January 31, 2003
she's here
in psych my professor pointed out that almost all psych studies to date have been performed on upper middle class white college sophomores
and i realized my demographic is better understood than any demographic in the world
and i wondered do they know enough to predict every thought i am having
and i thought about russia to put a spoke in their wheel
but it was just what they were expecting me to do
Posted by didofoot at 04:52 PM | Comments (1)
Peacock Stringed Instruments
I want to talk more about Allen because he cannot be overstated. When he walked in and Gene said oh it must be Aaron (knowing however perfectly well that it was NOT Aaron) I heard his voice and thought oh it's Allen isn't it. But did not get up from the chair. This is because I was sitting on it backwards and knew that I would trip over myself and it would not be a good beginning.
I did however go all over in a tingle and blush and a pleased expression upon seeing how he was not fat and WAS present. It was a shock to the system for I have so long known him just as emails. He has skinny fingers and his toenails need clipping. All night I just could not think what to say to him but then I never can; mostly for the first hour I just stared at him as he talked to Sean(e) and the Lad. His profile did that tightly tensed thing that people's do on the bus when you stare at them steadily and they know it and are afraid to look at you in case you are drooling or incontinent or about to introduce them to your pal Jesus.
It's hard to believe he was here at all. I imagined this a number of times and they were all just as real to me. It seems such a waste to be tied now to just one.
Posted by didofoot at 11:35 AM | Comments (6)
Rocks Trees Spike
Allen is home. He is not fat. He gave me a poncho and puppet, as if he knew the secret gift secrets of my secret heart.
But Jason leaves tomorrow. Every silver lining has a big, sad, looming, awful, thunderbolt-ridden cloud.
Posted by didofoot at 08:00 AM | Comments (5)
January 27, 2003
A thistle bit Kronk
The Lad's motorcycle has a little bathrobe which he keeps chained to a post when not in use so that it cannot run away. It fits snug over the motorbike and in its bathrobe the motorbike looks like a little cartoon viking guy. It is so endearing. This bathrobe is for keeping the wet off. When the wet is on you slide around and cannot brace yourself when you are approaching stoplights so as not to slide into the back of the Lad and give him, he says, carpal tunnel from supporting your very light, don't get me wrong, sweetie weight all on his wrists like that.
Isn't it great how there is a tunnel in the wrist? Turn your lights on, I always think!
This one is not a lie because I haven't thought up any stories lately, but have been thinking mostly about death again. Death, the big nuh-uh. It is awfully dull and does not bear repeating.
Well, here is an email I might write today.
Dear Maggie,
Apparently many people are afraid of me. It is widely reported. Due to how I am intimidating. Mostly the Lad, who is not afraid of me and should be, tells me this, but he likes to say I am mysterious because he knows it makes me feel better.
The sad fact is, though, that I am like a deaf person trying to speak. I can see how other people behave in a friendly, warm, normal way, and I try to emulate it, but everyone finds me out right away. Mostly I think people assume I don't like them. This I guess is the effect of teaching oneself to walk with one's hands held out from the thighs, and being too shy to speak in company, and glaring out from beneath enough eyebrow for two people or three movie stars. I think the only solution is to bring potato salad everywhere as a peace offering, since who can be afraid of someone bringing them potato salad? I eat like an American. It's a gift from God.
Your cousin,
didofoot
Posted by didofoot at 11:54 AM | Comments (9)
January 25, 2003
I am a singing telegram. (BANG!)
Sorry for the tantrum. (Or am I lying?) Upon further reflection I've decided it's better not to lie about important stuff like having found the cure for cancer or Allen coming home, since it gets people's hopes up and that's no good. I need you people to remain hopeless, so that you can be coerced into doing my bidding when the revolution comes.
I've been thinking about this gun control issue. It occurs to me that the only cop I know is racist and kind of annoying, and I'm not too keen on him carrying a gun. Neither am I happy about a lot of strangers running around in police and military uniforms with guns that they're allowed to use on me. I mean, sure, I'm on no one's shitlist now, but I've seen "Enemy of the State" and I know how fast all that could change. And when the revolution comes...Anyway, I recognize that they go through training and all to prevent them from shooting their own toes off or accidentally nailing an infant in the line of fire, but I still don't like it. So maybe I should be allowed to have a gun. Maybe we should all have them. I mean in an ideal world, no, there would be no guns anywhere and the cops would just carry big sticks (coughEnglandcough) but in this world I don't think things are going to go that way. I'm all in favor of mandatory training courses for gun owners though Sort of like driver's licenses.
How come when four drunk teenagers take daddy's convertible out for a drive and kill four other teenagers, no one forms a coalition demanding that cars be taken away from all civilians? (And, but if they did, would it be such a bad thing?)
The sum total of my education about this issue comes from having watched "Bowling for Columbine." I'm sure all this has been said (more betterly) before. But up until now I'd just been assuming guns are bad for children and other living things because that is the way of my people. Call this my rebellious stage.
Posted by didofoot at 10:15 PM | Comments (7)
January 24, 2003
Do not be fooled by his ingratiating expression
I've been visited by the zit goblin a lot lately. I've tried booby-traps - spreading peanut butter on the floor, so that he'll be stuck and in the morning I can salt him until he shrivels and dies. I tried warding him off with Noxema amulets around my neck and deep-pore-cleaning facial cream jars nailed over the door. Nothing works.
I guess my only recourse is to start eating like a farm girl. You see, zit goblins do not visit our more rural cousins. The smell of pigs and the lack of good independent movies houses do not agree with goblins. Maybe if I alter my diet so I'm only eating dairy and fresh vegetables, the goblins - never the brightest of mythical night visitors - will be fooled. If this doesn't work, I might be forced to also leave the house and exercise in sunlight like a goddamned field hand. But let's hope it doesn't come to that.
I know girls who wait up for the goblin and try to reason with him, but I know better. Goblins don't understand reason. One girl I know got so frustrated that she began to violently shake the little rat, which caused his sack to spill open all over her legs. She was pure zit from the knees down. I'm not going out like that, I can tell you. Not this girl.
Posted by didofoot at 02:39 PM | Comments (3)
Mission Statement
Hi friends.
Sometimes I will tell stories that actually happened and sometimes I will tell stories I only thought of in my head. There will be no distinction made. I'm keeping a blog because I like stringing sentences together every day. It's an effort to propel myself towards a return to fiction writing. Also, a lot of times my head stories are more real to me than the actual stories, so it makes sense to me to present them as facts.
If the stories are bugging you, it's okay with me if you stop reading. I promise not to give pop quizzes later to see if you're keeping up. I'm hoping the writing style will improve as soon as I get used to telling stories again, but there's no guarantee.
It's also okay if you want to keep screaming LIAR LIAR in the comments section, to sort of give other people a heads up that the story I just told about you or someone you know isn't true. Just know that I'm not trying to pull one over on you, so identifying the lies will hopefully be less critical in the future.
Your cousin,
didofoot
Posted by didofoot at 12:59 PM | Comments (3)
January 23, 2003
Return of the Peacock
Allen's home!
Actually it was kind of anti-climactic. I called in sick to work this morning since it's apparently going to be my week for stupid, destructive behavior, and when I wandered blearily out of the Lad's room at around 10:00 he (Allen) was asleep on the couch in the living room. Apparently he showed up after the Lad and I went to bed, scratching at the door like a puppy, or a small child who you have locked out of the house.
He looks awfully cute when he's sleeping. But I haven't been waiting a year to watch him sleep, so I sat in the chair and idly kicked the cushion under his head until he woke up. Then we did the whole thing where you hug each other. Then he explained that even though he had found this perfect present for me, he lost it at the airport when someone walked off with one of his bags again . Then he tried and failed to account for what had happened to the scarf I loaned him when he left. Then I asked if he wanted to go to breakfast but there was that whole vegan/non-vegan problem to wade through. Apparently it's okay to eat eggs in Chiapas next to a beautiful exotic foreign communist girl but the best I can hope for is shared coffee. But not the kind that exploits the indigenous people of the world.
Then Sean(e) woke up and they started making lists of the top ten reasons why one should never sleep on a friend's couch and I pretty much gave up and wandered back here to blog. And that is my sad tale.
Posted by didofoot at 10:41 AM | Comments (11)
January 22, 2003
So dumb it must be true
Well, I suppose you're all wondering how my first day of school was.
And the answer is, it was great.
Posted by didofoot at 10:35 AM | Comments (8)
January 17, 2003
Me and E
Editor's Note, written on August 28, 2008: This entry is a made-up story about meeting Elliott Smith. It definitely never happened. Please also note that I wrote this entry long before he died, so what looks like kind of a callous lie now was just a normal daydream back then. I understand some folks are pissed about the "sellout" comment, and I apologize if I've offended anyone. Elliott Smith was and is my favorite singer and I intended no disrespect to him then, and I intend no disrespect to his memory now. Thanks for reading and/or linking to me and have a great day.
Yesterday I met Elliott Smith. He was standing in line in front of me at Safeway where I was waiting to pay for my apples and the good couscous you can't get at Cala Foods. Despite having spent the last three years idly stalking him and despite owning all his albums and despite that my walls are covered with his concert posters and I have his static-cling colorform thing on my car, I almost didn't talk to him. That's how shy I am.
But anyway I did talk to him as it turns out. I said "You're Elliott Smith."
He turned around and I was cute and he said "Yeah," in a terrified kind of way.
I said, "You stole my friend's film." This is true. When Maggie saw him at Amoeba in SF which was right after Either/Or came out, she had her picture taken with him (he was still unfamous enough to where you could do that) and then handed him her camera for whatever Maggie reason. Then he sort of wandered off with it. A few minutes later he came back and returned the camera, but when she went home her film was gone. So I told him this story. "I understand why you'd do it," I said, "because if there were 24 strangers in the world with a picture of me, I would want 24 pictures of a stranger. To get even."
He was kind of entertained by this, in the way that indie rock boys (even sellout Dreamworks-label indie rock boys) are only ever "kind of" anything, but he denied stealing her film. (It is very possible that Maggie actually forgot to put film in the camera in the first place.)
That was pretty much it. He walked me home and we talked and all. To be honest, he's not that interesting. Or maybe we were both just too shy to say much. But at least now I am in a position to say that the new album will almost definitely for sure be out sometime soon.
Best exchange of the evening:
HIM: Not too many stars around here.
ME: Yeah, I miss that.
HIM: I used to just stare at the stars all night, just sit outside and like write songs all night and then when I wrote one I'd play it like eight times, or just a part of it over and over. Just to sort of get to know it? I guess?
ME: Sounds nice.
HIM: Yeah, but I lived in this total shithole and I had, like, a hundred neighbors and by, like, two in the morning they'd just all be screaming out the windows at me, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" You know and stuff like that.
ME: Uh oh.
HIM: Yeah, plus I was taking a lot of, like, amphetamines and different shit. So I would yell back at them but for some reason I only would yell in rhymes.
ME: Like what?
HIM: Like, um, they'd say "shut the fuck up!" and I'd say "sew the duck up."
ME: . . .
HIM: I wasn't totally coherent or anything. I usually had to rewrite the lyrics to most of the songs the next day with a hangover.
ME: That explains why they're so depressing.
HIM: Yeah, I guess...
Posted by didofoot at 02:20 PM | Comments (14)
January 16, 2003
Our Friend, Jason
Everybody thinks Jason is great. Jason is so nice. He never says anything mean. He will eat where you want to eat (unless it's Pasta Pomodoro). He is a supportive friend. He is so interesting. He is so smart. And, hoo! Funny? The man was born with double the funny most people are born with! If not triple.
Jason is leaving soon for a small, virtually abandoned mining town in Vermont, where the economy is practically suicidal. He will be working with small tiny kindergartners who cannot read or write or say their small tiny alphabets or see out of both eyes at once, in the one room schoolhouse on the edge of town, surrounded by barking rabid dogs and viscious gangs of disgruntled urban youths. (It's a hell of a commute, but these youths are dedicated.) Every day on his way to work he will dodge gunfire and rabid saliva, but he will show up with a cheerful smile and a will to teach which the kindergartners will find inspiring.
After work and more bullet dodging, Jason will return to the cramped room at the Y that he will be sharing with eight taciturn miners. Gradually, the light from Jason's sunny, eating-wherever -you-guys-want-to-eat demeanor will creep into the black hearts of these men. Each of the miners will meet a kind, pretty postmistress and marry her and never beat her or anything. (Except one miner who will die from black lung, but not before recognizing life's beauty and goodness and also making peace with his estranged eldest son.)
Yes, everyone thinks Jason is great. But frankly I think he's just riding on his reputation these days.
Posted by didofoot at 03:15 PM | Comments (6)
January 15, 2003
The true heroes are the ones who write the books about the true heroes
I just finished reading The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver which as you know takes place in Africa. Afterwards I was feeling really inspired by the way she writes about stuff that matters. I decided I, too, will become an inspirational and politically aware novelist. I spent some time considering the phrase "political unrest" and how inadequate it is to describe what actually goes on during a time of political unrest. Later, after I had written my two socially conscious books, I wove this profound thought into my acceptance speech at the award ceremony where I received my third Human Rights Awareness award. They created this award pretty much just for me. Also in the speech I made sure to mention how I owe it all to Barbara Kingsolver and her book The Poisonwood Bible. When she saw my speech on national television, watching from the den in her spacious home in Arizona, she wrote me a heartfelt letter saying how much it meant to her to know that she had affected the life of another, and that in this way the chain of good works would be continued. Until she heard my speech, she just didn't know whether anyone was listening to her. But I was. And man, that audience sure loved my speech. Especially the part where I cried, for all the children.
Posted by didofoot at 04:07 PM | Comments (10)
After these messages
Boy spots attractive girl sitting across the aisle from him on the bus.
Boy spots old old woman entering the bus.
Boy gallantly rises to give old woman his seat, incidentally moving himself closer to the girl.
Girl spots his game and is not displeased.
Can I get your number? says the boy.
Girl shrugs. I don't have a pen, she says coyly.
No problem, says the boy. He whips out his do-it-yourself tattoo kit.
Next scene.
The boy jumps off the bus with a jaunty smile and the numbers 555-6173 etched into the skin of his arm and still bleeding. He turns to the camera and holds up a VHS tape with Guy Pearce's face on the cover.
Announcer: Memento. The Freshmaker.
Posted by didofoot at 01:25 PM | Comments (4)
January 14, 2003
"For we are the king of the boudoir, we are, and the king doesn't like to wait."
Last night in my dream I was watching cautionary presentations by female convicts who had been raped by prison guards. I woke up in my own bed, unmolested. What a strange accident that I am not a woman being raped by a prison guard. Who died to make me king?
Was it Elvis?
Was it Cole?
Was it Aslan?
Posted by didofoot at 10:49 AM | Comments (10)
January 13, 2003
From the jokers who brought you Devil Bunny
I have this game and this game now. I urge you to believe me when I tell you that they are fabulous, even though this is pure speculation on my part. And if y'all want to play them with me (I would play alone if I could, fearing you and all people as I do, but I cannot) why just name the time. Allowing a week's advance notice for my busy schedule and friend-packed social life and potential schoolwork as of next week of course.
Speaking of the Lad. I had dinner last night with Himself* and the assorted Woods. It was the first time I'd ever eaten chili (mercifully bean-free and fabulous). Now I just have to experience bowling, drive-thru movies and DQ and then I am officially American.
None of this is my fault, people. I was raised by wolves. And communists.
*I have begun to refer to the Lad as He or Himself when I call Ward Street and get a roommate, as in "Is He home?" or "Is Himself home?" I'm not sure, but I think that my persistent reluctance to speak his name is just as annoying in person as it is on this website.
Posted by didofoot at 11:23 AM | Comments (15)
January 09, 2003
Nothing rhymes with "papaya scent."
Last night I said, "You make me glow like a sparrow."
"Sparrows don't glow."
"Like the ghost of a sparrow."
"Oh, that kind of sparrow."
"You make me glow like a dead sparrow," I said, pleased.
"I try."
I showered in his shower for the first time yesterday. It was amazingly painless for a boy shower, though I did have to deal with the standard boy-shower lack of good shampoo products and the dark, boring-colored towel. On the other hand, boy towels are ginormous. I spent the whole shower trying to compose a song about how you know it's love when the girl gives in and starts bringing her own, more attractively packaged, better smelling shower gels and products into your bathroom. I kept trying to rhyme "aloe vera" with "care."
One nice thing about the Lad: it was so easy to avoid the pitfall of using the roommates' shower stuff, since I could just follow the trail of generic items until I got to his shelf. He has no brand loyalty to anything. For me, this is the equivalent of dating someone who was born without fingerprints.
Posted by didofoot at 08:46 AM | Comments (24)
January 07, 2003
Late, as usual.
January 3rd was Tolkein's eleventy-first birthday. Why don't I ever find this stuff out in time?
Posted by didofoot at 12:39 PM | Comments (11)
E-mail tested, mother approved.
This happened when I was living in Santa Cruz and unhappy and plagued with enormous, fluid-filled pimples on every visible surface and cutting all my classes and crying a lot. I was sitting in my room fighting with my Syntax homework when the phone rang. I said Hello hello hello and no one said anything; it was one of those wrong numbers who inexplicably hangs up on you rather than just owning up to his mistake like an honest man. I never hang up on these silent callers because of a Baby Sitter's Club book I read once when I was 11 where a boy had a crush on Kristy and kept calling her and not saying anything because he was too nervous. I always assume these callers are just hapless men who have fallen victim to my spell.
Anyway, I stayed on the line, and the caller stayed on the line. I know because there was very faint music in the background. Eventually I went back to doing my Syntax homework with the phone still resting against my ear, and the caller went back to organizing his toenail clippings by date, or lifting weights, or watching M.A.S.H. on mute or who knows what. We stayed on the line together for maybe fifteen minutes, just tacitly acknowledging that the other existed. It was incredibly comforting.
Now that I am happy and have altered my diet to discourage enormous, fluid-filled pimples (mostly), I'm feeling that a debt is owed. Someday soon I'm going to start calling random numbers. I'll wait until I find someone who doesn't hang up, and then I will be a comforting presence on the line for this person, while I glue printouts of old emails into a journal, or alphabetize my CDs, or use my teeth to pick all the dry skin off my lips.
Posted by didofoot at 09:45 AM | Comments (5)
January 06, 2003
second adolescence, god help me
When I was thirteen, I fell in love with a character on a short-lived sitcom whose name I can't even remember now. I was desperately, sweatingly in love, turning over and over all night like an eggbeater, gazing out the window for hours, writing the poetry, singing in the shower, sure that such a love could not exist without the possibility of reciprocation, sure that there must be some way we could meet and get married and grow old and buy matching sports cars.
Not since then have I felt such consuming, desperate love, not even after the Sicilian dumped me when I would scheme for hours the things, the wonderful, witty, charming things I would say when I spoke to him next. Not until now, anyway. Because now there's the Lad - well, there has always been the Lad and I have always loved him, but not until now have I loved him like this, like the way I love him now.
I grin like a handicapped child when I hear him coming up the stairs. I call him every day and keep him on the phone as long as possible, delighting in the mellifluous tones of his voice as he politely tries to extricate himself from the conversation and get back to the fun he was having. I lie awake all night, every night, worrying about his possible death. I can bring myself to tears just thinking about it. I frequently bring myself to tears just thinking about it. Suddenly the whole concept of death seems hugely, incredibly unfair; the idea that in as little as sixty years he might go before me and the first twenty-three years of my life that I spent spitting up bananas and learning to walk and falling in love with sitcom characters and not being with the Lad were so horribly wasted.
Suddenly I am as thirteen as it is possible to be. I want to paint the area under my eyes with dark eyeshadow so that people see how tired and tormented and artistic I am. I'm considering starting a journal filled with acrostic poetry which includes the words "deep" "universe" and "soaring." I want to sneak out the window in the middle of the night and wander the streets of a suburb, tortured and chilly and alone. I want drama. I want cigarettes. I want an all black wardrobe, sullen eyebrows and a monosyllabic vocabulary. I am on my knees before the god of adolescence. Help me, oh help me, Obi-Whine. You're my only hope.
Posted by didofoot at 09:41 AM | Comments (22)
January 03, 2003
Plug
I went to high school with him and now he has one of the most interesting blogs I've ever seen.
Plus, Jimmy apparently asked him some questions.
Posted by didofoot at 01:43 PM | Comments (19)
Maggie, Queen of the Skies
This is in the way of being an informational anecdote, providing you, the reader, with data from which to draw a portrait of Maggie:
On her flight here, Maggie was lucky enough to be seated in one of the coveted exit rows. For those of you who take trains, let me explain: an exit row on a plane guarantees the sitter a lot more leg room, and has the added benefit of putting one in a position to get one's ass the hell out of the plane first in the event of an untimely water landing. So there she was, stretching her little peg legs (Maggie is short, like a dwarf or shrubbery) and exulting in the acres of badly upholstered space now available to her, when she heard a voice. (Here is a hint: it was not the voice of God.) "Excuse me," said the voice. Maggie looked up. Standing next to her seat was the passenger who everyone knows, the Guy Who Thinks You're In His Seat. In this case, the Guy was particularly unwelcome since Maggie was in what may be referred to without sarcasm as the Throne of the Skies - exit rows confer not only space, but status. "I think you're in my seat," the Guy said.
"I don't think so," Maggie said politely, and showed him her ticket.
"Yes," he said. "Because see? This is 7A, but your ticket says 13A."
"Oh," said Maggie, re-examining. "That's true."
They looked at each other. Then she said the unthinkable. "Do you really care?" she said.
She said it in the voice you heard in high school from the popular kids. It was the voice that drips with boredom as it asks to see your Physics homework so it can copy it. It's a voice that doesn't care about being caught, a voice that implies this disinterest is the whole source of its coolness. This voice is the reason that the popular kids are popular and you are not. It is the essence of the cheerleader. The man was helpless before the voice.
"N-n-no..." he said desperately, though of course he DID care, it's an exit row, it's the Throne of the Skies, no one willingly gives up an exit row, NO ONE, but he did, he did...
And that's Maggie. She is exactly that charming, and exactly that scary.
Posted by didofoot at 10:16 AM | Comments (7)
January 02, 2003
My time with Maggie
The first night she was here, we went to a bar with the Sean(e) crowd. I had carefully arranged to have an event going on so that she would know how I am happening and fun and have many likeable friends. (Later I blew this casual coolness by accidentally referencing the fact that I had planned the event myself. The sad truth is, I am never invited anywhere. And am happy about this.) After two margaritas I got in line to break the seal and was happily leaning against the wall where Ellie's childhood picture hangs (even back then she was a hottie) when the big-haired Texan behind me started talking. We had one of those We're All Drunk We're All Girls We're All In Line We All Have To Pee Like A Racehorse Isn't This Fun I Feel Really Close To You conversations. Then somehow she was really close to me. She just kept edging nearer and nearer. Which is why I was not as surprised as I might have been when she darted into the single stall bathroom after me.
The way this bathroom is set up: it's like a house bathroom in that it's one room, but there's kind of a Chinese half-screen thing separating the toilet from the sink. It gives you the kind of intimacy you're prepared to have with your girlfriends when drunk and peeing - together, still conversing while doing your thing, but no one's actually watching you. It's a little more intimacy than I was prepared for with the big-haired Texan though. I mean it's not like she ducked around the screen and watched me. But as people go, I just am not what you call warm. I take a long long time to get physically comfortable enough with someone to where I am happy about hugging them or peeing in their presence. For example, I've known Michele since sixth grade and only became comfortable cuddling with her a few years ago.
I realize this story should properly end with her cornering me as I was re-adjusting my thong and trying to get a little dido action. It doesn't though. I waited for her to pee and then returned to my group. Feel free to incorporate the beginning part into your fantasy life, though, and choose your own ending. Now I'm going to write about the zoo.
We went to the zoo with Jason Shamai and the Lad. It was raining and late and no one but only no one was around, which as you know is ideal when it comes to zooing.
Here's the best part: the Lion House. This consists of little lion apartments that have doors opening out into the outside lion enclosure. Two lions, both a little sick, were hanging out in their apartments, and also a tiger. We were the only ones in the lion house, and we stood very close to the cages. I've never been so close to a lion before, or any large predator. Eventually their lack of activity and depressing circumstances palled, so we quit poking them and started to leave. At the door we turned around. Both lions were standing perfectly still at the bars of their cages. Staring at us. It was an extreme Ray Bradbury moment. I was terrified. (I am also terrified when I stand in front of the saber-toothed tiger statue on the UC Campus. I am a timid thing.)
Again, this is a story without a good ending, but let's say for drama's sake that the doors to the lions' cages swung suddenly open and they both leapt out and came streaking across the floor at us, faster than we dreamed possible, and the only things which saved us were these: that the lions' muscles had atrophied from the years of boredom and enclosure; that while the three of us were poking meanly at them, kind Jason Shamai had been befriending the tiger in a Saint Francis way; that now Mr. Shamai flung open the tiger's cage whose keys he had luckily lifted from the pocket of a game keeper whose wallet he had been aiming for; that the tiger sprung out in front of the lions to defend his new Francis pal and while they were fighting it out to the death the four of us made our escape and went to watch the hippos yawn at each other. Let's say.
Posted by didofoot at 09:51 AM | Comments (5)
