I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. Yup, guess that explains the other Tom's lifelong look of dyspepsia. Imagine how well he would have written if he hadn't poisoned his system with all those triple lattes. Jesus, Tom (Jardine, that is), this is even battier than some of your language theories.
Does it portend no more absinthe at West Chester? I'll buy you a de-caf, anyway, but must be clear about one thing: my body is not a temple. At its best - in my prime - it was maybe a one-room shul, up a flight, over a delicatessen in the Bronx, with the smell of pickled herring distracting morning worshippers. Now it's just a paper bag full of donuts.
[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited May 26, 2005).]
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