Psychedelic Bingo (Ain’t Gonna Work on Dizzy’s Farm no More)
Psychedelic Bingo Ain't Gonna Work on Dizzy's Farm No More __________________________ P sychedelic Bingo . What old boomers play at Paisley Palace Nursing Home in 2035. Flashing strobe lights, the scent of medicinal weed hanging in the air, mingling with patchouli, Pine Sol, rubbing alcohol, scented Depends – Piss. “Pump it up!” the 20-something Bingo caller will yell. We’ll be hard of hearing. Years of cranked up Grateful Dead and Steppenwolf concerts taking their toll. About time for a winner. The caller, a pale, young part human, part cyborg with rainbow dreadlocks and gaunt body, wants to split, to get on with her young robotic life, her young lover, probably with matching dreadlocks, passions, jutted-out hipbones. We hardly matter. “B-5!” spews out of the caller’s mouth, a brown sound morphing into airy blue. “G-59!” plays like a green note with a blue-brown under melody. The air fills with Bingo numbers, colors, and anticipation. If I could captu...