A rock journalist and a musician engage in staple domestic tomfoolery, perhaps committed to sustaining the vital should meticulous mayhem materialize.
In the meantime, for the husband, it's off down south after an act of theft, where he celebrates his unabashed freedom with expert chillin' and self-absorbed calm.
His wife's none too impressed but still must admit she wants to find him, steadily sleuthing viaduct volatility with mutual friends intuitive scorn.
Assistance is readily provided although outcome perusal remains rather suspect, socializing having-something-to-do spontaneously lithe indelible induction.
Like a lovelorn lullaby relapse cervezatude cut economic nausea, an uncertain arrhythmic frequency effervescently tempers said grizzly innocence.
Pervasive contemporary impenitent prognosis picturesquely pioneering meaningless mercy, a sense of indisposed primordial justice lacking formal judicial concern.
Prevalent protruding prolonged distractions sporadically instigate tranquil harmonies, like you're young with nothing to do and it's the summer and warm outside.
Disjointed realities then suddenly reasserted with a dutiful sense of improvised propriety, as if they're finally gettin' 'round to it as the lickspittle lackadaisically loiters.
With instances of distressed imposition diversifying resonant mischievous solace, at times the discontinuous gravity hauntingly strives to riff somnambulized.
But holistic freedom's afoot, the cast permitted to add waylaid surety, a randomized reclusive carnivalesque germination engendering manifest familiar disarray.
From 1987, an early progenitor of the mockumentary style more profuse in later years, still a wonderful way to tell a story, I'll certainly never grow tired of it.
Border Radio doesn't pose any questions anyone's been meaning to ask.
To develop an authentic visceral perspective.
Extemporaneously its own.
