distant neighbor

chef von Wasteland first fried Daze at a Tiffany gig (a teen disaster, known as the Pork-&-Beans fiasco), after he eyed, with covetous envy--spied from afar through a screen of Tabasco that covered his lenses, smothered his mind--Sonny sporting a one-and-only, one-of-a-kind, New Kids on the Block design (hangin' tough with rolled sleeves, signed!!!, and yet, defenseless, runny and blind), which, in a flash (what a curious find!), beckoned to him as if buried alive like a beacon of hope in a bacchanal blizzard of bubblegum, Benetton, Esprit spies, and eerily Day-Glo'd hair-scrunch--fried; churned in a chasm; burning (like lies). Their first discourse was something like ectoplasm, or like a birthday without a surprise--a journey of fathoms they learned to despise: Said VON WASTELAND (turning in spasms, worms in his eyes): "Hey.uh.errrm Hi! Are those the New Kids, or turds in disguise?" DAZE: "Yeah--listen, squirt, to words of advice; chew this first, then murder it twice: fists don't swing at the shirt that's best, hurting what's nice." BARON VON WASTELAND: "Surely you jest! Jersey Christ!" (awkward pause, but burly, impressed, dirty as vice.) SONNYBOY DAZE: "Lay to rest your worried dice, bury your mice and ice this quiz: who's your favorite New Kid, whiz?" 'RON VON WASTELAND: "Elvis, of course! That's who it is!" SON: "What?! You've gotta be horsin' me, givin' the biz! Everyone knows that Joan of Arc's the sieve with the fizz!" WASTELAND: "Fantasy! Grief wins war! Wanna form a band with me, to even the score?" DAZEY: "Yes! We'll glisten! And mourn" Thus was dIsTaNt NeIgHbOr born.