But David, dear David, what if the margaritas are good—ok, not good, we’re at the mall after all, we’re not expecting miracles from our nation’s top mixologists here with the thin salsa and the browning guacamole and the shoplifters sprinting past us with armloads of Canada Goose coats—not good, but serviceable? They’re cold. Have tequila in them. Salt lies crusted on the rim. Isn’t this enough? Can’t we pretend or agree or imagine this is enough? And ok, the jukebox is suffering and we can barely hear it over the din of American consumerism, over the roar of our American despair, but isn’t some music better than none? And yes, our mustaches are caked with airplane glue but some of us like this cheap, brain cell-killing high as we wander through these songs you made, through sleepy snow-blanketed streets, past hospitalized near-perfections with Kentucky puppies nipping at our heels, as we celebrate strange victories and mourn equally strange defeats, and of course sometimes ponies get depressed just as people get depressed—sometimes, many times, even most of the time, we’re not saying the world is perfect or even good, we’re flawed individuals as you said, as you sang, and God’s subtlety is lost on us—but we were here for you nonetheless, lost with you, sipping our margaritas through our gluey mustaches and sitting on the couch beneath a warm and itchy afghan and there was room for one more, David, room for you. The snow keeps on falling and the fire keeps on crackling which you should know because you lit it. You did a great job. It’s an unparalleled fire, cozy and beautiful, lonesome and strange. A dear friend, this fire. The place is downright toasty now and we are real and maybe the living also know what they’re doing because we are here with your ghost but this is no substitute for a real host and we miss you.
