Date:         Mon, 7 Jul 1997 02:01:38 -0400
From: Judy Ray <ray@CONTINET.COM>
Subject:      Re: INT: SPT / PAPP: Two Sinister New Allivals...

>Lo Rat Fink begins to peer into the faces of the stunned WRITERS,
>holding his menacing machine pistol on each in turn. Until suddenly
>he stops... and a worshipful look comes over his narrow ratlike face.
>
>"June Creaver?" he breathes... and lets his gun sink slowly to the
>floor...
>
>               To be continued...
>
>(P.S. Note flom author... never berieve what fleelance seclet porice
>say! Rying scum, they are! Especiarry ones with totarry bogus
>accents.)


        Judy, sitting at the table with that Chili Lime Tostito
addict, hopes that those gibberish speaking whatever they ares
don't notice her suitcase, 'cause she can see the end of a
bag of Tostitos sticking out, and since she thinks she heard
them say something about some guy they're after who eats
Chili Lime Tostitos, she's just a little concerned.   She's
trying very hard to contain her laughter, trying very hard to
find some words to say after witnessing what just transpired
in front of her, and she's wondering how the frog got from
her hand onto the bicycle, since the last time she looked
he was in her palm.  But sure enough, he's gone now.
        "Geez," she thinks, "a big redhead doesn't have a hope
in hell of keeping up with this stuff.  Maybe it's time to
duck into the ladies room with a bottle of peroxide and become
the big dumb blonde I used to be."
        Suddenly, she has an idea, one that is sure to confuse
those fleerance seclet porice and perhaps distract them from
their guns.  "I think that I will never see, a poem as lovely
as a tree", she recites.  "Double double, toil and trouble,
fire burn and cauldron bubble," she goes on.  "Out out damn spot!"
and with that, she stands up, brushing furiously at the front
of her dress, spotless to all those around her, and grabbing
her suitcase, her hair flying every which way, she rushes into
the ladies room.
        "What was that?", one of the seclet police says.
        "Oh her," says Dwayne.  "Don't mind her.  She gets that
way sometimes, especially when she's just come from a poetry
class."
        "Poetly?", the round-faced one says, puzzled.
        "Yeah," Dwayne answers.  "But the thing that's got us
all worried is that this time, she arrived looking for a class,
and we think she may be a little more poetic than usual right
now, which probably accounts for her bad sense of humor."


^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
 Culture's worth huge, huge risks.  Without culture we're all
totalitarian beasts. After all, what technology promises is that
we can all be control freaks.  That the world is ours to dominate.  The
only thing that stands up against that is culture.  And culture is more
than just being able to get it on a CD-ROM.  Culture is going into
the library, and finding an old book on an old shelf, and opening it,
and it has the patina of the past and maybe hasn't been taken out in
five years, and that's part of its virtue at this point.  There's a
small communion that takes place between the book and yourself, and
that's what's disappearing.
        Norman Mailer, "New Left Review" (March/April, 1997).