Dogs and babies, damn. Always this. I am in Baltimore, and as I walked from my hotel to my sister’s house in Quaintsville, a dog barked at me out of the window of a car. ‘Hi dog,” I said. The barks echoed off some overly modern architecture, and the dog barked even more at the bark blowback. The light changed, and the dog was still barking as the car drove away. “Bye dog.” I always do full pleasantries with dogs. They are so much better than people and other things. I was drinking an iced mocha even though it is somewhat cold out. Sometimes I don’t feel like hot coffee. I do what I feel.
We are ostensibly working on faming, but so far we have been interrupted by a balloon delivery and some art school lesbians. Fame is hard. Fame is a grind. Fame is arm wrestling and wine spectating. Fame is a size 8, the gentleman’s C of dress sizes. It did not even occur to me that our book was so sad. People know someone who know someone who knows Steve Buscemi. Skulk, creep. LOUNGE. Did I mention it’s a post-apocalyptic wasteland here?
