In Which Your Humble Blogger didn’t come here to fuck around, I came here to smoke! Then I reach across the table and I grab your bony sleeves, and I crumble your body between my hands like dried and brittle leaves, and I flick out all your teeth and bones like useless stems and seeds, and I roll you in a Zig-zag, and light you like a roach. And so on, and so forth.
In Which Your Humble Blogger sings cherubim, cherubom, cherubim, cherubom, cherubimbombimbombimbom! Now, I say cherubim and you say putti!
In Which Your Humble Blogger still would watch the recently discovered tape of Game Seven in 1960, but would not wager on the outcome.
In Which Your Humble Blogger wonders about the learning curve, going down, down down. And also remembers Peter Falk in Wings of Desire asking “Am I a better actor than I was twenty years ago?”
In Which Your Humble Blogger doesn’t point out that the title of the book (and of the play in the plot) is clearly only coincident with the title Vampire Lesbians of Sodom.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is coy, and invites your opinion about this whole pseudonym thing.
In Which Your Humble Blogger doesn’t actually respond to the response, but to the response to the response, or at any rate to the existence of the response to the existence to the response. Or one of them, anyway.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is a little fixated.
In Which Your Humble Blogger could probably get a nice note going about the song “Rumainye, Rumaniye”, but would have to decide how to spell it.
In Which Your Humble Blogger doesn’t so much talk about what’s in the book as what isn’t in it.