Gourmet Pet Food
Point and Shoot, FL (YU)—Gourmet
pet food, pampered cats. Get those
correspondents into
Chris
Wallace reporting Reagan had open-heart surgery when he meant to say open chest.
Scoop. Stop the presses, chief—I have a story here
that’s going to blow this town wide open.
Whatever
happened to Ronald Reagan? He went to
take a shit and the neocons ate him.
What’s in a word? The difference between a lightning bug and lightning.
Leon Panetta in his Kermit D. Frog raincoat.
Buying a Burberry. Hemingway talking Indian talk, daughter. Too much firewater.
Can’t finish book.
I know. Let’s give him electroconvulsive therapy (ect).
Scrib didn’t have any trouble finishing a book, starting a new one. It was all one book.
It wasn’t that he wrote the same book over and over again, it was that he wrote one long book, with beginnings, middles, and ends thrown in, willy-nilly.
Referring to books no one had read.
Books he couldn’t remember, but had to look up.
Dim memories.
Dim Sum Dead. A murder mystery written around a McGuffin. Like the Maltese Falcon.
Event-planner protagonist.
You know, that’s a good idea. Scrib was an event-attender.
The poor boy at the party. I got snubbed at the love-in.
Put a person in the wrong milieu.
Scrib was in the wrong milieu. Uncomfortable in his own skin.
He was comfortable in his own skin but he made everybody else uncomfortable. What happened to that man’s face?
Is Jack pissed-off? Did we make Jack Angry? No, that’s his normal expression. He doesn’t know how he looks to people. He’s thinking.
You’d have a sour expression too if you were trying to juggle as many balls as Scrib was. Keep as many balls in the air at once.
Needless to say, the pain was excruciating.
A writing life outside the mainstream.
The career women who waited too late to have kids, had Mongolian idiots.
We don’t call people Mongolian idiots.
Scrib said Tiger Woods looked like a Mongolian idiot.
Not to strippers he doesn’t.
That is, a stripper is God’s own Democrat. What color is your money.
In Thunder Beach the protagonist had a crush on a stripper he met in a titty bar.
They almost had a tryst at the Dixie Belle Motel, on Dixie Belle Curve. That’s romantic, to me.
Brenda and I used to swim there, when we dug with Chief and Dr. Dailey, in Port St. Joe.
Hang nine, Dr. Dailey.
Razz Heap took a picture of it with his point-and-shoot camera.
Talk about a
scoop. This was a picture none of the
other newspapers got. Or the travel
magazines, the TV stations. Send a crew
out to
Hey—it’s their beach. Did Scrib think he owned the beach?
Did Heap think he could just pull up by the side of the road and walk across the sand dunes through the sea oats to the beach?
Did he think he
owned the air out of the paper mill chimneys, the water dumped into
Roll, Tide,
roll. The Crimson Tide. The L. A. (