mmdccclvii

I Am Not A Protected Veteran

     ...need house sleep with men
     come after not too bad.
                       —John Ashbery

need? can’t say no to that,
but perhaps more importantly
is strong desire. yes, i’m back

in the isolation tank, and this
week not so much feening but
feening dating/intimacy (none

whatsoever for over a year now).
not obsessing over the why of this
fact, but instead, mulling over what

a reminder it is that my life is
so precisely upside down; so opp-
osite. i’ve had my moments,

but the past five years now
are a new map. one that has
been impossible for me to de-

cipher. a flat earth, but not how
that antiquated notion must mean
to today’s trendy flat-earthers.

absurd. many days the question
is no longer about how to get
that (i.e., a) life back, but

will i ever get a life again?
par for the course, of course,
is that the upsides of living in

this isolation chamber are al-
so the downsides. the freedom
of joblessly setting one’s hours

(alas, the decision whether or not
to utilize this freedom to search
for employment, which, from my

observations, isn’t the most com-
mon choice amongst my neighbors
here in this first-step housing

apartment building). it’s home.
i can say that with a certain pride.
a certain pride. i try (desperately,

especially of late) the optimist’s
approach. which, thankfully, some-
how still seems to exist most often.

nevertheless, this freedom becomes
a prison unto itself. to stay idle is
often too easy. especially after what

got me here in the first place (not to
speak for most folks, but I would most
certainly get it if that were the over-

whelming reason for such lethargy).
but i choose the job of searching for a
job; an oddly, yet sometimes too easy

to understand why, difficult process.
meaning, simply, i never had difficulty
finding a job before. they always tend-

ed to just land in my lap. something i
obviously took for granted and makes
prevailing times even more awkward.

but as for my paid job (you can roll your
eyes if you’d like; many of you would —
even I have, in the past, when one’d make

this distinguishing point), when i am working
unusual amounts of overtime, for example,
or have very mind-numbing projects with

overly early deadlines, when i should be
too exhausted for any real work afterwards,
that’s when i find myself producing more.

art. more poetry. more of this attempt
at engagement. more of this attempt to
understand you. more of this attempt

to find those who might possibly begin
to get a glimpse into my own soul (with
all of its illogical geminic layers); might

possibly be interested in doing so.
more of this attempt to make the
things that have made me make

myself, and have made me love
myself, and have helped me in
my discovery of a stable value

system, as evolving as it is, this
magical sculpting that takes place
right in front of my eyes as i turn

page after page, which has also
gifted me with most of the people
whom i can earnestly call hero, and

many whom i can call friend. my other
job, when i have one, i appreciate very
much. it is a career that has known its

successes, too. of which i am proud.
and one that i do well. but, there
is no way to explain how much

i love my real work. sure, there’s
a problematic need to prove my-
self. to be listened to (even in the

isolation tank i am way too loud, i
know). to be, even if in some small
way, understood. it is also work

that can turn into a means of en-
gagement, or find you a true friend
(that rarity), can give someone the

joy you have in some way—from
what you do—the inspiration,
which is maybe the most imp-

ortant thing, i cannot say that i am
certain that i am not alone in
feeling or desiring these things

from the work which i call my
real job. however, for me, the
ultimate hope is that my words

and their architecture become
a means of engagement; not sim-
ply in one direction, but that there

is rapport: hearts and minds
having a conversation with the
me, even if just the pages of me.

growth, most always in a posit-
tive way, occurs primarily from
engagement. speaking. listening.

passion. adjustment. it’s also a
way to meet people; someone,
anyone, with whom i can connect

on a level that is so rare that it
seems in retrospect impossible to
do. a hope. (oh, i've believed.

i've felt such a connection. but,
as often as i can recall these mo-
ments, in the end, i turned out

to be sadly mistaken, sometimes
tragically so. but life is full of
disappointment. for me. on this

subject. i spend much of my life
living for it, nonetheless. and
haven’t lost that hope. if any-

thing it expands. not logical,
but worth noting. so all one
can do is try to make good out

of whatever you’re given. and
give back in a better way than
you’ve gotten. in the case of

the tough stuff, anyway. i 

try not to be a tragedy.
and have nightmares of

what seems to me would
be the most horrible trag-
edy of all. which, for me,

would be coming to a
horrible end in the midst
of a time such as the one

i have just lived through;
am still living through.
the only way to avoid

it, at best, is to remain
as happy as possible as
much as possible. and

i am generally very lucky
to be able to do just that.
or i hope to get back to

that point. in percent-
ages i certainly have the
wonderful stuff on my side.

anyway, you’ve gotten this
far with my foibles. or you
have arrived here, and let’s

say that you just might be
interested in knowing more
of the same. perhaps i am

too hopeful, but such a thing
could happen. seems to on
occasion. well, if so, even

in a generally slight way,
i say stay tuned here to
find out what happens,

whether tragic or comic.
if you just arrive, feel free
to back and catch up. it is

your decision, and if you
do, it would certainly tick-
le me pink. or at least such

a fantastical notion does al-
ready (as in, i’m pink). and
know this. there’ll not be a

sequel once it is over. so, i bid
you an adieu for today. and plan
to be back again in a day. or two.

mmdccclvi

Boiling An Egg

     No word on whether reverse psychology worked.
                                             —John Ashbery

In all of my years of
experimentation, I had
never burned one before.

Note to self: They’re
savages, all! Raise
your hand in the class-

room: How do I cash
a check without a check-
ing account? Teachers

tend to roll their eyes
when a student is stuck
between a rock and a

hard place. Waiting
in line at Market and
Kearny. Realizing (A-

gain! Again! Again!)
it’s all about class. Oo-
ps, I totally forgot how

to tiptoe. It’s Easter, and
there’s still a whole car-
ton of eggnog in here?

In all of my years of ex-
termination, I had nev-
er even boiled one before.

mmdccclv

she is writing through it in public
says closure happens for her through talking
                                               —Stephanie Young

Do not put on others what you can put on your self.
                                                           —John Ashbery

A drunk man mowing his lawn
somewhere in Florida was arr-
ested when he ran his lawn-
mower into a police vehicle.

He had more than three times
the legal limit of alcohol in
his system (to drive) and had
also apparently been doing

cocaine.  I get my news from
late night talk shows, morn-
ing news and poetry books
that I can’t bring myself

to return to the public library;
I read what I love very slow-
ly, perhaps never to finish,
so that I can still be reading

it presently (I do this with
television shows that I love,
as well).  I keep forgetting
to emerge from my small

box to venture around the
city in which I fought so
hard to remain.  And it’s
hot as the dickens (as my

great-grandmother would
say) in my humble abode,
yet from my tiny forays
out of doors it has been

nothing but gorgeous
out.  My weather.  My city.
Maybe tomorrow.  At
least being cooped in

all day and all night
has adjusted the pro-
blem with my (this)
long set of ramblings

[project] (a word I
used to hate using
in relation to poet-
ry).  I lost every

single physical
thing which I had
accumulated in
half of a century

over the last two
years — except, as
it turns out, any-
thing digital.  So

while my decades
of handwritten
journals or diaries
are now gone from

me forever (it isn’t
that sad, it turns out),
being a diligent dig-
ital hoarder for way

longer than the inter-
net, I possess every
bit of email corresp-
ondence since the

journals skipped town.
So, we repurpose; we
adjust accordingly. Sur-
vival, and all.  (Note

to everyone but self:
a) change the rules as
often as daily; and b)
discipline, discipline!)

mmdcccliv

The Printing Planet

     Then you are interested in poetry.
                                  —John Ashbery

A heap of embarrassment is, like, today.
Makes me want to mainline embellish-
ment. Which is haute if not couture;
perhaps more couture than haute,
actually. What’s an outfit on a cat-
walk if not an elegant embellishment?
Embarrassment. And a means to escape
it. To rise above is the actual subject here.
Although there is no actual subject. Except
me. Whatever that is. Some of us try, bless
our humble hearts. And never have I been
more keenly aware that the subject, all
subjects, that everything is singly me.
That is, if I am to make any sense of this 

chaos, and of my falling one sad day in

to this rabbit hole; this isolation tank. 

We should all experience being alone
for a solid duration of time. How
can I love you if I don’t love my-
self? Higgledy-piggledy. My off-the-
cuff response is, Why, it’s quite easy,
thank you very much. But, like most 

of the words I make these days, it’d
be incorrect for me to say that. Of 

course I ... love? ... myself. The
world is me. I am one with the world
because I am the world. And, boy, am
I here to tell you all about the experience.

mmdcccliii (#2)

Married folks prefer the texasburger.
                                —John Ashbery

Although I’ve never been to the coast
of Houston (where Beyonce’s from),
I don’t mess with a state that gives
me constant heartburn.  Every time. 

We walk this planet but once,

says my darling in her short 

and ghoulish skirt.  But there’s 

no wind in Texas, either.  Well,

I experienced it once.  It 

was at the Alamo, I’m 

surprised to remember. 

But I’m surprised

by a lot of stuff lately,
mostly in an aghast 

kind of way.  If I 

were doomed to

be a sales sales rep-
resentative in the
Dallas/Ft. Worth
area, which is, let’s

be clear, a nightmare
from almost any
angle I can imagine,
at least I could showcase

the pretty boys.  It’s an
art playing the part of
Fresh Meat well into your
thirties, but, well, hence

the hot flashes; the hot
sweats.  Sometimes ex-
tremely hot.  Like being
stuck in a stifling closet

for what seems like cen-
turies.  Yes, horror mov-
ies and Texas go together
like birds of a feather.

But I can’t bear a horror
flick any more.  They
give me heartburn when
they should be giving me

the heebie jeebies instead. 

I mean the good kind.  Re-

member those?  Where was 

Agatha Christie from, any

way?  It wouldn’t have 

been Texas.  Whodunnits
are rad.  But let’s
be serious: I’ll

never get to be
a murder mystery.
But Texas will.  Oh,
and I have a bro-

ther in Texas.  I al-
almost forgot.  At
least I think I do.  I
know I did once.  But

we haven’t spoken in
years now.  In good times,

in bad times....  Or the 

part about for richer or

poorer, in sickness and 

in health, til death do

us part.  Yeah, that part. 

I have heard that in-

cessant digression is
a sign of dementia.

It’s most certainly a

symptom of pressured

speech.  And I should 

know, having been diag

nosed.  But what can

one do otherwise

with sappy songs and 

broken promises.  Or
thus I’ve been told.
Them’s the breaks.  As

for my tasteful choice for 

where to put up a picket 

fenced residence, I hope 

he’s having a wonderful 

life.  He’s the only person 

I know who practices 

hedonism but can’t find 

happiness.  But I’ve

learned all too well
what a mess most
everyone is (sure,
me included).  My

romantic hope is 

that all find it, this

so-called happiness.
On the Death Star. 

Or wherever it exists.
As for me, I might
as well non sequit-
ur into a finish—

and with a flourish

—this glamorous 

Southern epic with 

one more lovely, 

true (and impossible
not to do) cliché that
pretty much reeks
of the Lone Star State.

[Now I am singing, of
course:] Don’t
fall in love with
a dreamer.

Well, I can’t
exactly end
with that,
can I? All my

exes live some

where else?  I’ve

spent many some

what good times in 

country that goes 

on forever and

seems like an
alternate universe.  

I know such terrain
quite intimately,
you might say.  I
recommend, in

fact, that you
try, for example,
Austin for a day
or two.  Or Dallas,

but only after the
sun has set.  Or ent-
ering the state by
crossing the Rio

Grande on an
Amtrak train,
knowing full well
that in less than a

week you’ll be cross-
ing it once again, only
this time heading in 

the right direction.

mmdccclii

And, I might just add, a real treat knowing you. 

                                      —John Ashbery

I like to start out by
saying these things;
by saying something,
at least. I start out
by saying a lot and I
end up saying way
too much, but one
has to start some-
where—if one wants
a connection at all,
I suppose. And, to
bring it home, my
one ongoing crisis
of faith involves
finding these con-
nections of grave
importance; while,
unfortunately, all
too often comp-
letely losing them,
one by one by one).
So it’s a big deal to
me, these kernels
of engagement,
and where they
go. Even though
attempting to be-
gin one is all too
often a bit like
easing slowly in-
to a very cool lake
on an overly warm
spring morning (say
in Arkansas, for
example, since
I also tend to start
my connection just
talking about me
and what I know),
listening a bit,
then comparing
what I just heard
to me and what I
know—which, can
be a total turn-
off, it seems, but
what else do I
know but myself?
If I’m an expert at
anything (at least as
far as expert can take
you; but being an
apprentice at know-
ing oneself sounds
like a pretty sad
joke, doesn’t it?)
A cool lake. A
warm spring
morning. Per-
haps it’s Cove
Lake. Again,
I speak most-
ly of what I
know. May-
be? I do hap-
pen to believe
that it’s a good
habit to know
yourself as best
as you can. Any-
way, in compar-
ison to a cold dip
in a lake, I’ve never
once been surfing.
At least not that
I know of. And I
can say pretty ass-
uredly that I never
will. It seems so
excruciating and
so tedious. Which
isn’t, I think, a very
good combination for
a self-proclaimed hed-
onist (self-proclama-
tion being, again,
supposed). Why
do things that
are so much
work, like, say,
eating lobster,
for example. What
I know—or think I
know—about my
self. However,
as I almost nev-
er actually say:
never say never.

mmdcccli

Whatever I Become

There are babies
being sold (on
sale) at the Baby
Bizarre this week-
end, it says here:
All shapes, colors,
sizes, you name it!
A long time ago a
person I can bare-
ly remember other-
wise called me a

friend. And I threw 

that word away 

with what I am
sure was quite a
puzzled look. We
were just hanging
out. (Boredom, bur-
don, sadness, iso-
lation, sadness,
isolation, burden,
boredom.)  You
may think it meant
nothing on the sur-
face of it all, but
peel it away like
an onion and it
becomes a heart-
breaking mystery.
Like when, years
later, I catch these

words again, they

are aimed right at

me:  My Friend.

Only this time
instead of toss

ing it back like

a thrown-up meal
I got a bit of a 

tingle, and kept it 

to myself, all warm 

and happy.  Some

times, as I am called

that same phrase,

the tingle never 

goes  away.  From 

the moment I hear 

it—my friend—the

tingle might become 

a sad muffled heart-
beat, at best, or 

cold hands, or a 

strong desire to run
away and yet to never 

run away.  Not from

this friend.  Friend.
A word that can
be so versatile,
like bedbugs or
the deflation
of Thanksgiving
parade balloons
or a check that 

introduces a week
of havoc by
bouncing.
Friend means
many things,
not unlike

refrigerators 

that cannot

presently be 

afforded, or
a desk and a
chair neatly

tucked into a 

tiny new place 

one calls home, 

a tiny place
that screams
every day for
a desk, a chair,
a refrigerator.
It can’t hold
much, this mini
ature room, but

on the whole,

it is much
improved by

the presence
of friend (or,
an even more
complicated
word: friends).
The box I
live in then
suddenly be-
comes friend
too; living in

it, breathing 

in the many
scents of
this, my
box, like
the recept-
acle full of

trash (yours 

and yours alone)
that gets col-
lected in the
gold-colored
rectangular
receptacle you 

found the day 

you moved in, 

on the sidewalk
between here,
home, and the
shelter, which
was also a 

sort of home.
I suppose it
turns out that
home and friend
are both quite
complicated
words that
might be
defined
in many
different
ways. Like
most words.
This, the
quite un-
intended
place in which 

I now call home, 

is growing on me. 

As home and
friend, I’d
further say,
like basal
cell carcin-
oma (the best 

kind of cancer, 

which I have 

personally had

removed, twice 

thus far, from 

my face) grows

ever so slow-

ly into you.
Right here, 

between this
wart and this 

mole.  A thing 

like cancer that 

might remind us 

of certain folks
who came be-
fore us, in our
own family
tree, a branch
or two atop your
name.  Where it
is also written, 

in tiny font under
my name
that I must
become many
others, perhaps
different species,
a schizophrenic
(I’m already a
Gemini, so
there is pre-
cedent enough
to consider these
seemingly strange
words).  Everything

everywhere else 

in the world,

things (homes,
friends, new
hopes, etc.)
are abducted
by aliens.  The
friendly kind,
apparently.
Which makes
it, I guess, poss-
ible that they
will come back,
someday, the

poor humans. 

Perhaps at 

least to visit.

mmdcccl

“I’ve got a secret,”
said the stage-
hand while med-
dling with the set
for the afternoon
and eyeing the
woman with the
camera (a cam-
erawoman?)
making herself
obvious just
inside the vom-
itory (stage left).

Julie couldn’t
handle it any-
more. With
zero regret
she tore the
script into a
heap of pap-
er shreds—
which, as she
kept ripping
and ripping
she’d throw
by the hand-
ful in the gen-
eral direction
of the stage-
hand.

It would al-
ways be an
affair that
she’d rath-
er not re-
member.

mmdcccxlix

J.A. Young

The fingers made the strings
of the beautiful guitar emit
sounds that were ethereal.
The world was rapt. Our
world. We imagine worlds
where we’d watch television
sets just to discover new
music, new artists, new
songs and their often just-
as-inspiring videos, these
short films being seen as
extremely important—to us—
in that Post Big Brother Era.
What a new and inviting,
malleable world was wel-
coming us to it, at least
the three of us, our eyes
glimmering with the
magic of mirrored tele-
vision screens. We lived
inside most every video.
And nowadays, after what
seems to me like an inter-
minable glut (but I think it
was just the 90’s, which is
almost the same thing), the 

age of the music video has 

resurged. And revamped.
Perhaps the rapture of it 

all has gone, but as I catch 

up from years, having been
abducted and having the
opportunity of learning
an amazing never-before-
imagined-by-me spate of
horror and madness, I
find this to be true.
With every pop song
comes a music video.
And there is a prolifer-
ation of each. I first got
my taste of MTV while in
a hotel room on some else-
wise unremembered high
school excursion. The rest
is history. Music and its
performative interpreta-
tions were pretty much
inseparable. In France,
it seems that they call
music videos ‘clips’ —
at least my favorite
crooner of the French
lyric calls them such.
He’s not French, in
actuality. He’s Belgian.

His father was Rwandan
but he grew up in Eur-
ope with his Belgian
mother (apparently
seeing his father but
rarely). He has a
wonderful song
called Tous Les
Même. A gorgeous
song, really. He
has two clips
for it. One that
starts out with
him in bed with
a woman and a
man, between
them with his
face done up
very feminine
on one side, the
side of his face
when he sings to
the man, and when
he rolls over to face
the woman, it’s a

masculine face. The

other video for the
same song is my
personal favorite
version, and it
is set in a Ven-
etian gondola.
Venice is my
favorite city in
the world. He
does the same
fem/masc two

halves of one
face thing in
this clip, but it 

is much more
tongue-in-
cheek; light-
er in tone.
The song is
about a rel-
ationship in
which a couple
are pretty much
arguing about her
menstrual cycles.
It sounds an odd
subject for such
a beautiful song,
but this is typic
al for Stromae. 

I so wish that I
were in Venice
at this very
moment. Per-
haps listening
to some new
music at a
night-club a
bit too whip-
persnapper for
a man with half
a century under
his belt (and,

less fortunate,

over it).  How-
ever, if I were
to run into
Stromae,
in some ran-
dom fashion,
of course (rath-
er than a stalky
one), I’d get down
on one knee and
give him some-
thing completely
makeshift for a
ring, ask him to
marry me, and
we’d live much
more happily
ever after.

mmdcccxlviii

Are We Our Shelves?

When I looked at myself over
the mantle and into the mirror
all I could see of myself were all
of the green books behind me.

I’m quite proud of them.  I may
never wear green out (or in, for
that matter) again, but I do sip the
occasional Lime Cucumber Lim-

on Pepino Gatorade; it’s actually
quite tasty and as it’s a rather
pleasing shade of green, it
perhaps should be called a

different color altogether.
Oh, it probably already is.
Like taupe and beige, or
fuchsia and just about

anything. Plus, back to the
Gatorade (and I honestly
have no idea if the name of it
is the flavor writ in English plus

its translation in perhaps
Spanish, or a subtle but
intended differentiation,
a sort of subverted, al-

tered meaning of some
sort that speaks something
special if you’re bilingual
[and can be in on the joke]

or, simply, like many cartons
and canisters and general
groceries of today [oh, the
modern world!], is simply

an iteration of its English
flavor on top and a reiter

ation of it in Spanish [or what

ever] on the bottom?  Which,

okay, is boring, if not
a tad obnoxious.  That,
perhaps says way 
more about me than

should be given away,
unlike the fact that
I like my electrolytes
served a sort of late

oak leaf colored green.
And, unfortunately for
the world [in my humble
opinion, once more],

it is too bad if the
name of this drink is 

mere redundancy.)....

We need more word-

play in the world.
More enlightening
combinations that
set the mind ablaze;

that motivate, titillate
and inspire all at once.
But then, silly me, per-
haps we have that already,

maybe better (as in more
complex: layer upon layer
upon layer of meaning
that if you really delve

into) can’t but make
your head explode,
during, say, late night tele-
vision.  (I’m thinking

Stephen Colbert,
but pick your
favorite.  It’s a
great time for

late night;
but let’s not
depress
ourselves

with all of

the reasons

that this phe-
nom might

be such a
phenom.)
And there’s
always con-

sistently mind-
twisting rap,
trending not
much longer

than I’ve been
around, and to

an even higher
degree now by the

knock-you-over tal-
ents of today’s rap

artists, e.g., most

often women wonder-

fully redefining
empowerment
by consistently
screwing with

the mainstream
notion of what
beauty is, etc.

But these are, 

in summation,
way too many
topics to even
begin to dive

into on a won-
derful day such
as today. But
can you tell

that I have a
healthy imagina-
tion? Perhaps a bit
too healthy, I wonder,

as I take another
extended gaze in-
to the giant mirror,
just to see that I

indeed remain in
this outlandish
outfit that is
quilted of every

possible hue of
green imaginable
(up to this point,
per my pea-brain,

anyway).  What
a costume!  Who
knew there could
possibly be such

off-putting varie-
ties of green?  The
color(s) of life.   And
I have always been

of the mind that
it is a horrid
color on me, 

perhaps because 

it’s such an earthy
hue, and I often
think of my attire
as too lifeless for

such. Today, how-
ever, I once again think
that maybe I had it wrong
all along. I mean look at

me. Or I do,
for a few more
moments, see-
ing the fantastic

in myself, which
feels pretty great.
I look into the mirror
just beyond my eyes,

notice the commotion
has already begun.  And

so I drift, purposefully, 

away from the beautiful

mirror on my living
room wall to be-
come, as usual,
the life of the party.

mmdcccxlvii

Del Is Short for Delicate

and so, for conversation
after conversation we
sat in a circle as the
ocean breeze chilled
the sweat from our
shirts and our blou-
ses and cooled our
hearts a bit, as they
[our hearts, that is]
each attempted never-
theless to outpace the
others. our precious
hearts. we needed
this. or that was be-
yond a shadow of
doubt at the time,
anyway. but did we?
some of the attend-
ees were upset about
one thing or another
and had to either
prove the validity
of their anger or
to simply vent
to those who,
moreso than from
any alternative
set, more than 

from any other
other group of
individuals that
could be found,

would listen, or

would be good 

at providing a

semblance of

empathy. the 

folks that could 

be assembled into

such a size as this,

and in a location as 

pleasant, as peaceful
as the one in which they
currently huddled, were here.

be they crouching, standing, 

pacing, squatting or stooping 

(as were exampled cases presently).
none would be more effective,
more significant, none would
relate with more clarity, none
could offer better perspective,
none would or could collectively
and/or literally care less. all other
circumstances being equal. these
were our people, the ones
who mattered, the ones who
needed to know, the only
ones who could know, and
it was crucial that this was
the set of individuals with
whom this transpired. sure,
they were a hardheaded lot;
some where hesitant to ad
here to agreed-upon rules.
feathers easily got ruffled,
but these were his people, 

the right ones, the ones with the
most accurate motivation. and
yet, they were steadily running out
of patience, running out of
better ideas, tensions were
rising, disagreements were
become more and more over
whelming, there were great
disagreements over simple
acts. there had always always
been makeshift buffers in place,
effective ones, they had become
as predictable as the breeze that
unfailingly drifted in from the top
of the ocean on days they assembled,
a breeze that came in with the spindrift, 

from lands far away. there had always
been buffers in place. individual
goals never trumped the goals,
the desires, the needs of their
particular collective. but slowly, 

naturally, chaos began creeping
in over the water and began to
drool down the cliffs that made
their way down to their beach
from the great continent.
there are as many ways to
explain how this happened as
there were members of the
collective. each step in this process
toward inevitable destruction had
primary participants that were
also members of the collective,
a falling apart seemed inevitable,
in retrospect, and examining, scrutinizing,
reexamining the details that reduced the 

once well-oiled success, the mechanisms,

the mechanics that kept this group and
its various purposes in place would seem
unnecessary, irrelevant. the purpose,
a clear understanding of the necessity
for these guidelines and specific steps;
the cause, the intent. the overall under
standing of all involved regarding why
this particular and collective existence,
of their all-too-relevant and necessary
existence. . . . and the host, the one
who had brought them all together
the un-leader, a rather awkward
exceedingly aloof human, knew 

and understood this. I
wonder, years later,
if it might bother him
to know that a few of
us were aware of what
was transpiring; some
simply allowed to enter their

consciousnesses nary a
clue, however, as it would, 

of course, obstruct their view
of reality. of those that did 

have some general idea, 

or think they knew, they

did not begin to grasp
the severity of what was 

to transpire, of what was

to be endured. several 

members of each of these 

subsets were above all else 

steeped deep within a 

swamp of confusion.
these meetings worked
well to enlighten such
thoughts because,
at any given moment,
even those sitting within
the circle weren’t paying
much attention to any-
thing being spoken or
done, even though the
longstanding motions
were continually in play,
which was okay and which
was understood, because
of all of the other and import-
ant ways these gatherings
were fruitful. first, they 

enabled the meeting of 

many an objective.

eventually, they
did not. so does it
matter, given the
magnitude of it all,
how it transpired?  often,
at these meetings of the 

collective, individual
attention would seem to be
most prominently directed 

toward the ocean, the
vastness of which, the
ocean-ness of itself, not

one particle of which could

know of this focus, this
admiration, the research,

the studies, none of it at
all, of course.  it was
perhaps mere meditation,
either screwing in their
brains so tight that
thoughts came and
went quickly and
were each paid almost
no attention; meditation
as precipitated by the
grand ocean that lay
before them, and by
the us sitting there in
a circle on the sand
in close proximity to
the ocean that were ex-

pected somehow to 

magically elicit the
grandiose goals of
the group, and the
truth was that some
of the goals were met,
but a great many were
ignored by their lack.
of capability. some
fixes are simply too large
to ever see through to the
hopeful conclusion. some
of the gazes out into the
distances were just means
of some escape. others
would nod off for extended
periods of time, do that
quick jerky dance akin
to what a person being
electrocuted might be
observed doing in that
last moment or two,
seeming to come to
attention almost im-
mediately, and those
who did were clearly
back into the fray of
the indifferent very soon

thereafter; lost on or
against or from
the subject of the
moment. this, in
particular, was a
favorite practice of
mine during much of the
duration of these meetings
we’d had each month for
several years now. everyone
seemed to have the idea that
if I didn’t meander back
and forth between alert
and semi-to-un-conscious-
ness that I would be other-
wise overwhelming, ineffective,
that disallowing the others a
word edgewise for fifteen minutes,
a half an hour or, sometimes,
even much longer, was, for better
or worse, an integral aspect,
a necessity. these humans,
my friends, at least knew this
habit of mine, this aspect, they
knew this, about me. and they
cared enough for the collective,
to play along, to accept, which
in turn made me accepted, for
the most part, which eliminated
within me the usual guilt, the
sorrow that I felt so otherwise
constantly enshrouded within
at most any given moment. 

and when I would, and I 

most assuredly would, mangle
or mismanage the pace of my
melting into the ocean and of
then return again, and in-
stead allow my overly dram-
atic voice to overstay its welcome
before realizing that here I was,
once again, doing my damnedest
to maintain attention indefinitely,
I’d say (or at least feel) a bit of a
whoops and in no time would dis-
solve back into the Pacific. the
health that comes from the awareness,
the knowing that you are accepted
and that you are are taken in, as you,
and because of you, for simply being,
but also, for simply being yourself.
that it is always this and only this,
that I, who am always me and only
me, am taken. as that. with intention
and care. they listen attentively, by all
appearances. this not only is life,
but it surely must extend it if you
have the pleasure of living inside of 

these truths, or anything like them, 

on any regular basis. sure, a few
of the more clever folks would
use the moments most seemingly
crucial during these meetings for a
bathroom break. also, we always
tended to overdo it a bit on the
snacks, the potluck of it all.
but, as I remember it, it was
sheer peace and the always
unpredictable and always
enlightening currency of
apparently necessary
thoughts and emotions
being circulated among
the people who felt
like family (with emo-
tions that were so
wound up by meet-
ing’s closure that
they could be
boundlessly
hyperbolized:
absolute joy, im-
mensely appropriate,
keep it up, Del, you are
doing so well, aren’t
you?).

but now it’s all sand. And a few
eroded memories that get washed
back into the sea. I go there some-
times, trying to remember the people,
exactly where each of us were sitting;
But I can’t remember a thing, except
what I’ve just recounted, and much
of that might be some sort of re-
envisioned history (that neither
takes the place of those long ago
moments nor gives any appropriate
value to the healing that transpired
there) - so, rather than take one
second from then or now for
granted, rather than gloss any
of this life I live and have lived
over, I incorporate all of it, everything
I can remember, at an any rate,
and use it, to build wisdom,
knowledge, common sense,
however uncommon it surely
must be - I incorporate it into
what I imagine to be the
place it should, if at all, be
incorporated. I must always
believe that it should at the
very least be held, be kept,
as indefinitely as is humanly
possible.

so this is what I’ve been doing
these days. this, and a whole

lot of eyebrow furrowing.
also, I keep thinking about
sanity. and what, if anything,
that might mean. oddly, or not
so oddly, I keep seeing ads for
a revamped Twilight Zone that brings
all of these particular thoughts together
for me, into full bloom, so to speak, if not
full circle. I do remember some things.
like how, when a person might get con-
fused, and how those who witnessed
this horror sometimes decided it
best, and not out of spite at all,
out of concern, or out of a desire
to minimize the calamity, to just
play along. people get con-
fused; we play along. or
you do. I do? when
ever it’s you that’s
doing the playing
along, thank you.
it can be very…
placating. but,
before you find
yourself doing it
a next time, if there
happens to be one,
lock your eyes on
mine for a moment
and just tell me instead,
tell me that I am alright,
say that I am okay. and,
if it is not too uncomfortable,
perhaps you might take me
in your arms and give me a
bit of a squeeze. I love
you for doing this,
time and time again,
whoever you are.
wherever you are.

mmdcccxlvi

Conversations,
Needs and
Needing a
Conversation

Simple enough said,
I suppose, but with
no words comes no
meaning—less than
nothing, no doubt;
cuz what’s meaning
within a singular sem-
i-conscious mostly bar-
ren chamber unless the
echoes get to pass be-
yond the great wall of
mystery? To point,
your pal, whom I’ve
never met until now,
furthermore only to-
night ever having
spoken with him
a first time (Re-
member? You ans-
wered the phone,
then promptly
handed it to him
for whatever rea-
son.). I believe that
he said more to me
on that phone in less
than five minutes than
you have in three years
of being on the same line
most every one of those
days at least once. I ev-
en gleaned from this guy,
your friend, a fairly sub-
stantial bit of info, most
specifically about you.
And he wasn’t making
a presentation, mind
you. He was simply off-
ering a bit of your local
news, drinking a beer,
teaching me a new
language (well, an
apt phrase or two,
in any case), yet I
barely even under-
stood a word he said.

I wish you more than
anything in the world
lightheartedness and
great health and happi-
ness. Because these are
what I now lack thanks to
these months of disconnect,
or, rather, non-connection.
There is so much of what
I had assumed was quite
the contrary, as I still re-
call and cannot beat the
mysticism out of that sad
burden. And upon a redir-
ected rendering, it seems
there was less than a big
zero transpiring via that
perfectly taut line that al-
ways runs from you to me
and me to you, no matter that
you exist, if at all, at the op-
posite end of the planet. A
straight line, mind you. It
will always remain a mystery.
But that was the problem, real-
ly. One always wants to know
at least something. Or per-
haps that is just me. You
were the most interesting of
them all, and yet you never
had any interest whatsoever.
Did you? In me. In life. In
leading an interesting life. Or
even in those bursts of plea-
sure I’d have the good fortune 

of witnessing a few occasions.
To me, they were and always
will be genuine miracles. My-
story miracles. Each caused
my own pleasure to bubble
up and burst forth on most
every mere occasion. These
things happened. And I sup-
pose I created a fiction a-
round them. But man,
what I would not give
for even a singular such
similar moment. An ex-
plosion. Of joy. Two
things which one might
have a difficult time
putting together into
one, when the words
are said out loud, I sup-
pose. But it is just a fan-
tasy, like those three years,
I suppose. They were, if they
were, and it would be, if it
could be again, after all, ex-
plosions across an ocean. A
big, beautiful, goddamned o-
cean. I don’t know how much
more specific I can get, sitting
here with my head wagging back
and forth between an empty cell-
phone and the shiveringly vast Pacific.

mmdcccxlv

People Get Confused; We Play Along

A biography may come in any shape or size.
That doesn’t necessarily make it a cretin.

Some people like biographies, in general.
It seems that way to me, in any cases.  But

I say take heed.  Rule number one: everybody
lies.  Rule number two: most people are

generally good people.  Are you with me so
far?  We have just used the deduction of a wise-

ass to show that lies are ubiquitous and could be
somewhat neutral.  What is truth, anyway? So 

herein comes one of my primary rules for living 

a healthier life: just don’t make the lies the

problem.  Treat them like the idiom my mother 

(and countless others) use to so often find a

way to slip into any day whatsoever: have
them simply roll like water off a duck’s

back.  So the next time you have the
occasion to run into someone with whom

you are acquainted (or even if you can’t
recall their presence beforehand)—that is,

when beginning any type of engagement, be
it high or low, short or incredibly long in

the wind department; before speaking—
draw in a breath, try to allow any pre-

conceptions to float in some other direction, and
do yourself the added favor of giving the whole

honest thing a nice long vacation.  Because
let me be clear, honesty, it’s just not a thing.

Just remind yourself (silently is best) that
you are happening upon a liar.  Because you

are.  And, especially if this seems like it’s too
big of a problem for you to begin with, you

might disturb the issue altogether away by
making it interesting.  For example, I tend

to use as a general means of learning a lot 

about any person I meet, know and/or get

rowdy with by playing the game of Hm, I 

Wonder What THIS Dude Lies About? Navigate 

through the whens and the wheres of the missing
pieces until they begin to find logic, reason.

There are, I find, only two or three basic reasons
that an individual chooses his or her person-

al line of dishonesty.  We’re basically simple
folks, leading pretty simple lives, no matter

how we might even fool ourselves into be-
lieving otherwise [that fooling is the number one 

most common lie, as it turns out].  Dishonesty 

and hypocrisy are the real deal, people.  Full-on

honesty is just plain bogus.  It is, as some say 

of more specific hypocritical schemes, a

ludicrous construct.  I’m not suggesting
that being truthful isn’t a direction toward

which we should aspire, in the same way
that some do toward the ideal of nirvana.

All I am saying is that the notion of com-
plete transparency or of being totally truthy

is bogus (extra hint: check out any compen-
dium on etiquette to discern the moments

in life when truth is purportedly inappropriate).
And not that it is my job in life to point out

all of these whizz-bang discrepancies inside
of which we like to take residence, but when

this subject arises, my mind tends to migrate
toward the paranoiacs who believe Big Brother

is (or might be) watching, and that making too
much out of striving for privacy is a means to

get him off your back (and let’s face it, there are
massive swaths of folks who get piping hot about

the idea that someone is or may be watching,
or [even] recording them).  Whether this find

is a subversion of exhibitionism or a (sub-
conscious) subversion of just plain wishful

thinking, allow me a moment where
honesty might be the appropriate response.

I submit for our consideration that spend-
ing precious time on this bedeviled, beguiling

and beautiful planet worrying too much
about such nonsense is a waste of time,

and that it surely becomes for a lot of us
a means to eliminate no small percentage

of our youth.  Furthermore, as far as I can
currently tell, we are not experiencing an

apocalypse (not yet fully, but still).  And I’m pretty
sure, as well, that the inevitable mob of zombies

has yet to make its stiff-walking appearance.
However.  Good people.  We are sprinting

into the heart of the 21st century and al-
ready well into the post-Big Brother Era:

get over yourselves.  We are, each and all,
being watched.  You are not having a night-

mare in which you are the star of a Lifetime
movie about a stalker.  There aren’t even

any infomercials.  You are being watched.
Either in real-time, or via recording.  May I

therefore offer that perhaps rather than walk
around in a constant state of paranoia, that

we each take for granted that all the world
is, indeed, a stage (and that the surveillance

crew is just beyond sight of the audience)?  Can’t we 

all just take that piece of news and slip it into our

worry-free pockets?  Or, better yet, let our
crocodile tears roll down our backs as if

they were a duck’s down?  Worry about the
bigger problems in life; the problems that

can literally be adjusted.  And then, I say,
take a little bit of that extra time that

you’ll soon find you have on your hands
and milk every ounce of joy you can out

of every minute you can; out of each
turnip of a day in which you wake up to

find yourself. I t’s just a suggestion.
But it seems to do pretty well by me.

mmdcccliv (2)

First Ladies
[or how not to explode under pressure]

Some regular-looking guy
sidles up to the bar, orders
a drink, reminds himself that
it’s April already (for Pete’s
sake!) and that he has yet to
do his taxes (for a few years
now, in all honesty). But
yet, he believes. In the sys-
tem; in its ideology; in its
process to reduce evil as a
means to slog through an
increasingly complex good,
i.e., the progress of human-
kind; even in romance. (And
he, a disavowed goth kid,
he claims—and I can feel us
all strain to find, earnestly,
a smidgen of that kid, as we
chomp our various potato
incarnations. You can see
him trying to find the kid
that he must have been, 
the he that once was.)

So he believes in the
progress of mankind. I learn
all of this as I sit next to him
during one of those overly-
long dinners, but this is
one I have no anxiety en-
during (a dinner that was
mostly just drinks, which
has got to help that ling-
ering relaxation). I sat
through, literally feeling a
light-bulb suddenly pop
out with its beam of lum-
inescence on at least a
couple of occasions. The
most meaningful to me was
when he suddenly felt he un-
derstood everything. Just in
that moment. And for only
a few that followed. Then it
apparently left him. (I know
these moments well, when
everything suddenly makes ab-
solute sense and can be ex-
plained away, even in terms
of some of the most peculiar
pairings that exist in the
same cosmos; in fact, with-
in mind-boggling proximity.)
Anyway, it was an occasion
of some significance, this
dinner taken with complete
strangers, at least it seemed
so to most of us, who tuned in
from time to time to listen to
his pretty elementary but/and
poignant ramblings. Good for
him, I am thinking days later,
perhaps, because not every
Tom, Dick or Harriet has her
very own nickel psychiatrist
(if we’ve learned anything
during these sessions in which
we find ourselves dining
with complete strangers,
isn’t it surely this: that no-
thing whatsoever should be
taken for granted, nothing.
Most especially that Dame
Jade refills my prescriptions
without fail. Every. Single.
Month.) (My problem is in-
deed anxiety, purportedly.
And it doesn’t just happen
on airplanes. Therapy works,
right?). Unless you’re on one
of those new, those, whattaya
call them?, those 90 day refill
plans. And that, my friends
(during which we both stifle
chuckles), is, as they say (and
even I do), an entirely different
ball of wax (and don’t we know
it!), thank you. We remember
the first time we realized what
a doctor’s appointment was
all about, so that we can pass
such morsels on to those as yet
uninitiated (oh, humanity!, progress, etc.).
It is, quite simply, to prance in to the
doc’s lobby, sit for the five to twenty
minutes (on average) until called,
at which time you try to recall with
some accuracy the maze of cubicles
and gadgets you need to map yourself
from where you were sitting to her
office (also, remember that she goes
by Jade, says don’t call her Doctor
anyone), and once you find this
nice little working box with a view
of Alcatraz say, Okay Jade, I’ve a
fear of flying, and I’ve been tak-
ing a poll for something for like
20 years now on what my people—
the ones with the same condi-
tion—a poll which won’t be the
handiest tool of the trade but,
is not completely illogical
[Don’t forget Miss Jade that
I’m basically logic personified,
right?]. So, anyway, Jade, dear,
this very lengthy and logical—
semi-scientific—poll I took
using my old pals as lab rats,
which weren’t exactly rand-
omly chosen, was my way of
trying to find a way around
this illogical fear. So, my queries
of that good portion of the world
that seeks an answer for some,
a remedy to this fear, it looks
to me like Xanax is going to
be my answer. I mean, really.
I still. Very much. Desire.
To experience. As much.
Of THE WORLD. As is human-
ly possible. At my age. So
can you please write me a pre-
scription for enough Xanax (I
would prefer the 1 milligram
to the point fives) to get me
to Boston and back [that'll be
the trial run, of course, which
by the way worked splendidly!]
so that shortly after that i can
turn 40 in Paris, hang out with
the Parisians for a couple of
weeks, and get back in one
semi-sane single solid, please?
Then she of course habitually
inserts her hand into her
left lab-coat inside pocket
and comes out with that old-
school looking rubber-band
topped prescription pad
that is, we all now understand,
the guiding light of these visits.
Within seconds she has written
you out a prescription for some-
thing illegible (it’s true) that turns
out to be, like, 20 Xanax. That,
my friend, is the game-changer.
That’s a part of humanity evolving
in which we can palpably feel our-
selves participating, if not some-
time clinging to with our dear
lives.
Soon,
there-
after, he turns 40 in
Paris, France – his
very first trip abroad.
And the rest is history
(which, you can judge,
if by nothing else, a peek
into his medicine cabinet
alone.) (Ah, alone a-
gain, poor dear med-
icine cabinet, what?).
Well, lots has been
learned, I would say.
Especially today. We
learned how to do one
thing the unwritten but
most appropriate way,
in a world which we
find increasingly more
bizarre, day after
day after……day.

mmdcccliii (#1)

Embrace Your Inner Sociopath

     (loosely inspired by the book of 

     the same name by Jenny Mollen)

If you’re Jason Biggs’ wife, don’t
just write a book about hair, I
believe she’s saying. Hair is
somehow related to sociopathy,

it would seem. One learns a
lot more on YouTube these days
than one (at least I) bargains
for. Just a few new musical

talents would wet my whistle,
having been a pariah of society
for so long now, and attempting
to un-pariah myself, slowly but

oh I certainly do hope surely.
But I can’t stop listening. I
Have the same problem with
almost all news related to

our president and the soap
opera he so entertainingly
spins from surreality. That
thought makes me con-

tinue to watch Ms. Mollen,
who shows everyone in the
studio audience how to
properly breastfeed. “One

must make sure the curtain
hangs open at least enough
on the mound not being
sucked that it is visible.

We call this showing off
our voluptuous.” There
is a pause as if this must
be truly taken in. “And if

you happen to have two
going at once?” an aud-
ience member goads.
So Ms. Mullen demon-

strates that the volupt-
uous results in such a case
can be awe-inspiring, if not
entirely too compelling to wit-

ness by a generic human (and
I’m exhausted by the fact that
she must mean people of all
sexes; makes me glad I never

had one of the little devils).
This double-do of course is
double-voluptuous, not
dissimilar to the Wrigley’s

Spearmint Gum twins. And
because of them as well.
God it sounds so tongue-
in-cheek, but I do love

celebrity gossip (unless
the celebrity is celebrity
due to participation in
a sport; or is one of the

Kardashians). I truly am
taken with this Jenny Mollen
Biggs (yet why she doesn’t
appropriately add her hus-

band’s surname, given the
topic of voluptuousness and
all, is truly beyond me). But
nothing shatters the fact

that she’s so damned CUTE.
And to top off this cuteness,
she cuts into a story (is it
in the book, is all I keep

wondering) about how she
dropped her son on his head
when he was a toddler, fract-
uring his skull, in fact. There

is an entire school of guilt,
it turns out, regarding this
apparently common and
worrisome event that hap-

pens at least once around
toddler-hood. This guilt.
Well, sure. I suppose I
get it. But more than

anything else, this phe-
nomenon underscores,
personally, for me, how
celebrity kids are not much

different than you or me
(not being much of a cel-
ebrity, of course; at least
not yet, anyhow). It seems

that there would be excep-
tions to that little rule,
though. So, are we then
to get psychopathic with

any and all toddler-aged
kids world-wide? I’m so
sold. Even thought I’m not
quite sure yet what the key

word in the title, which,
whoops, is sociopath and
not psychopath, to which
I’d just alluded. My bad.

And, I’m also more than
a bit in tune with how
influenced I am by this
amazing martyr of a wo-

man who just happens to
be married to the perhaps
underrated but too over-
stated Mister Jason Biggs.

That verity rises above the
crown of my head to form
the shape of a dizzying halo.
Which seems more than right.

I nevertheless look forward
to embracing my own opinions
on the matter, of course. At
some point. I’m sincerely hoping

that it isn’t just one more thing
from which us guys are vehement-
ly exempt (read, disallowed) from
doing or in participating in any way.

It does sound nurturing and
a perfectly awesome way
to get in touch with our
feminine sides (sparse as

they may be in some of us).
But she sticks with the
story of dropping her son
on his noggin, repeating

the moment’s scene incess-
antly. And, sadly, I don’t
believe noggin-fractured
kid is even Biggs’ boy.

Poor Biggs sits at a table
that is placed on obvious
display for the interview’s
television audience, behind

and to the left of the ladies
at the table, front and center.
He’s on a dais a couple feet
in height, so he resembles

a museum exhibit or zoo
animal. With nothing to
do, really, unless he wants
to meed the gaze of a hostile

audience now and again (and
I suppose I don’t spend enough
time on that hostility and from
whence it might have derived);

we, the audience, see him
refer regularly to a copy of
his wife’s book. I notice a
definite Season One of Orange

Is the New Black look that is
exacerbated by the obviously
unintentional bald spots that
dimly light his head. Certainly

there is nothing National
Lampoon (nor molested
apple pie) about this
particular version of

Biggs. Half-listening
to his wife, I begin to
nod my head in agree-
ment (her voice has a

very mesmeric quality
to it) as she lures me
back to the impossible
combination that pro-

vides an incredible all-
ure (and I can see that
I’m not at all alone on
this; plus the guests are

at least eighty-five per-
cent female, at least to
these eyes, I should app
ropriately add). In ess-

ence, the moral of this
story (and presumably
the moral of the book
she is tandemly touting)

is don’t drop your kid on
his or her noggin. Unless
it just happens, in which
case, we all should suppose

“Why not; might as well.”
It’s a bit confusing (and
here, I cognizantly assume
this confusion must be test-

osterone-related) whether
she’s encouraging the prac-
tice or just finding method-
ology to excuse it; to elim-

inate the guilt that surely
surrounds and follows one
after the act of dropping
your kid head-first on the

floor, or god-forbid a con-
crete sidewalk, perhaps.
And, come on, who doesn’t
drop their child on their head

at one point or another? Al-
though I do suppose that mak-
ing a habit of it might be an
incredibly alarming thing for

all involved. I'm not always
the brightest, but even I
know that for real answers
to these burning questions

on this subject I’ve never
given a thought to is that
the entire world population
of mothers should be con-

sulted. Scientifically. As
purely as is convenient.
Perhaps even a random
sampling of fathers, too.

This I think surely due
to the fact that I’d love
to be involved in such
a census; to affect

some world knowledge.
Wouldn’t that be a
kick?! Granted, I’ve
never had a child of

my own—that I know of,
anyway. Well, I’m not
even sure Ms. Mollen-Biggs
is a celebrity or not. But

she has turned out to be
such a delight to catch. And
has encouraged such ex-
pansion of thought. And

this isn’t even TMZ (which,
truth be told, I never watch,
anyway—and my wife loves
to repeatedly remind me that

this fact makes me a complete
celebrity gossip hypocrite). It’s
CNN where I get the brunt of
my celebrity gossip, while try-

ing so hard to skip the rest of
the news altogether. But.
Celebrity gossip. What can
you do? At least when you’re

me. I can attest to the fact
that I never once spent mon-
ey (mine or anyone else’s)
on a National Enquirer. I

can even say with some con-
viction that this is a good thing.
And while I cannot say how
good or bad this segment has

been for anyone in today’s
audience, I do sincerely
believe that it’s not been
a great couple of hours for

our dear Mr. Biggs. Nor,
perhaps, I must sigh, for
CNN, who decided to take
this initial plunge into the

‘studies’ of his psy-
chotic or pathologic or
sociopathic, yet oddly
hypnotic wife and her

unpinpointable cause
celebre. Whatever can
be said, I’ve certainly
had my moment of

growth today. And all
of those in attendance
have surely had one as
well. Even with the ad-

mixture of disturbing
and confusingly comical,
life-threatening stories
such as this must abound.

I am even certain there
will be things that I learned
from this spectacle which
will only be discovered in

hindsight. So, without even
delving too deeply into the
disturbing parts (I’m easy
to tune out, you see, and

quick on the draw with re-
gard to such matters), I pic-
ture the audience departing
quickly up and out of the

theatre doors and into
the mid-day sunlight
as better people for
having experienced a

spare moment or two on
such a confusing subject
(which I am not convinced
is less confusing than when

off she roiled with the first
few words of the evening).
But doesn’t that confusion
somehow equal a relatively

higher level of import-
ance than, say, less confus-
ing stuff? Like Newton’s Law,
I suppose. Anyway, I’d never

even given this subject a
chance; or, well, it is one
that I must admit never once
crossed my mind in the first place.

That is not until today, when I had
the honor of attending this fine
pseudo-political event. Something
that always comes to mind when I

drop by one of these town hall
meetings is that life, you know, is
honestly a total gamble. Don’t
you think? I certainly do.