded and very insane. They never became as popular as rock

crack cocaine. Lower profit margin.)

“No Clyde, ‘”‘Like I was just wondering,” “No, Clyde … ” “If

you could just spare some change man.” “O.K. Then leave.”

A highly religious give-and-take or a badminton smitten

birdie in flight. Today’s Clyde toll: Two bits, four bits. A dollar.

O.K. Clyde blasts off, careening down Oak Street.

Good day already. The usual kitty litter spread on the

world about you dude. Buy a newspaper Clyde.

“You did a great performance the other night,” one sensitive



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MacLand soul tells another . “I loved the way you got yourself up

to the top of the ceiling using that pulley contraption.”

“Yeah. It took a lot of upper body strength.”

They are discussing an artist’s party the previous night

at a warehouse district loft.

“And you. Great idea sitting in the front window with an

endless tape loop of Mr. Ed reruns. Truly awe full art inspiring.”

And in the far corner, as light outside begins its daily

dissipation, a small bongo beat follows. It gathers steam as a

spirit calling all followers. Guide us sir beat as we this sacred

moment meet. Mac and all have a jamming fine time.

Pretty young girls in long dresses, unshaved armpits,

legs, nose rings and tie-dye fashions.

What a joyous and nostalgic puff of smoke as a drum machine now smashes.

They giggle as a corner scoop of beautiful pelicans;

congas and bongos crashing.

Welcome to the jungle. Hear the lion roar. Graceful gazelles

scooting towards the kitchen. Where goes that Tyger neo-detective?

Rumbling bumbling stumbling sounds cascade on a hardwood

floor. This ain’t Bourbon Street. So they love it.

Yowza, yowza, dowza, rising flying spirit sounds soar to

seven millionth heaven. Next door, the dead at Louis’s Funeral

Parlor do not even shake, rattle, role a finger at the rhythmic conflagration.

Wait, comrades. Maybe their fingernails are clicking after all.



Chapter Six




Where’s the chicken? Missing information. So cries the hot

tamale man. So dives a prospector seeking spiritual gold. Yes,

dear spirit guide, come to this place. It will make you whole.

Such is the pulsating recollection of MacLand’s karmic song.

Memories of jam sessions pass under the bridge and float along

free at last, thank dawgs and cats almighty.

Paradise revisited. Creating a new world from anarchy and disorder.

A white pelican soars above an orange purple sunset levee to

the west. Big mudddy river flows. Final bicyclists request an

encore performance of that lovely MacLand song.

Over there, see, enters Tyger through the open door.

“Hey, you’re no Clyde,” Sarah comments. “What’s happening’?”

“What it is.” Mac replies for Tyger’s sake.

“In some circles,” Tyger says, “I am considered a smart

guy, but I am considered an idiot in others.”

“That’ssssss nice,” Sarah serpentines real time.

Tyger tells Mac all about the developments of the last two weeks.

“Yeah, heard a rumor about something like that from Armor’s.

“Hey, I’m into it, baby.”

“Sounds groovy, maybe.”

Mac picks up another drum beat, snatching it

with a mysterious hand from a solid block of atmosphere.

Outside, the occasional automobile and life’s plans backfire.

Or are those gunshots? Only the shadow knows. It gets wild

around there. New Orleans is their kind of madhouse town.



Chapter Six




About an hour passes. Mac is reigning king of the

Uptown barbecue crowd. Chicken breasts answer grillings

with flavorable aplomb.

Mac takes a quick break checking charcoal for heat. Burning

nicely, thank you. Tyger, Tyger also burning bright.

Resumption of spirit beat.


What follows is a description of a sacred state:


A hypothetical hidden valley Uptown on a semi-hysterical

street. Oak trees hanging around mid-sized shotgun houses.

Telephone polling the usual suspects amidst acts high-wire.

Darkness lonely heroes your grand design unfurls its

boisterous banner. Hangers-on and mysterious survivors step

lively through existential mine fields.

Hahahaha. Rain forest drums reach epiphanies that, in turn,

wander wondrously towards zenithal callings. Allusion, collusion,

confusion and mixed metaphor bombarding an army charging inside.

Hey sisters and brothers– duck and cover, y’ all.

A four-track reel-to-reel tape player rounds into view.

Large microphone wrapped in grey duct tape is suspended on a

four-foot base, silver stand. Mac must be taping live.

Pretty little girls in sexless sack dresses, swooning

swans as they come and go, speaking of Barry Manilow.

One, two, three pretty maids, all in a row.

One flies northward. One on a thin silver flute blows.



Chapter Six




Girl with a tasteful nose ring drifts into lofty repose.

Tyger taps a lamp base and for a change of tone

two empty beer bottles as he reclines on vibrating floor.

Two cats scramble for cover. One finds a higher plane to

paw on a blank lamp shade. They illustrate cat subspecies

wingheadus, a MacLand feline tradition.

Christmas lights twinkle twinkle little star of old hat

Bethlehem. Dare we name this Shangri-La?

Nah. Paradise is over by now, although that is beyond

current participatory ken.

Follow the chanting mantra ball y’all. Their fingernails are

clicking. Intensely esoteric beats sing of revolutions that they

lost, and why; revolutions yet to come, and how far and

wide they will grow. Or not.

Bongos, congas, weird old drums fleeting flying spirit

guides. What is that mystery sax Mr. Milty spies?

Toot toot alors, little darlings for tonight briefly jams as one.

Moments of time lovingly suspended fom memory like water

slipping off a melting icicle. Winter days in New Orleans can

feel much colder than they are because of high humidity and

contrast with the usually miserable heat index.

However, on this particular composite date, memories flow

together in scenes as one. All is warm, all is right.

Toot toot tootsie, good night.



Chapter Six




Twister? Twister? For some reason

a game has begun to slither and slide.

Strange diversions. An old cassette of Roxy

Music’s “Stranded” space-time’s by.

Scene right, stage left. A joint break for the chosen few

from Armor’s homegrown pot stash.

Beachcombers pick over a tape rewound. Mac turns down Bryan

Ferry, turning up the Macland sound gone wildly bizarre. Alright

pretty babies; a tisket, a tasket, yer a faggot and

that is a take. Cowabunga!!!

A semi-hey line brushes greatness along a corridor leading

to the room of ultimate release, the bathroom. Hey hey hey,

pushing subjects beyond objects, then down under.

Hey hey hey. Yoooow! Stuff like that was very much like fun.

However, we must leave this place for now.

Faces dissolve, up up up in sweet smoke. Offstage actors

stretch and strut the night away.

Mac wraps up the session and prepares to make the local haze.

Off to Bobby’s, a sad local excuse for a rock and roll club.

Here at the appointed hour, a local fake attraction prepares

to open for some far-out national act. Attendance appears sparse

even though this is a weekend night. Bad scene.

Armor’s shows up with the attractive pussy lady from the

Blue Bayou, she of the sexy breasts and sweet disposition …What

was her name again? Doesn’t particularly matter.

They are all properly placed for the moment, comrades.



Chapter Six




Pete Fountain plays at the Fair Grounds.

This unfair ground is wired for the New Neanderthals.

The New Neanderthals are good, but star struck, and not in the good way.

Lost in time, they play some lesser-known, but no less lively

late-1950’s covers. Their following is small, yet strong as is the whiff of

patchouli oil overpowering Bobby’s usual stale beer odor.

MacLand and fellow travelers pony up to the show.

Various shades in black glide past a barn streetcar across the

street. Red brick exterior walls mingle with the vague stench of

fragrance interior dark. Step lively as you walk through time.

Bellying up to the bar are melting styroheads; red, purple,

Mardi Gras colors, green and gold, elongating, combining in the

raging fire. Spirit auras of all that disre-embers.

See these talking heads, faces with names and secret lame

games infinitely pretending. They are endless stories unaware of

current surveillance. Tyger will never tell until later.

Information cascades out of control everywhere through the

expansion of space forever misled.

Pretty little girls and how they have no doubt aged.

Dreams never lived now disappear down black holes gone.

Forgotten sounds emanate from such a locale as is this moment

recollected and represented by an out-of-date group of New



Chapter Six




Neanderthals so-called.

Everyone stands around partying to the New Neanderthals sounds.

Paradise lost that they never knew began. The New Neanderthals

are passing nuts and bolts lost in pre-history.

This moment barely passing by the wetlands near the levee

along the Mississippi River’s crescent curve that is

for the sake of argument, Saturday Jan. 16, 1988.

The dark black clad rockers have a temporary ball and chain,

no thoughts of futures large or small.

‘Tis a zen party moment. Any gurus out there celestially

interested still? If only time weren’t so easily lost in space.

So it goes, so it goes, so it lovely longing blows.

The drummer pretends to break a sweat. A few lively

styrofoam cutouts twist and shout.

Streetcars come and go. More beer greets a light joint outside.

Weather tonight could be an inhibiting factor.

Temperatures certainly are dropping. So are patrons. But as they say,

the show must go on?



Chapter Six




Clang clang clang go the

instruments. The vocalist, a sickly

looking black youth dressed in black, croons ever so awkwardly.

It almost pains to watch.

“This is the end, my…er,” long pause, “uhhh, friend, the…

uhhh, end.” Doo wah doo-wah ditty. Tasteful mystery guitar from

Mr. Milty and a few hot licks from Buck, shady lead guitarist.

Of course, Heave Broward, bass guitar player, is lame.

But that is his job. Fake is real.

Heave is a tall vacuous shit who steals everybody’s fun

through a constant disinformation campaign. How does he get away

with it? Simple, everyone wants to believe his lies are true.

Such represents his ultimate problem, total lack of

artistic creativity that must be covered up at all karmic cost.

But we digress. Karma.

Melting heads, belting heads, some are even drinking head.

Bobby’s becomes a huge mural of elongating, shrinking, wall banging half-lives.

Strange phantoms slam-dance near the stage,

run around outside, smoke reefers at car parties,

then sit back down beer sloshing, hard liquor chasing

thrown in for contrapuntal measure.

Featured act crashes cymbals, smashes guitars, playing to

a very bitter end, loud as an airport runway landing the beat.

Bobby himself mills about Bobby’s surveying the aimless wanna have

fun wannabee — shall we say — crowd. How does he stay in business?



Chapter Six




Favorable lease or inheritance no doubt.

Are we having fun yet? Let us consult our guru.

Where in hell is Mac of MacLand nearby?

No matter, noise splatters. New Orleans knows no closing time.

Too bad, everyone seems to be tiring en masse.

Tyger and group pour unfinished beer in cups to-go,

wandering the few blocks back to the MacLand asylum.

All is quiet, all is calm. Ish.

Mac flips on the cassette deck at relatively soft volume.

Ahh, sweet melodic harmony, for a change, flutters infinitely

around loping ear lobes.

“This boggles the minds-eye,” Armor’s remarks to Mac as his

date repairs to the back area, commiserating with Sarah. Armor’s

surfs around the known universe, returning empty-handed.

“What you looking for?” Mac asks.

“I don’t know,” Armor’s replies, “or else I would have found it.”

“Explain to me again how millions of simultaneous thoughts

shoot through your mind’s-eye in a nanosecond,” Tyger asks.

“More, or less, a nanosecond,” Mac sez.

“Oh,” Armor ‘s suddenly remembers. “I gotta run. Where’s my date?”

A few parting reeds, strange orchestral bleats, mini explosions,

red red robins, songbirds bobbing. Sounds linger, blowing

the night away. Yet it is a tasteful tune, sweet background music



Chapter Six




for a dockside video or garden party rhythm.

“Nice, nice, nice,” Mac rocks back in a comfy chair taking

in his latest, and greatest, procreation.

“Yes, we have had our moments,” he concludes in reefer

smoke. “Would that it were always such,” adds Tyger every

man observer of the moment.

Late night, early morning, MacLand crowd wants to stay but

leaves as psychically ordained. Tyger resumes his “interesting”

new job Monday bright and early.

Mac and Sarah walk down the path to the front gate, waving

so long, goodbye to the crowd that departs smi1ing.

“See y’all later.” “Later, gator.”

A final song emanates from within their hearth, their home.

It longs, as in the movies, for a final happy ending.

How right, the moment feels.

How justly sublime.

How then

And now.

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