Good to see the light on - feels like I never left, sometimes.

I'm with you in spirit(s). But sweet dreams....

I just told some old curmudgeon that it is more fun
to sing happy pub songs than to cry in one's beer.

Good to see ya Barefooted.

Jeeesus, Mary & Joseph. Let us get away from excrement and move on to the pub.

There was a man from Nantucket...

You've not seen nothin like the Mighty Quinn.

The day will kind of go on and on and I am losing it. Then I come upon Quinn doing thirty pages.

He reminds me of Arp. Arp once wrote an entire novel. But he ended each page with a full sentence and a period. Then he just shuffled the pages and either tried or actually got it published.

Well, you get the idea.

Since everybody else is quiet. At least according to my old pc, every page Quinn writes, has got something to do with my life.

It really is amazing. Quinn is the kind of guy in your Eng Lit course where the professor just loves him or has him escorted out of the class room.

He makes a boring day seem really interesting.

You know, speakin of Canadians. Quinn claims birth here. And I love this country. But some will go on and on about the English and how dastardly they were and then talk about how our forefathers--when I was a kid I thought it was four fathers, maybe the mother could not make up her mind--saved us.

And then I remembered Canada. And they seemed like they did okay.

THE END.

Oh, Barefooted, I only let my therapist call me Mr. She says it helps us keep a structural distance.

But I still do not understand why I have to take off all my clothes before every session.

But it is kind of sexy to be called Mr. when you are naked.

But I am not naked now, I am in my pajamas and Mornin Joe says all the computer geniuses are in their jammies anyway.... Well Call me Dick. Or Arthur. Stilli calls me Arthur.

Well now I don't know whether I've been savagely insulted, or praised the the heavens, or handed a bucket of cat doo. And my brain was already pretty confused today, as you may have noted. All this, from a little story about green poo in a tub. Who knew? So my answers are (in order of length):

- Yes, the cat is allergic to me. And has shown significant restraint. Which I'm loathe to admit, because I think the bugger can read.

- To be compared to Arp is praise beyond praise, as I am (fairly obviously) a lover of dada. I only fear that the level of confusion, randomness, bestiality and ancient masonry in my posts is far too low to provide me entry to their circle. Then again, as I used to sign my "Mars Attacks!" comments here... Ark! Ark! Ark! That'll have to hold 'em.

- A story. I tried to change courses & get into English Lit at a certain overseas university. Upon meeting the Dean, I KNEW I was in. Because this guy was the absolute spitting image of my eldest brother. Better yet, he shared the same first name as my brother. AND the same last name. (This is a true story, ok?) After 20 minutes with him, the guy nearly had me thrown out on my ass. He HATED me, with a deep & abiding. I'd like to tell you I later went on to write award-winning novels that blew the boards off him, but that'd be utter bollocks. Bottomline? I'm still pissed at my brother.

- The Dean was English. So, like Dick, I find myself conflicted about that race. I think it all comes down to a choice of whether you think: A) they should be horsewhipped, or, B) just have a lot of fish thrown at them. I figure that'll go in my next post.

Thanks folks. It's always good to drop into the home.

Correction. "Drop in where it FEELS so much like home."

Ok, that didn't work either, because my family's crazy, but - as Dick says - "You get the idea."

THE END.

G'night all...sounds like a good time was had by all!

Sleep well, Missy...