Pittsburgh will always laugh when they hear the name Jimmy Crary.    It was as if the University of Pittsburgh has invented a new category of Administration:  Tragedy Enforcement. They wanted a suicide that never quite came, but the laughter that did was even better.    The Pitt Panthers have many trophies but they could scarcely credit the wonder of the help they received terminating from King Crimson.   The idea that Jimmy Crary actually got Robert Fripp’s attention, asked him for help and was put into a private prison by Yoko Ono and Warhol never gets old for some of the old boys in Westmoreland County.   They’ve lost count of the acts of cruelty they pulled off from the disdain of the NAACP working in their offices, embellished by the gyrations of African deliriums among the brass. Of course, there was the picturesque Milano Monet, Rosine Monteleone as the cherry they saved for last.   By then, Seattle had come wondering what was so much fun and piled on. Silently, unheard, but hardly unnoticed, Jimmy Crary spent his life wailing in confusion as the schedulers of Tragedy Enforcement bided their time, savoring the exampling.

      Bad boys of the church were Pittsburgh Catholic rockers zealously providing King Crimson their claw.   The far out right wing they pulled together were pushers to the cliff edge towards which they shepherded the left.   They built two churches: one for the exterminators in the loop of Trump, the other for the satanists following their hooligans, also secretly loyal.   A rock tumbler, infinitely patient, was their symbol of the seventies, carefully marking the hours to the 21st century, neighbored by Van Sickle of Pittsburgh Symphony, wake up, time to die at the snap of the fingers, ta ta coma.    Rip Van Sickle had reapered the gale.

      It took Xiu Xiu the sent down girl some time to catch on, but she still needed the apple.   Pittsburgh remembers sitting Jimmy in a puddle and forcing him to sing as he cried, they remember Michael Reagan’s favorite scene, they remember how Nancy Reagan and the Beatles came advocating for men who broke into a house to shit on the table, because they had kidnapped and gassed a school newspaper critic of the bomb.   They remember licking their chops as they psychiatrically leered at their pornographic monitoring, fighting over the child and rape tapes worth money at Warhol. They all remember calling it a game, bubbling over as they said, “don’t laugh!!!”

       And they always tell me, come home where we love you.