TakeYourMedicine

In the windy mingling of dust and sweat that is Crawford, Texas,tumbleweeds blow past the entrance to Prairie Chapel. A dilapidated pickup has been abandoned near the Sheehan encampment, bugged to the hilt, some say.

Others disagree. Lonesome Cal, a Crawford observer, draws a husky, tobacco-stained breath, then spits. "It ain't what it used to be out here," he says. "Somethin' special is dyin'."

Maybe it's the sour odor in the air of dreams having crashed and burned. Of an increasingly estranged Condi and Dubya. Or the strain in the fuck-buddyship of Paul and Shaha.

Once there was the merry tinkle of the saloon piano, the bright costumes of the dance hall Ph.D's., the roar of laughter that rode the river of red-eye.

Now only the lonesome whistle of a freight train pierces the stillness of the wind that buffets the desert chapparel.

Git along, little Dubya. It's your misfortune and none of my own.