What causes pet names to be thrown around between grown fellows? What ground becomes thrown between fellows' gowns? What groundless accusations are thrown around when punch is spiked at the Olafsens' Christmas party. What kind of party is this, in which I find myself suspended by the ankles over a tank of expired mayo from that awful Franco-Italian restaurant down at the wrong end of the cul-de-sac? I shiver whenever this happens, and it doesn't serve me. Nothing seems to anymore, though I'm not opposed to the idea of being rescued. Yet. And then what?
One of these days I
swear I'll get around to writing
my much-anticipated biography
of Warren G. Harding
's dog. It was a loving tribute I'll be planning,
if I ever got around to it, if the gods of biography
smile on me. (They and the archangels of sense.)
This gay-ass microphone store seems closed. I needs my microphones. I needs my peeps! It was my idea! It was my idea! The giant waterslide overlooking Sophie's Gulch! It was my idea! The free rides for kiddies with coupons! The vending machines! Even the new auto parts store in downtown Harrisburg was my idea! Where would this success carry me, this great and unfettered bludgeoning? It was not my idea! The wind keeps tabs. The tabs come off cans. The cans come from cars, and also trucks. The cans were not my idea.