and moreover

Aug 04, 2006 12:22

What has come to pass is a convention, a houseparty of "I"s and "you"s and Is and yous and writers-who-could-have-written-this and readers-who-will-(or have)-maybe-read this (whatever this is). I'm serving Liberty Ale from giant ice chests, opening them with a souvenir churchkey with a bust of Italo Calvino for a handle. Everyone is getting shitty drunk except for me, who's laying off the sauce for a while. Then the set of all writers who could have written this show up, followed stumblingly bay the set of all writers who couldn't have, the latter having been at a barbeque thrown by you, downing hamburgers and drinking from huge handles of Black Velvet, and are now ready to fight or fuck. Someone called them and told them that there was beer here, probably me, who is upset that everyone else is drunk except for s/he/it. Luckily I remember that I laid down a few cases of Morey-Blanc for just such an emergency, and so I go to work with a corkscrew etched round the worm with a phonograph groove of Alvin Lucier's "I am Sitting in a Room," and the crisis is averted.
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