THE STORY OF SALT LAKE CITY and these dog days of August is necessarily the story of
Mr. McShivertits. Not necessarily a tale of the most likeable or compassionate human being, but the account of a character, for a change, and a consistent one. They don’t jump at you at every damned corner, these days.
McShivertits could be described – in the words of Henry Miller – as indifferent in the profoundest sense. A maverick, person with independent or unorthodox views, according to the Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary.
Whiskey and gambling, that’s what it comes down to pretty much. Girls and guns, maybe, to go along, this is the high West, the Dollhouse on Broadway or 300 South, some call it Heartburn Avenue.
If you care to keep it weird, Utah is your place, they’ve got more than they can handle.
The Mad Scarecat will come around with a collection of shockers & freezers to share over a Grape Swisher blunt. He’s got a kink for weird shit and is taking some effort to dig up those kinda tales, always hunting for the odd characters and the sketchy after hours, crossing the bridge to desperate.
But that’s a little down the road, this is the first night and the desert is felt through the open steel frame window, from where you can see the state capitol as well as the gigantic office tower of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints.