I scan the room with ancient, tired eyes. My fingers gnaw at my beard. I have just decided that Larry Bird is the greatest Pure Basketball Player that I have ever seen, and I am proud of that. As my eyes scan the room and transfer the information to my mind and my mind flips the images over in order to make sense of them, I realize that Something here doesn’t make sense. I fail to see my cat, Bathsheepa The Rhinoceros Killer, in any of the flickering images… Where in the possible fuck could she have gone? We share a single room in this world, and she will only ever be found in one of four possible places: -Sleeping on the bed -Bothering me -Eating -Leaving a shit Of the four options, only one exists in which I have no visual confirmation of Her existence from my vantagepoint here in The Chair. An amicable agreement is met between my mind and the visions that it extorts from my eyes. “No cat, no problem...” I have just remembered that Pete Maravich might be the greatest Pure Basketball Player that I have ever seen, and I am proud of that. I smell the air for evidence of the Fourth Option, because, without visual evidence, what else have I got? An experience breaks loose from my brain, jogs down an overgrown path, and in some small way, I feel like I have been here before… “Almost... Cut My Hair Today…” There is Something about Hair that simultaneously represents Vitality and Death, the expiration of cellular degeneration, but not necessarily expulsion from this realm of existence. You can either choose to have hair or not. That may not be true. The dead cells of hair flow out of your body like electric snakes, and Jesus was, by all accounts, a hairy bastard. But I have never seen Jesus play basketball, so I cannot say with any certainty where he might rank amongst the greatest Pure Basketball Players of all time…