The Ditch, part 1: Frank Zappa Lives?

He walks around the Ditch, silent and gaunt.  Sometimes he rides a bike.  He doesn’t smoke, anymore—at least not the times I’ve seen him around—but he looks like he’s still losing the battle against prostate cancer: his skin wraps tight around his bones as if vacuum-sealed, his clavicles stick out like the handlebars on a ten-speed, the cords in his neck are pulled tight like guitar strings tuned to E-flat.  I search for a pulse in his emaciated neck when he passes, but there seems to be little to no sign of life. 

Are you still dead, Frank Zappa?  Is that you swerving on a Schwinn along the River Trail and staggering up and down Warren on foot?  It looks like you.  Your black handlebar mustache and soul patch have been powdered gray, and your hair’s a lot shorter.  But you’re still wearing those goofy striped t-shirts, the faded blues and reds straight out of the mid-eighties.  Open up, man.  Next time I nod and say hello, please do the same.  Let me hear your schnozzy, deep voice.  Say something obscene.

Do the dead walk in Mankato?  And if so, is this Heaven or Hell?  Some might say Zappa would have never made it into Heaven.  He wasn’t religious, so that pretty much blocks him out of any organized idea of Paradise.  But did he do anything to warrant damnation?  I know he wrote some morally questionable lyrics, but is that enough to be cast into the fire?  It would make sense to call the Ditch Hell, though.  Right?  The houses are worn down and sinking, the river contains high levels of mercury, and the winter—namely, its funk—lasts all year. 

This year the Farmer’s Almanac calls for a long winter.  This morning, I bought a plane ticket to Arizona.  I’ll be going during winter break in an attempt to get a little sunshine during the gloom.  Hopefully dead people won’t follow me there.

"Jesus Thinks You're a Jerk"