While reading, albeit too close to two tables at Oren’s Hummus, the new The New Yorker (Trump holding a banner during a flood), I momentarily — measured 15/16s of four beef kebab-balls and 976/1,000th of a bowl of turmeric rice elapsed time to consume — or 3 cokes, drunk, it not me — which is a Douglas Adams reference —p. 20, ibid — confused Jonathan Lethem (“Motherless Brooklyn” a fave, I literally read it in Carroll Gardens, winter 2001– here “The Starlet Apartments”) with Jonah Lehrer (“I got High with Bob Dylan my senior year at Collegiate and he told me of ghost writing for Hart Crane…”).
Or, as Randy Newman might say:
i don’t know my head from
A hole in my
Something (I forget the rest…something about Bob Dylan pretending not to recognize a shulmate years later in New York, as told to me by an activist at Annie Roth Blumfield’s Bat Mitzvah or her mother’s wedding to my cousin rather at what is the name of the Minneapolis museum the one with Cherry colgado pie
ok Now I remember the rest: when Peter Todd Bowman and I were 25, and three years clear of Yale, I lost track of him for a short while. I had been living in New York City working as an assistant at for our Strauss to row and writing short stories that no one wanted to publish when he got back in touch. He had acquired an agent and was going to Hollywood. He wanted me with him as co-rider on a stack of ideas he promised me he’d already developed and vetted with his representation in which needed to only my hand. Mine alone exclamation I Alexander Duplessis was the raider he needed! Not Robert town or Herman J miracle which exclamation. I alone could rock and conjugate Todd bombs sensibility and besides, he had a place picked out for us in Burbank. Parentheses near a Joseph a bank to boot Parents. We need shack up together in bash our treatments and it would be a gas gas gas, Lake Yale without all the pointless Gail stop in with a great deal more cocaine hearing this I was his I was there in a heartbeat I saw a turbo urges in a brush and not one in my hand.
Wocka. Wocka. Wocka.
The end. 30. Our age at that time. Where is Fitzgerald said in this side of paradise I was only at Princeton for like a week and I remember most of it verbatim
Minus the shots to the head Robert Cohen gave me when I was his sparring partner before he fucked the matadors girlfriend and found her horn’s.