Autumn in New York: Bring it On

The alarm for autumn rings in New York City over Labor Day weekend.

The pace of walkers everywhere in Manhattan quickens, the throng of tourists in midtown thins–though it amazes me that in the middle of a harsh winter, international sightseers still abound. In the fall, Fattened tourists give way to fashionistas, college students reduce their radius and buckle down for some serious studying, studding and slugging down their share.

In the last half of August, giant leaves begin to litter the greenery of Bryant Park. One fell right into my lap yesterday, perfectly ochre, the size of a horse’s hoof. A few days ago I stood on the raised terrace and watched the race for space at the final outdoor movie of the season (Raiders of the Lost Ark), blankets waving behind spectators like superhero capes, flying full speed to stake out the best spot on Bryant Park’s famous lawn. Bryant Park is a great place all year, but it sings in the summer: concerts, outdoor reading, ping-pong, chess, the carousel, juggling. The final summer jazz concert by the fountain was so large that fans clogged the sidewalk, annoying and entertaining passers-by at the same time.

The days and evenings are as sultry as they were in late July but in the wee hours,   walking back to my place in Chelsea from a late movie at the Angelica, the thermometer dropped into a temperature that would be exhilarating if it weren’t a harbinger of the cold to come.

The Green Market at Union Square overflows–people are in the mood to buy more than they need, in response to an instinct to stock up: lean pickins’ ahead.

Even the little street-side gardens, wrought iron squares around boulevard trees, are reverting to ivy and bolting coleus, as if they understood the heavy lifting of sprits is done and it’s time to act their age.

The people of Manhattan ready themselves this weekend for the American rite of passage, when some parents usher their children off to elementary school down the street with a tinge of bittersweet pride, others endure the ache and expense of education far from home, and every autumn since 1959, short plaid wool skirts decorate the window at Macy’s.

On Tuesday morning, it will feel as though we New Yorkers have the power: we practically will the weather to change. “Bring it on,” thinks the college kid from Topeka, in the auditorium for his first lecture down at NYU. “Bring it on,” writes the buyer for Holiday decor at Macy’s. “Bring it on,” says the mother of three, who, exhausted and relieved, will nevertheless, look forward to next summer.

Bring it on.





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August Fifteenth NYC

The City

soggy with joy

hailed my return by halting everyone

at JFK


Better than a ticker-tape parade

I got

a two hour wash-and-wait on the tarmac

a hundred feet short of Gate 8


Then, I got

The City

gussied up wet at sunset


The shiny grit of Manhattan

pierced, dark, covered


After all, she’s an island in a squall


Wet leather Gothic


New York in late summer

is a woman just the other side of full flower

the moist ache of passing rain

that used to pound and bounce.

In August

the wet parts roll off

too-heavy petals

gathering speed

to Fall

in the City







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The Voldemort Rule: Let’s not Create a Mantra for Madmen


Hitler. Idi Amin. Osama Bin Laden, Anders Behring Breivik, Jared Lougher, Wade Michael Page.

The names of the damned have a power of their own.

Just saying them aloud sets up a vibration, a vulnerability, the kind of infamy that could tilt the head of an unbalanced Soul…and make him pause at the local gun show or weapons store, smack-dab in front of a semi-automatic weapons display. He might picture his face on Fox, CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS, Google, YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, or on the newswires of AP, Reuters, and of course, the hometown newspaper…complete with a signature expression or unusual hairdo.

A rogue sicko looks in the mirror and imagines being dead and infamous. Alive and anonymous does not create the kind of notoriety these killers feel they deserve.

If a madman makes a horrible choice, I’d rather not hear his name, over and over again, against my will. I’d rather not see him in article after article, along with the details of the senseless act and the plodding due process that we have a right to cherish.

I’m not advocating that we erase Hitler, Idi Amin, or Bin Laden from the history books. We need to guard ourselves against demonic, magnetic individuals who managed to attract followers, profiteers and soldiers. We need not only to remember their names, but we need to repeat them, despite our discomfort, to keep ourselves vigilant of their ilk.

Lone assassins, crazed gunmen, they are a different story. The media should use their names when it’s necessary, not bandy these gruesome monikers about, granting lone killers, alive or dead, the opportunity to inspire more of their kind.

While most of us could point to Wade Michael Page or Jared Loughner in a lineup, we can’t name a single victim of a recent mass shooting, unless it’s Gabrielle Giffords, and that’s because she had the temerity to survive. And she had some fame to begin with. And she’s pretty. And white. And she had a hell of a backstory.

Dear Print Media:

How about naming the assailant ONCE in every story, and not in the first three paragraphs. If the reader wants to know the *******’s name, (s)he’ll have to read below the fold.

Dear Broadcast Media:

Instead of creating a mantra for madmen, how about showing some restraint: limit the mention of the shooter’s name to say, once an hour during the first day, and only when there’s a reason, thereafter.

It’s not just the name: Loughner’s one deeper set eye, Holmes’ blood-orange dyed hair, Page’s round-faced mug shot. Today, the dead Texas A&M cop shooter, is primed for a pirouette and posthumous bow in the media spotlight.

I don’t want to recognize the features of a new shooter’s face. Instead, I want to hear intelligent talk about the underlying causes of mental and emotional illness, to debate access to semi-automatic weapons. I want the names of the victims along with a restrained respect for their families. Explore the factors that shooters have in common without granting them the gift of infamy. Show us the protocols and priorities we can create, as individuals, and as a society, to curb senseless bloodshed.

My friends in the media need to act like grownups with a big, powerful, double-edged power tool. I don’t care if it is a slow news day and a juicy multiple homicide has the potential to entertain millions.

Unless it’s absolutely necessary, He-Who-Should-Not-be-Named doesn’t deserve the coverage.










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Pogo looks at Chris Hedges “Careerist” Editorial

In response to Chris Hedges’ “Careerists” editorial on TruthDig today (07/23/12),  I let out my “inner Pogo”

copyright Walt Kelly, The Pogo Papers, first published in 1953

The only humans who are not contributing to the circumstances of economic and social destruction are the people who are already suffering from the consequences of those of us who are. At the risk of sounding like a Republican, I think, given half a chance, those poor souls would become willing consumers and in turn, conscious or unconscious destroyers themselves.

Chris Hedges says, “The greatest crimes of human history are made possible by the most colorless human beings.”

It’s true, the world’s spin cycle has washed the brightest hues of humanity from most of us.  In real life, we are easily overwhelmed and obviously over-washed.

It’s not just the bureaucrats and cynics–we all “do the little chores that make vast, complicated systems of exploitation and death a reality.”

We all contribute, in ways small or large, to a planet hell-bent on hurtling itself toward self-destruction. The complexity of modern life has obscured the cause and effect of simpler times, when losing a crop meant starvation, and when the mistakes could be attributed to a limited population…these days, buying a product that was advertised on TV during a Penn State football game could be considered ‘contributory’ to the culture that supported a monster.

There is incredible danger to finger-pointing, Mr. Hedges, unless one is looking in the mirror while flagging the finger.

Does Hedges have a computer or car or TV made by oppressed workers far offshore?  Did he use fossil fuels on the way to work today or consume a Monsanto-modified food? Is his classy casual shirt crafted by well-paid workers, crafted from unbleached, vegetable-dyed cotton? Did Chris step over a homeless person on the way to work today?

Anyone who consents to paying taxes knowingly feeds the beast. The behemoth has about 20 million government-paid heads in the USA alone. Sharpen your sword, Chris–and break your accountant’s pencil.

Our choices are few: worry, or shrug, or go nuts.

The soulless bureaucrats exist so Chris can opine and I can shine: because I cannot support myself as a writer, I am a jeweler, a purveyor of one of life’s little luxuries. All my diamond cutters and importers signed the anti-blood-diamond Kimberley Accord, every one of them.

I recycle gold, I sell estate diamonds, I donate to charities and walk to work.

I still understand that my actions breed suffering. The Kimberly Accord has huge flaws. The man-made soles on my ergonomic shoes may have destroyed an aquifer in China. The environmentally disastrous proposed Pebble mine in Alaska may be an indirect result of my counseling folks to diversify from paper investments.

I just hope that little acts of kindness and charity mask the moderate evil I abet.

At a time when we need to recognize our own contributions to destruction, to bridge gaps and build coalitions, let’s not make the bureaucrats throw more paper covers over their sins. Instead, pass out Freedom of Information Act forms outside Wall Street firms, raise money and strengthen statutes for whistleblowers, force companies to pay fines, and vote with your dollars. But forgive yourself, at least a little, for not being chased by a despot or starving on the fringes of a desert, or dying from a preventable disease.

All Chris Hedges would have to do for me is a quick re-edit to his TruthDig column today. Just change THEY to WE, and THEM to US.

Just because we’re part of the problem doesn’t mean we can’t mean a little something to the cure.


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Check out my HubPage

Why read a bad book? A story doesn’t have to win a Pulitzer to provide a lesson.

Here’s an excerpt from my ‘writer’s review’ of Matthew Reilly’s Seven Deadly Wonders:

…”And there’s a ‘yadda, yadda’ aura around quite a few of the roadblocks, blowholes, etc. There are four or five times in this book that I felt I was caught in a Chutes and Ladders marathon, or Rube Goldberg had a head injury and came out oozing sadism.

The lesson? Don’t write yourself into the same corner over and over again.

Building Blocks

If adverbs were grout, the book would look like one of those brick buildings with the bulging pointing between each clinker.

I am not a big fan of exclamation points. Reilly loves them! His editor loves them! His agent loves them! Me, not so much!”

Read the entire review at

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Take Montana to Manhattan…and meet the Naked Cowboy

Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer and the Naked Cowboy

(Courtesy of  the Great Falls Tribune)

The day before he was a guest on The David Letterman Show, Brian Schweitzer competed for attention with a perennial entertainer in the heart of Times Square: the Naked Cowboy. Schweitzer is not a regular visitor to these here parts; seeing the famous wandering minstrel in thong underwear took this Montana dirt farmer-turned-politician aback. Schweitzer shook his head and said, “He might get arrested back home.”

For a few hours, the fully dressed governor of the Treasure State got more attention than the guy with the barely covered family jewels. It could have been the huge Watkins-Shepard semi truck completely wrapped in a colorful Montana tourism ad, it could be that Schweitzer has undeniable charisma, but I’m betting it was the free T-shirts, Montana huckleberry jam, Big Sky bison jerky and tiny stuffed mountain goats that the governor and his crew handed out to the passing crowd.

There was one moment in Schweitzer’s New York jaunt when he had to hang on. On Wednesday’s Letterman Show, Schweitzer, normally so much at ease he could pick his teeth while riding a rodeo bull, shifted on the saddle when David Letterman brought up Schweitzer’s recent embarrassing remark about “a polygamy commune” in Republican presidential hopeful Mitt Romney’s family tree.

Schweitzer, a Democrat, knows he’s got some good ol’ fashioned barn dung on his boots, but he’s a big cowboy who knows he can’t step in the political arena without smelling bad sometimes.

I guess Letterman felt bad for cornerin’ the governor, so he let Schweitzer ramble on for a few minutes about agronomy, eminent domain and education. Not exactly sexy or funny, but the governor might not let Letterman back in to Montana unless he made up for the polygamy jab.

Schweitzer did much better on CNBC, where he defended Montana’s solvent state budget by having a Mike Mansfield ‘say it simple’ moment. Schweitzer said, “Government has three jobs: to educate, medicate and incarcerate.”

When financial reporters intimated that Montana might be in the black only because of oil revenue, Schweitzer replied that only 2 percent of Montana’s state budget comes from oil money (he was mum on coal revenue). When the reporter wondered if states with small budgets might not work the same as big state budgets, he shot that comment down from the hip. “It’s all a matter of percentages.” You may disagree with Schweitzer’s politics, but there’s no denying the man could outtalk a city slicker in ten syllables or less.

The main reason Gov. Schweitzer came to New York City was to promote tourism. There’s a new direct flight from Big Sky Country to the Big Apple this summer. From June 9 through Sept. 1, thanks to contributions from seventeen Bozeman area businesses, a federal grant, and the Bozeman airport’s agreement to temporarily waive landing fees, United Airlines will be flying direct from Yellowstone International to Liberty International Airport in Newark.

Technically, it’s not a direct flight to New York City, it’s a direct flight to Newark. I’m hoping that bypassing New Jersey doesn’t upset governor Chris Christie doesn’t feel snubbed. The man is very unpleasant when he is insulted. Newark’s landing fees are probably lower than JFK or LaGuardia, and it’s very convenient to take the train into Manhattan, but last time I looked, Newark was in New Jersey. If it comes down to fisticuffs between Schweitzer and Christie at the next National Governor’s Conference, my money is on Brian.

Seeing as how Montana tried to sell tourism in Times Square, I asked Schweitzer if New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo would be welcome to set up a tourist kiosk in downtown Bozeman. He could straddle a friendly Democrat donkey and hand out New York City swag to encourage Montanans to fill up the return flight to Newark. “Anytime,” was Schweitzer’s response. But please, Governor Cuomo, buy a permit. And bring a shovel. We Montanans like governors who know how to handle waste.



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If you’re an aspiring fiction writer, head on over to Hub Pages for the first of fourteen posts about the Crime Fiction Academy.

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Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? Katharine Hepburn!

guess who's coming to dinner poster

"... and Katherine Hepburn as Mom"

When I set the table for that woman in the mirror, she wasn’t the guest of honor. She was (gulp) somebody’s mother.

My husband and I recently watched the 1965 classic Spencer Tracy/Katharine Hepburn/Sidney Poitier classic Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? on television. Something has happened to me since the last time I saw the movie about ten years ago: instead of identifying with the lovestruck white girl in love with a black man, oh my God, I related to Kathryn Hepburn.

When did that happen? We have a primal urge to imagine ourselves as hero or heroine, the center of our imaginary movie Universe. When did I decide to to relate to a member of the supporting cast… and does this mean that I’m going to settle for a supporting role in LIFE, too?

I’m no longer the ingénue, but I sure as heck am not the head-patting type, either.  Someone please call Michelle Pfeiffer, Vanessa Williams, Brooke Shields and Goldie Hawn, we’re all going out for drinks and I’m buying. It’s bad enough to be a member of the audience who no longer relates to the juicy roles; I can’t imagine the frustration of actresses who need to ply their art in this twilight zone. When a woman in her prime lands a rare leading movie role these days, it’s as a dowager queen (or Prime Minister).

There is some hope if we women can make it through those hot flashes with our curves and moxy intact: thank you, Helen Mirren. Kudos, Betty White. Do I have to be perceived as ‘losing my groove’ in order to get it back?

It’s a stale plot turn for Hollywood producers and performers: women do not to be cast as “the mother.” Skilled actresses of a certain age will sigh, accept the role, then swallow hard and step aside to watch the attention lavished on the blissfully oblivious—and slightly tarty—bombshell lead.

It’s a little pathetic that some women my age take solace because we know the shell will crack and the bomb will drop (along with those mammary glands) sooner than the ingénue might think. We’ll save you a stool at the bar, Hon.

Unlike men, who seem to peak in their sex appeal much later (George Clooney, Hugh Laurie, Johnny Depp, Hugh Jackman, Tom Cruise (ick), Pierce Brosnan, Liam Neeson, Colin Firth…) it feels as if we women have timers forcibly implanted in our asses at the ripe old age of 25.

Stop looking at real women as though we’re imagining something. Let me tell you, when the ass reaches the point that the gravity alarm goes off, it’s damn near impossible to ignore–and swatting at it only makes it more obvious.

We have all seen women try to sit on the alarm, ignore the buzz going off in our backsides and keep on sporting miniskirts and sleeveless tops long after the bell tolls. No harm in that. If you’re offended by Granny in a tank top, there’s plenty of incentive to look the other way. There’s a continuous conveyor belt of sweet young “It Girls” (Wynona Rider, Scarlett Johansen, Debra Winger, that Victoria’s Secret model…) to distract you for oh, about half a decade.

Just because I forget what it’s like to be a tart doesn’t mean I have to be relegated to serving them to sweet young things, does it? I’m going to serve myself something juicy tonight, watch Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner again.  This time I’m gonna swoon when Sidney speaks.



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My LRLL (Laundry Room Lending Library)

Laundry Room Lending Library Shelves

The Laundry Room Lending Library

Perhaps I’m reading too much into the Laundry Room Lending Library.

If you live in a New York City co-op or condo, you might be lucky enough to have a collection of secondhand books sharing the basement with washers, dryers and wheeled wire pushcarts: the Laundry Room Lending Library (LRLL).

A well-stocked LRLL was one of the checkboxes I ticked off when I was in the market for a little Manhattan apartment–a few disheveled shelves overloaded with hardcovers and paperbacks was a sure sign of intellectual, altruistic, well read residents, the kind of smart folks who don’t need to gush or sign their names half-peeking out from under the dust jacket before passing on a good read.

When I first moved into 300 W. 23rd St., I was impressed by the Man Booker prize winners, the classic literature, the difficult anthologies and weighty reference work I found down there. OK, there was some demonstrably iffy gay fiction and there are always a few pulpy breathers and old computer manuals between heavier tomes.

The pickings are so admirable that I have a hard time snarfing no more than two or three a week; a bloated backlog soon developed on my studio bookshelf–paperback editions of Sam Harris’ The End of Faith; Jostein Gaarder’s Sophie’s World; Junot Diaz’ Drown, a book called The New Feminine Brain, which I carried up to my apartment six months ago and haven’t opened yet (which may confirm that I have one already), and a black linen-bound compendium of essays about NYC called Wonderful Town. I actually do read that one in those rare moments when I need to be reminded.

It’s my first trip back in a few months. Most of the volumes in the LRLL autumn collection are gone, replaced with a winter crop of eclectic literature, another mishmash of fine books, many of which look oddly untouched.

I don’t know about you, but when I really read a book it loses its virginity in an obvious way.  The covers get messed, pages get stained, the spine shows evidence of an unnatural bend or two.  Many of the books in the Laundry Room Lending Library look as though they have never been deflowered.

Last October in the LRLL I found economist Nassim Nicolas Taleb’s The Black Swan, a brainy black book dipped in a thickish ego and rolled like Levantine pastry around 1,200 references of every famous penis-possessing person who ever philosophized about the limits of randomness and fractals. Taleb’s Black Swan begins with a chapter called “Umberto Eco’s Library, Or How We Seek Validation.”  Taleb’s conclusion about the essayist’s vast book collection–Eco claims 50,000+ volumes in two locations–is that, “read books are far less valuable than unread ones.”

The residents at 300 W. 23rd St. may agree. Either that or I have many extremely neat, incredibly self-validated neighbors. Eschewing the appearance of being well-read, perhaps they truly ARE.

Books are being displaced, especially in the City, by e-readers. As the owner of a tiny apartment I appreciate the precious space recovered by offloading printed matter. Imagine the joy of wanting a book and owning it within a moment or two… I just don’t know if I could ever use the laundry room again after carting down my word horde. Seeing familiar titles begin to smell like stale Downy, staring at me like once beloved, abandoned cats in an animal shelter…I’d wind carrying the unpopular ones back upstairs out of sheer pity.

Why are there so many books down there? All the literacy and introspection in my building could be seeping through the old brick, plaster and ductwork, succumbing to these shelves. Could there be something about living at 300 West 23rd that makes residents want to buy books just to give them away or have residents STOPPED reading, resulting in this glut of Anne Rice and Jodi Picoult? If people are purging themselves of print, when I come back in the spring I’ll surely notice.

If, by next winter, there are only two romance novels and an old Time magazine on these shelves, I may have to move.

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The Suspicious Women of 11 J

I’m back.

View of the Empire State Building from my apt. on Jan 16, 2012

Eighth Avenue, from the Eleventh Floor

I’ve returned to my New York City studio apartment after nearly three months ridin’ the jewelry John Deere. Yep, it was jewelry harvest season back home at Big Sky Gold.

My finger (emptied of my five carat diamond, sold at the Holidays) is poised to post a few blogs, pitch a few ideas and probably hang a participle or two (sorry).

After a $77 supply run at Trader Joe’s (which broke the old $64 record for two Hawaiian-style grocery bags) I made a pit stop to collect three months of mail jammed in my lobby mailbox. It’s oily dark out there after a thin rain, and I removed my coat, boots, scarf, pants and just now, my grey, lace-edged camisole.

I’m tapping away at my little glass desk in panties, a strapless bra and a thin layer of travel dust, in the shadow of the Empire State building. Despite the environmental insensitivity, I love the old pre-war winter swelter. In this heat, with this view, who’d want to pull the curtains (at least for the first few nights)?

Trust me. In this City, strangers live on top of each other and don’t give a flying f*** about ogling a half-naked woman who’s six months shy of a senior discount.

I’m more interested in looking out than wondering who might be looking in.

In this inspiring apartment, in the shadow of the Empire State Building, I’ve spread out all the forgotten mail addressed to folks who lived here before I did.

mail addressed to previous residents of my apt

Mis-sent Mail

I can almost see, years from now, a guy with an earlobe hole the size of a quarter filled with an adornment made of bone and black rubber. He’s tossing his faux-hawk to whatever’s playing in his earbuds, chucking letters addressed to me, not giving a thought to mis-sent greetings, bills, solicitations, never-opened catalogs from West Elm and CB2. This guy doesn’t even consider recycling.

Of course, he’ll stop when he sees what he thinks might be money.  Some things never change, regardless of taste, age, or tradition.

Unlike that imaginary future resident, I can’t dispense letters that belong to previous residents, but I can’t resist dispensing judgements. I always pause for pathos, Every envelope, important, irrelevant, expired or meaningless is touched and sorted. A few are even held up to a light to see what might be inside.

I got the keys to this apartment last February from Edda Laurea, a woman who moved to a larger apartment up north of Central Park with her aging mother. It would be okay if I still found the occasional department store flyer, restaurant coupon or campaign ad with Ms. Laurea’s name in my mailbox. But I have two blue envelopes that probably contain checks from the Department of the Treasury and one white envelope that appears to be money (or maybe a summons) from New York State. Seeing as how this lady hasn’t been here for almost a year and  I haven’t picked up mail since I left NYC for Montana in early October, you’d think she wonder what happened.

If Ms. Laurea doesn’t “need” the money, can we really dub these checks ‘social security’? At some point, at the point where you don’t realize you’ve forgotten to deposit several of them, isn’t it just extra income? Am I really in support of “means-testing” social security? I guess, at a certain point, which is probably right here, yep. I am.

Don’t worry, I’ll e-mail her. I have her forwarding address somewhere, but this is getting old. The same thing happened with these checks the last two times I came to NYC.

It doesn’t look like our government’s giving grunions to Leo and Doris Borg, former residents of apartment 11 J, who have missed an official envelope from the IRS. As a Star Trek fan, I can’t resist picturing the Borg Collective owing money to the Internal Revenue Service. I must enclose a note to Leo and Doris, if I find them: “resistance is futile”.

When I googled the Borgs, the first hit that came up was a picture of a 94-year old Doris Borg, “the oldest prostitute in Malta.” If that’s you, Doris, don’t come back to Manhattan. The competition is fierce.

Someone from a charity called “The Doe Fund” is looking for a Gentile in my apartment. Ain’t nobody here but this disaffected Jew, but at one time there must have been a Michelle D. Gentile who lived here. She sounds so Christian, so benign, a bit vulnerable. I picture her with one of those buns under a white net. Gee, I hope she’s OK.

The most pathetic correspondence belongs to Elizabeth Librizzi: a Christmas card with no return address, written by someone who appears to be a left handed girl under fifteen. Turn me in: this is where I broke down and broke the law.
I opened up Elizabeth Librizzi’s mail.

I hoped to find a return address, but inside there was one of those charity cards that could have been painted by someone overcompensating for a missing appendage with an overdose of angelic kitsch. “May angels light your way with peace and joy,” signed “Mark, Marianne, Erin and Jamie Rose.” Awww…shit. Can’t throw it away, can’t keep it. If I can’t find Elizabeth Librizzi, I can’t forward it. I’m tempted to re-seal it, invent an address and drop it in the mail, turning the whole matter into someone else’s problem.

Politicians at least understand apartment turnover (or bulk mail laws). There were a good half-dozen congressional, assembly, and other political flyers in my ten-inch pile of mail, and each bore the salutation “or current resident”. Several of them, including New York Senator Thomas K. Duane, sent three letters addressed to different people ALL residing at my apartment. Damn, how did they all fit in here? …Wait a minute, three disappearing voters? I demand a re-count (especially if the Republican won).

I got my apartment key from Edda Laurea. I know she exists. Elizabeth Librizzi, Michelle Gentile, Jane Williams, when did you live here? I hope you weren’t assimilated by the (Star Trek) Borg, or maybe… hmmm, you’re all women... Doris Borg! Shame on you. Did you teach these ladies another, more lucrative profession and move them to a Mediterranean Isle? Is this my destiny??? If you read this post, Ms. Borg, please reply. By mail. You have the address.



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