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What would possess a bear (or anyone for that matter), on the downhill side of middle age, to take a piece of red-checkered gingham, cut it into a one-inch strip, and then tie it around his neck in some sort of mini-kerchief necklace thingie?

I looked at him amidst yesterday's throng of S.L.A.G.S., and thought, "are you high?"

Apparently he was. Tweaked at 4pm in the afternoon, what else would one do but pop another tablet of X. And then bump one-self into a k-hole. I'm all for playing like a big boy, but if you can't handle the heat, stay out of the pharmacy -- especially if your wearing a tablecloth cum dog collar.

He spent the entire Dame Edna Experience (which was hysterical as always, she's now off to Oz for a 3-week holiday) staring at the back of the house in a soft gaze, eyes slightly rolled up to his sweaty forehead. I'm sure whatever plane he was on was a lovely one.

At least he was with his friend/partner/daddy ... a slightly older leather queen with the same shaved head and clipped gray beard, a distended pot belly (shirtless, natch), and leather armbands on both (versatile or just confused?) biceps (or what possibly used to be biceps, back in the day). Daddy Bear was just as fucked up (couldn't speak to save his nipple ring), so he stared at his mobile, keying in text messages to his checked-neck playmate, and holding them up for him to see. As if he could read. Bless.