Shut. Up! Press here for more information [indicates a swath of stomach]. You don’t believe I’m a real woman? Here, follow me to a sushi restaurant in the American Southwest. All this stucco is new. My friend’s dad did the construction. You’re fired. Your friends ate marijuana, they’re at the multiplex watching a horror film. Fast forward to Bergen’s Bagels. Of all the people standing in Bergen’s Bagels right now, you love scallion cream cheese the most. I just love watching you type. It’s seriously like seeing Glenn Gould tickle the ivories. Kitten on the keyboard! You’re the T. Monk of the iPod Touch. Living in Vermont makes you a bad writer. Living in Maine makes you a good writer. Living in New York is expensive, unless you’re a bisexual punker.
Summer camp, lemonade. “Stop me if you think you’ve heard this one before” (The Smiths): Bruce Jay Friedman and Leonard Michaels walk into a Catskills retreat. They both stand up at dinner and make toasts, both of which involve elaborate jokes that begin… [andrew note to self: fill in joke later, after you have more life experience. maybe join merchant marines? look into management positions at care centers for developmentally disabled adults away from the east or west coasts. editorial work and the internet are killing your writing. you are becoming a great chef. listen to your loins.] I haven’t been diagnosed with ADD, but I will follow anything stimulating or sparkling if it flits by without menace. It’s hard to tell how menacing something is if you’re only looking at its ass. Don’t worry about ‘remix culture.’ Don’t worry about your handicap.
Discussion question: What was Andy Capp’s handicap?
It’s impossible to be gentle with a placemat. I’ve gone AWOL behind a paywall. Sucking on my Wall Street Journal. I’d love to see the leather jackets of the world sublimate into boiling-hot black droplets all at once. That would make New York City bearable again. I live in New York City.