Reading the book section of the Sunday Miami Herald.
I was tanned
and fit, from riding my ten-speed bicycle to the beach, then walking on the beach.
I
wore a white cotton T-shirt with a pocket on it and white cotton painter pants with
a hammer loop.
When people asked me if I was a painter, I would say, "No,
I am a writer."
When they asked me if I was a poet, a playwright, or
a novelist, I would say, "A technical writer. Unemployed."
I'm
still a technical writer, unemployed. Rather than, say, a poet, a playwright, or
a novelist. Making a living at it.
Note the blaze-orange Velcro watchband.
Members of my fan club wear them.
"Payola...buzzola--just call it ola,"
as the promoter said, in Wild Guitar.
Eagle feather, turkey feather.
What difference does it make? Black vulture or turkey buzzard.
If you say
you are a member of the Buzzard Cult, you are.
