This Land Is My Land
He's writing a book about which subway trains not to take.
Chapter 1 goes on about how to distinguish between good and evil.
It is a book about the experiences of a novice rail rider with hints of philosophical meandering.
Chapter 2 is flashback wherein the author gives window into his or her sordid past in graveyards or on freight trains. There is no mention of transvestites or necrophilia in this chapter, so that at its end the reader is questioning what was all that his or her in the graveyards about?
He, the author (herein the rider), addresses the wavering sexuality issue somewhat defensively in chapter 3 by describing how the posture of the person just now getting on the train, seen in the rider's nine o'clock periphery as but a shadow, is tempting him to look up and take a proper gander. When he does so however he finds that the sexy thing he imagined in glancing to be a woman, was in fact a white middle aged businessman in full suited business attire. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but the rider makes note to not invite anymore odd dreams or daytime miscalculations by falling asleep watching Almodovar's more sexual identity adventurous movies, as he had the previous night.
Chapter 4 goes on at some length about how it is possible for a rider to get off a B train at 42nd street Port Authority, intending to go back one stop uptown to hear that amazing violinist, and realize a B somehow became a C or maybe even an A. Was he ever on a B he beseeches to his inner self. A rider thus confused can then start thinking about Far Rockaway and perhaps a communing with the Atlantic Ocean. For those who are able and only those who are able there is a sing a long at the end of this chapter to the tune of, and hopefully too, the words of, This Land is Your Land.
Chapter 5 is a flashback to earlier in the day and is a discourse on the dining options for wayward travelers. The rider after walking Central Park from the seventies to the north end continues on up to one caddy-cornered block from the 125th street station and, lacking temerity, goes in, and then out of Manna, because he can't figure it out, he doesn't know if he should just queue up to the buffet or should he pay first. Even after he intuits that queueing up is probably safe he can't decide if he wants to take out like everyone else seems to be doing or...hell, he can't see any seats so other than take out may not be an option. He then goes back through the door and out into the drizzling rain. Soul food. When I or rather he, the rider, was growing up he called pork chops and mashed potatoes supper, and then sometime later without a lot of fanfare, just going with the flow of the evolving middle class mid sixties sophistication revolution, he started calling it dinner.
Chapter 6 is a continuation of his failed dining experience and we find the rider speaking in an almost grunting fashion to the server at Popeyes Fried Chicken on 125th. One section of the menu is designated for Louisianaists, or something like that. The rider ordered from that section and squinting asked the server what kind of sides they had, afraid that Popeye's in Harlem would be completely different from Popeye's south of Mason-Dixon, with which he was more familiar. But no. So the rider sits down with his fried strips and red beans and rice and biscuit. The calories for this meal were listed on the big main menu as either 980 or 1450 but he did not pursue further what might account for that range.
In this chapter you would also learn about waiting too long to use the bathroom, if indeed you needed to. In this case the bathroom gets highjacked by a woman and her child and then about 4 other people lining up for it and complaining rather aggressively about the wait time. Prior to this the rider had been profiling the various people and had mistakenly categorized them as nice friendly people. He had needed to go and it was free for a long time but he was too casual about it so lost out because he could not see himself waiting with these sore sports, and did not get to relieve himself until miles later, behind some scrubby looking shrubs near the Atlantic Ocean in Far Rockaway, while the gentle cold rain embraced him, moistly.
In the Popeye's there was a disturbance. The chapter seems to be meandering all over the place, the rider begins boring us with tales of near death in Louisiana chicken joints and then almost too coincidentally a young man starts using the F word to one of the servers and also calling her B. He is very loud and acting almost as if the world really is a stage, but one where the audience only listens, too shy all of them to make eye contact. The rider begins musing about how did the B word get changed to B while the F word was still fuck. Would we, he pondered, in this version of the book not written, have to start referring to the B word as—the second letter of the alphabet word? Such philosophical soliloquy’s might could find themselves edited out in the final version because the audience for this work already seemed limited or narrow or thin as a thread.
Lost in thought with thumbs clicking before him, the rider takes that A train all the way back, way back, too far back, 14th street is wrong but he stays on until 23rd where he gets off and reverses to W 4th, and from there catches the F home.
Early reviews--similar in reality (if somewhat more likely) to the rider's handling of the rude Popeye's boy (rider jumps up, punches index finger in the boy's chest, then soccer kicks him across the lower calf, taking him down, knee in the back, bending of the bad boys arm backwards until it pops at the shoulder blade, and for good measure treats thumb of same limb with equal sincerity, but that pop is more of a crack)--question the gratuitous violence and wonder just how wayward would a wayward traveler have to be to consider Wayward Traveler (as the book finally written was to be called) anything but a slightly musical if misguided attempt at subway humor, arriving late and clamorous to the station, a travel guide only if it finds a place on the definitive what not to read this summer list and thus guides the careful reader away from itself.
...more recent posts
Virginia Late Fall
Landing At Bedsend
The cat, crouched, by nature defaulted for inexplicably timed erratic behaviour, and pondering God only knows what, I mean good God, what could it be she ponders, catches me not so surprisingly unaware and leaps from the nearby recess between bed and bedside table, uses the back of my resting hand as springboard, albeit an old, craggy, veiny, dried out, scaly and scabrous springboard, and with razor claws inserted just briefly into one of my wrinkles, catapults herself with pun-less abandon high into the air, grinning or smiling it seems with whiskers folded back by the force of her flight, and pausing briefly in mid-air to wave to the adoring crowds packed sardine-like behind barricades, lands at bed's end, where she promptly closes her eyes and falls asleep.
The cat, crouched, by nature defaulted for inexplicably timed erratic behaviour, and pondering God only knows what, I mean good God, what could it be she ponders, catches me not so surprisingly unaware and leaps from the nearby recess between bed and bedside table, uses the back of my resting hand as springboard, albeit an old, craggy, veiny, dried out, scaly and scabrous springboard, and with razor claws inserted just briefly into one of my wrinkles, catapults herself with pun-less abandon high into the air, grinning or smiling it seems with whiskers folded back by the force of her flight, and pausing briefly in mid-air to wave to the adoring crowds packed sardine-like behind barricades, lands at bed's end, where she promptly closes her eyes and falls asleep.
Cat
Back To Birmingham
The child running up to me with her complaint that she was afraid was in truth mostly a distraction to my intended purpose. Which was to take in as much information on a subject as possible within a limited period of time. That photographs of men hanging dead from trees with ropes around their necks while in the background played the haunting overlapping recorded voices of men and women espousing their ignorance and hatred frightened her was not so much a concern to me, rather an ok that's good, check, she's fine, normal in a good way, now run along and let me finish this ride. We just came back, Bernadette and I, from Birmingham, Alabama, where we enjoyed a most outstanding version of Southern hospitality, with drinks on the lawn flowing freely (the first spying of Johnnie Walker black at an open bar is to me like being accosted on the street by a supermodel, kissed and hugged and fussed over and then slipped a couple of C-notes before a lucky delivery back into the loving arms of Bernadette), and hors d'oeuvres followed by shrimp and oysters on the balcony followed inside by tables and tables of...I can only remember the bloody red meat and biscuits and cakes and cookies but I'm told there was other food as well. Could I have another Johnnie Walker? was never met with resistance, I do remember that. It was hard not to see and think about the stereotype of exclusively black service staffs attending to the needs of all us white people but no one I talked to about it could come up with any necessary reason a black person should not serve a white person, as long as they were fairly compensated. And as the work environment seemed like one to be envied, those of us with memories fueled by sixties era news footage and our Gone with the Wind criticisms were left, while stuffing our faces with snacks from passing trays and southern influenced cuisine spread across many tables to...well...shut up, and have another miniature crab cake or, hopefully without too much attitude suggest, perhaps a little less ice in my Johnnie Walker this time. But to the reasoning of or the seed behind the juxtaposing of men hanging and people celebrating, it was the commenting of our hosts who on two succeeding nights, while accepting our thanks and sending us off into the night, inspired me to present this as a good Birmingham, bad Birmingham story. The man, the father of the bride, on the first night said, well I hope we have given you a better impression of Birmingham than you came with. Perhaps it was me standing next to a native New Yorker (a northern agitator?) or that we had flown to this wedding from NY that inspired his comment but in any case, it strikes me as remarkable that the man, and so I think by extension, much of the city's inhabitants, are suffering still from scars almost 50 years old. I suppose though it is these apparent scars that give hope to humanity. It is hard to ignore that the part of Birmingham that wasn't recreated as suburbs through white flight in the sixties, that old part of downtown, and the area and neighborhoods within proximity to the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, is still in need of lots of help. While the area is clean and shows evidence of some renovation it is marked also by a sense of abandonment. We left the Sunday brunch at the second of two Country Clubs we visited this weekend, after drinking bloody marys and eating bacon and eggs and corn pones on yet another beautiful balcony overlooking a splendid golf course, and drove from the wooded winding hills outside of Birmingham back into the downtown area, past where we had the day of the wedding gone to Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, which is next to the church where the four teenage girls were killed from the blast of a bomb on September 15th, 1963. The actual neighborhoods surrounding downtown Birmingham have that familiar feel of poverty and the lacking of hope that comes with it. Inside the institute the pictures, the recreations of diner counters and a bus with a version of Rosa Parks on it and a jail cell and video and audio of humans espousing sincerely that which you wish could not come from a human soul and that small piece of charred stain glass from the church next door, sort of as a punctuation or a kick in the guts or a little piece of rope around your neck or the jaws of German Shepherd on your arm, the blast of a fireman's hose forcing water up your nose to nearly drown you while knocking you senseless, all these things do very effectively what I think they are intending to do—travel you through time and make you feel something that simply reading the facts cannot make you feel. In the end I do not have anything new to say about any of this important stuff. Subjugation of humans by humans is not nice, that is something I think we, those of us who aren't evil bastards, mostly agree on. However, criticism without construction is meaningless and I do not know how to make people respect each other nor do I know how to fix our broken school systems or bring hope to so many inner cities that once got a lot of attention but now, with day to day problems of equal severity but less eye catching than is created by men in hoods burning crosses or heavily armed black men with berets, go largely forgotten. I do think the citizens of Birmingham should give themselves a break. I have been there several times before this trip and while I am sure that there is lurking somewhere that evil that made the news so compelling for those years in the sixties, I am equally certain that you as a city, populated mostly by good people, have paid your dues. Birmingham has I think carried the weight of racial wrongness disproportionately to that which exists in the United States and in the world. Undeniable though, you did have some pretty compelling ignorant crackers spewing unapologetically all manner of ridiculous bullshit for a number of years. My point is, less compelling racism is and was existing right alongside yours, all over this great land, but don't get me started on that. Not a moment too soon I will close by saying—ya'll do throw one hell of a party. And for that, Merci beaucoup.
The child running up to me with her complaint that she was afraid was in truth mostly a distraction to my intended purpose. Which was to take in as much information on a subject as possible within a limited period of time. That photographs of men hanging dead from trees with ropes around their necks while in the background played the haunting overlapping recorded voices of men and women espousing their ignorance and hatred frightened her was not so much a concern to me, rather an ok that's good, check, she's fine, normal in a good way, now run along and let me finish this ride. We just came back, Bernadette and I, from Birmingham, Alabama, where we enjoyed a most outstanding version of Southern hospitality, with drinks on the lawn flowing freely (the first spying of Johnnie Walker black at an open bar is to me like being accosted on the street by a supermodel, kissed and hugged and fussed over and then slipped a couple of C-notes before a lucky delivery back into the loving arms of Bernadette), and hors d'oeuvres followed by shrimp and oysters on the balcony followed inside by tables and tables of...I can only remember the bloody red meat and biscuits and cakes and cookies but I'm told there was other food as well. Could I have another Johnnie Walker? was never met with resistance, I do remember that. It was hard not to see and think about the stereotype of exclusively black service staffs attending to the needs of all us white people but no one I talked to about it could come up with any necessary reason a black person should not serve a white person, as long as they were fairly compensated. And as the work environment seemed like one to be envied, those of us with memories fueled by sixties era news footage and our Gone with the Wind criticisms were left, while stuffing our faces with snacks from passing trays and southern influenced cuisine spread across many tables to...well...shut up, and have another miniature crab cake or, hopefully without too much attitude suggest, perhaps a little less ice in my Johnnie Walker this time. But to the reasoning of or the seed behind the juxtaposing of men hanging and people celebrating, it was the commenting of our hosts who on two succeeding nights, while accepting our thanks and sending us off into the night, inspired me to present this as a good Birmingham, bad Birmingham story. The man, the father of the bride, on the first night said, well I hope we have given you a better impression of Birmingham than you came with. Perhaps it was me standing next to a native New Yorker (a northern agitator?) or that we had flown to this wedding from NY that inspired his comment but in any case, it strikes me as remarkable that the man, and so I think by extension, much of the city's inhabitants, are suffering still from scars almost 50 years old. I suppose though it is these apparent scars that give hope to humanity. It is hard to ignore that the part of Birmingham that wasn't recreated as suburbs through white flight in the sixties, that old part of downtown, and the area and neighborhoods within proximity to the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, is still in need of lots of help. While the area is clean and shows evidence of some renovation it is marked also by a sense of abandonment. We left the Sunday brunch at the second of two Country Clubs we visited this weekend, after drinking bloody marys and eating bacon and eggs and corn pones on yet another beautiful balcony overlooking a splendid golf course, and drove from the wooded winding hills outside of Birmingham back into the downtown area, past where we had the day of the wedding gone to Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, which is next to the church where the four teenage girls were killed from the blast of a bomb on September 15th, 1963. The actual neighborhoods surrounding downtown Birmingham have that familiar feel of poverty and the lacking of hope that comes with it. Inside the institute the pictures, the recreations of diner counters and a bus with a version of Rosa Parks on it and a jail cell and video and audio of humans espousing sincerely that which you wish could not come from a human soul and that small piece of charred stain glass from the church next door, sort of as a punctuation or a kick in the guts or a little piece of rope around your neck or the jaws of German Shepherd on your arm, the blast of a fireman's hose forcing water up your nose to nearly drown you while knocking you senseless, all these things do very effectively what I think they are intending to do—travel you through time and make you feel something that simply reading the facts cannot make you feel. In the end I do not have anything new to say about any of this important stuff. Subjugation of humans by humans is not nice, that is something I think we, those of us who aren't evil bastards, mostly agree on. However, criticism without construction is meaningless and I do not know how to make people respect each other nor do I know how to fix our broken school systems or bring hope to so many inner cities that once got a lot of attention but now, with day to day problems of equal severity but less eye catching than is created by men in hoods burning crosses or heavily armed black men with berets, go largely forgotten. I do think the citizens of Birmingham should give themselves a break. I have been there several times before this trip and while I am sure that there is lurking somewhere that evil that made the news so compelling for those years in the sixties, I am equally certain that you as a city, populated mostly by good people, have paid your dues. Birmingham has I think carried the weight of racial wrongness disproportionately to that which exists in the United States and in the world. Undeniable though, you did have some pretty compelling ignorant crackers spewing unapologetically all manner of ridiculous bullshit for a number of years. My point is, less compelling racism is and was existing right alongside yours, all over this great land, but don't get me started on that. Not a moment too soon I will close by saying—ya'll do throw one hell of a party. And for that, Merci beaucoup.
Rhode Island
Barking Like A Bomb Sniffing Dog
Headed to Harlem but I'm not there yet. Backpacks are subject to random search by the NYC police. Please report suspicious behavior. Am on a Bronx bound D train. I found something in my backpack yesterday that I had forgotten about but I cannot see that it would be of any interest to the authorities. Flying from NO to NY on Sept. 11 and my carry on luggage was searched because I had a small gun in it which showed up on Xray. I had forgotten I put that in there and was happy to let the guy search my bag because I was proud of how nicely I had folded my freshly laundered shirts. When he went right for the compartment where I had my work boots wrapped in plastic I said oh I know what you're looking for now. I had stashed it down in one of the shoes. A Wild West toy bank with a gun on it. You pull back a spring bar along the top of the barrel, then balance a penny in front of it and pull the trigger. You are aiming at the hat of a cowboy behind which is a horizontal slot for the penny. When you knock the cowboy's hat off and thus deposit your penny in the bank his hands go up in that age old gesture of submission. Did that woman just say to her friend we are only as thick as our secrets? Well I made it into Harlem but nice as it was I only stayed long enough to slip inside Morningside Park, which was super nice, and then work my way here to this fenced two acre piece of lush lawn where no organized sports are permitted, just on the other side of the mulching area on the north side of Central Park. I don't want to smother you with observations so I'm only going to offer these three: 1. As I entered the Park I witnessed a woman wearing a bomb laden vest running from, and resisting the constraints of the man who had her under leash. She would stop periodically and put on the ground a small orange cone. 2. I do not know if blondes have more fun but they jog more than any other single hair color. 3. Bicyclers, and the outfits they wear, and their individual methods of peddling, cause me great distraction, which is sort of a confession inside an observation. A woman looking only moderately like Yoko Ono just entered my two acre space. The thai chi behind the tree and her barking is one thing but her lurking nearer and nearer is making me uneasy. I'm going to go ahead and get the hell out of here now.
Headed to Harlem but I'm not there yet. Backpacks are subject to random search by the NYC police. Please report suspicious behavior. Am on a Bronx bound D train. I found something in my backpack yesterday that I had forgotten about but I cannot see that it would be of any interest to the authorities. Flying from NO to NY on Sept. 11 and my carry on luggage was searched because I had a small gun in it which showed up on Xray. I had forgotten I put that in there and was happy to let the guy search my bag because I was proud of how nicely I had folded my freshly laundered shirts. When he went right for the compartment where I had my work boots wrapped in plastic I said oh I know what you're looking for now. I had stashed it down in one of the shoes. A Wild West toy bank with a gun on it. You pull back a spring bar along the top of the barrel, then balance a penny in front of it and pull the trigger. You are aiming at the hat of a cowboy behind which is a horizontal slot for the penny. When you knock the cowboy's hat off and thus deposit your penny in the bank his hands go up in that age old gesture of submission. Did that woman just say to her friend we are only as thick as our secrets? Well I made it into Harlem but nice as it was I only stayed long enough to slip inside Morningside Park, which was super nice, and then work my way here to this fenced two acre piece of lush lawn where no organized sports are permitted, just on the other side of the mulching area on the north side of Central Park. I don't want to smother you with observations so I'm only going to offer these three: 1. As I entered the Park I witnessed a woman wearing a bomb laden vest running from, and resisting the constraints of the man who had her under leash. She would stop periodically and put on the ground a small orange cone. 2. I do not know if blondes have more fun but they jog more than any other single hair color. 3. Bicyclers, and the outfits they wear, and their individual methods of peddling, cause me great distraction, which is sort of a confession inside an observation. A woman looking only moderately like Yoko Ono just entered my two acre space. The thai chi behind the tree and her barking is one thing but her lurking nearer and nearer is making me uneasy. I'm going to go ahead and get the hell out of here now.
Earn Valuable Coupons
Had a couple of tacos across the street. The Spanish talk show on the TV was equaled and then surpassed in it's offensiveness by the two young women who came in shortly after me. They ordered Huevos Rancheros and then the one with her back to me began mimicking in tone the grating quality which was coming from the TV host. Stand clear of the closing doors please. We are picking up speed now. Quickly followed by another stop. I am not listening to where I am, inasmuch as that is possible. I do like to overhear though. Where was I? Oh yeah, I was complaining about overhearing. All I can tell you is that the Spanish speaking host and the English speaking customer seemed upset in concert. If the tickets to this show had not been free I would have asked for a refund. Stand clear of the closing doors please. I got on the first train coming through the Essex street station, going in I'm not sure which direction. Every time we stop there is a lot of chatter about where we are, where we are heading and, if applicable, to which lines you can connect. I probably should get out soon and see what it looks like. The names being announced for many stops now give me absolutely no clue as to where I am but actually I do have a general idea...I was in Queens, Jackson Heights, underneath the elevated track on Roosevelt. I was the only so called Caucasian out there. I saw Indians, Asians, Latinos, a few black people and I'm pretty sure one Eskimo. The air quality was not great. There was a good bit of particulate floating down from the elevated. I stared up at it in wonder before remembering that my eyes are sensitive and prone to collecting and becoming perhaps seriously irritated by heavy particulate. Escaped without injury. I'm not really doing anything too challenging in today's exploration. Am now on an F train (took the M on the way out) and the next stop is the one I started at. I'm going to keep going though and cross the river into Brooklyn, probably get out at Prospect Park for awhile, commune with some of that Nature...yep, that's where I have ended up, in the park, sitting in the dugout of one of the baseball fields, next to a sweaty partially unwrapped piece of Trident chewing gum. Upon entering the park I passed a woman in business attire (except for the brown cotton gloves on her hands), carrying a briefcase, and who to my limited short term observation appeared completely without ironic intent as she gently tip toed down the sidewalk. Today in Prospect Park it is apparently white people day. Bring your baby in a stroller get a free hot dog. First person to complete 5 unnecessary phone calls gets a stuffed alligator. Joggers, cyclists, and Frisbee players receive valuable coupons. First skinny white boy to write and post to his blog from an empty dugout gets a two dollar credit on his MetroCard and I should think, when he gets home, a hot fudge sundae. Hey batter batter, swing.
Had a couple of tacos across the street. The Spanish talk show on the TV was equaled and then surpassed in it's offensiveness by the two young women who came in shortly after me. They ordered Huevos Rancheros and then the one with her back to me began mimicking in tone the grating quality which was coming from the TV host. Stand clear of the closing doors please. We are picking up speed now. Quickly followed by another stop. I am not listening to where I am, inasmuch as that is possible. I do like to overhear though. Where was I? Oh yeah, I was complaining about overhearing. All I can tell you is that the Spanish speaking host and the English speaking customer seemed upset in concert. If the tickets to this show had not been free I would have asked for a refund. Stand clear of the closing doors please. I got on the first train coming through the Essex street station, going in I'm not sure which direction. Every time we stop there is a lot of chatter about where we are, where we are heading and, if applicable, to which lines you can connect. I probably should get out soon and see what it looks like. The names being announced for many stops now give me absolutely no clue as to where I am but actually I do have a general idea...I was in Queens, Jackson Heights, underneath the elevated track on Roosevelt. I was the only so called Caucasian out there. I saw Indians, Asians, Latinos, a few black people and I'm pretty sure one Eskimo. The air quality was not great. There was a good bit of particulate floating down from the elevated. I stared up at it in wonder before remembering that my eyes are sensitive and prone to collecting and becoming perhaps seriously irritated by heavy particulate. Escaped without injury. I'm not really doing anything too challenging in today's exploration. Am now on an F train (took the M on the way out) and the next stop is the one I started at. I'm going to keep going though and cross the river into Brooklyn, probably get out at Prospect Park for awhile, commune with some of that Nature...yep, that's where I have ended up, in the park, sitting in the dugout of one of the baseball fields, next to a sweaty partially unwrapped piece of Trident chewing gum. Upon entering the park I passed a woman in business attire (except for the brown cotton gloves on her hands), carrying a briefcase, and who to my limited short term observation appeared completely without ironic intent as she gently tip toed down the sidewalk. Today in Prospect Park it is apparently white people day. Bring your baby in a stroller get a free hot dog. First person to complete 5 unnecessary phone calls gets a stuffed alligator. Joggers, cyclists, and Frisbee players receive valuable coupons. First skinny white boy to write and post to his blog from an empty dugout gets a two dollar credit on his MetroCard and I should think, when he gets home, a hot fudge sundae. Hey batter batter, swing.
Continued Mobile Testing
I added 15 dollars a month to my 29 dollar a month Sprint cell phone plan so that I can post this drivel from anywhere, and not be dependent on a wifi signal. And unlike the wifi dependent ipod touch from which I posted the recent gripping daily updates from New Orleans (over at email from NOLA), this test is happening on the new second hand Palm Treo, which does at least allow me to go back and edit after posting. The ipod attempted but did not really allow that. I just paused to take an incoming call. Bernadette was, thinking me upstairs, inviting me to lunch, but I told her I was at the East River, not playing with another miniature electronic device but rather running important tests, experimenting, prodding the boundaries of modern communication. We are all one now you modest readership, sitting side by side on this curving wooden bench with its pink beige concrete back, linked by whatever it is I deem appropriate. For example there is a condom wrapper between my feet. It is at least possible that beneath one of your shoes is the wet fulsome content of that wrapper.
I added 15 dollars a month to my 29 dollar a month Sprint cell phone plan so that I can post this drivel from anywhere, and not be dependent on a wifi signal. And unlike the wifi dependent ipod touch from which I posted the recent gripping daily updates from New Orleans (over at email from NOLA), this test is happening on the new second hand Palm Treo, which does at least allow me to go back and edit after posting. The ipod attempted but did not really allow that. I just paused to take an incoming call. Bernadette was, thinking me upstairs, inviting me to lunch, but I told her I was at the East River, not playing with another miniature electronic device but rather running important tests, experimenting, prodding the boundaries of modern communication. We are all one now you modest readership, sitting side by side on this curving wooden bench with its pink beige concrete back, linked by whatever it is I deem appropriate. For example there is a condom wrapper between my feet. It is at least possible that beneath one of your shoes is the wet fulsome content of that wrapper.
Butterfly By The Pool
