ya' gotta scroll down to the first part of this saga if you didn't read it already

Go ask a shrink. He/she will tell you it's stupid to get crinkled about the past. Remembering it is asinine. Get shock treatments before you get blue about the Lindbergh kidnapping. Bruno did it, he was executed promptly, quick as the matter can be dropped. And that was back when people worked with pencils, and rendered ECT more liberally than now. Donnie took some treatments during a leg in his long journey, and he cut a lot of keys since getting jolted sensible. He had gone bejeevers.

Stan was better able to tolerate the LSD given them by evil hippies. Soon he adjusted to his new role as care giver to his best friend, who for the nonce, couldn't pick the lock on Cinderella's plether diary. And now I'm sick for remembering. 

...........................

People don't know miserable till they see a horse shoe crab struggling for breath with an insulin syringe in the crook of one of its puny arms. Every morning a fresh, fragrant wind waved in an armload of used shot syringes and acrylic wigs. The crabs washed in, too, often working like gauchos to escape from the noxious jetsam. Four feet from the reluctant crustacean junkie, one of it's kin folk was trapped in a hair shirt made of a white slave's accessory lost at sea. 

It didn't take Donnie and Stan no time to unload their few belongings and settle for a visit with the Von Findrich Sisters. The retired identical triplet trapese artists from Romania were too happy to oblige the men. They, like many, had had keys made. Famous in the 1920s, the spinsters contracted identical bursitis one day, and quit performing. 
........................................
...the Sisters didn't let bursitis jack roll hospitality. Flavored vodka was out like a Rolling Stone's ghetto chic trousers. All five retirees were plastered in no time. One of the horse shoe craps expired. Stan and Donnie took a couple long turns, each,in the Von Findrich Sister's powder room. Months in a van,and fellas get ripe. 

..........................
Hearts should bleed for the way Ronnie Spector suffered under the crazies of her talented maniac former husband, Phil Spector.     If Phil was here, in this room, I could only be thrilled for the chance to talk with someone of such singing accomplishments, no matter what his pathology was.  I'd like to know more about it.  Still, Ronnie was victimized.   Phil's in a penitentiary.  I'm at a total loss for conversation. 
  
It wasn't just Ronnie who was used and wrongfully enthralled.  The stunning Ronnettes were hurt because of the way Phil was.  People with exceptional talents are assholes, same as assholes with no talent.  There are a few concert violinists who don't rate as narcissistic, antisocial, or manic, and I adore these marvels of humanity, but there are usually a few rat fucks in any municipal orchestra.   If you have a copy of the DMS 4, you can tear out pages, lick the back, and slap the fucker on peoples backs.

It is tragically simple to point to celebrities for cheap moral lessons, from the peanut gallery.  Along with the pile of used shot syringes that washed, ocean tide, onto the beach front owned by the Von Findrich Sisters, there came this heap of wigs.    Brunette acrylic wigs, formerly bare clavicle length, currently tangled in sea weed and fiddler crabs, brought visions of the women, or men, who cares, who once looked stunning in one or more of those cheap acrylic wigs.   Scuttled merchant ships, alien disappearances, white slavery, who cares, the wigs were reminding Donnie of Ronnie Spector and the Ronnettes.   Mixed metaphors of hardship sauntered on the water's edge, in sand helped to regrouping with motor oil.

Fresh as daisies from the powder room in the Von Findrich bungalow, the two van mates remorsed the loss of that horse shoe crab that took a hot shot from a discarded syringe.   As the shallow waves took long artificial hair back out to sea,  the two men broke open a new box of Nutty Bars, and eulogized.

..........