And we, ourselves, were once in MoMA's sculpture garden, music playing back, through these speak- ers; and then in our own place, with their 3a's. Guy stuff, not to explain. Why'd we splurge for them in cherry? It was showy, but one had to. No, there's no forgetting, what there is to hear. Maybe you were ruined for reception, but I miss you, all the same.
Oh, you get them, too; I know you do. Trolling through the novelties, tapping on their spines, studying endpapers for a pairing with your wines. What to read, what to read, nothing there is quite one's speed, e- ven the dust jackets boast of dust.
The curious samenesses of publish- ing strike one almost as much in a book, as in a tablet. Symbols all lined up, to navigate.
I don't think this condition threatens the instinct to in- habit a story, not merely to be told one. To be stuck in- side a bookstore, with those nothing to read blues again, is not to inhabit a story at all, but a misuse of taste. It wants a counter-irritant; and if there is any route to the restoration of taste, it is the one that inhabits it.
Arpège, or if not, our merry page, would be remiss in its tour d'horison of America's flair for sentimental analogies to the German Chancellor from the NSDAP, if some sort of flasher prize were not awarded to the distaff Clinton, for likening this week that genius for the intimidating démarche, to the dullard little policeman whose eyes seduced George W. Bush. Fresh from her ambition's rus-tication in the drawing rooms of Foggy Bottom, it was promising to find her famously Wellesley-honed powers of reasoning yielding to the more common touch of dema-goguery, upon which no career can founder, anywhere known to man. We liked this very much.
To the senior Bush's dismissal of the Chancellor's oft-remarked gift for cruelty, compared with the dictator we'd propped up through more than one war, her analogy brought our Southern gift for grotesque insult, to compare the murderer of some 20 million Soviet citizens to the petty gangster presiding over their heirs. So much for diplomacy's capacity to restrain a beggar of office, in this shining little city in the swamp. No doubt, we shall endure fur-ther occasion to admire this politician's style. For the present crisis, it strikes a classic benchmark. Who can wait to see, who supersizes it?
Meanwhile, no American school-child, worth his overdose of soda, would wish to impugn the wondrous protestations of fellowship protection, precipitating Mr Polk's aggressive by-play with Mexico, McKinley's with the withered empire of Spain, not to mention the redoubtably dubitable Reagan's storming of Grande Anse Beach, with so much as a whiff of comparison with a tried and true Russian tease, of a people it had starved nearly out of existence more than once. Oh, no. Spring is in the air, and Mr Goebbels must eat his heart out.
.. Here comes the blind commissioner They've got him in a trance One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker The other is in his pants And the riot squad they're restless They need somewhere to go As Lady and I look out tonight From desolation row.
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning 'You belong to me, I believe,' And someone says, 'You're in the wrong place my friend you'd better leave' And the only sound that's left After the ambulances go Is Cinderella sweeping up On desolation row. Now the moon is almost hidden The stars are beginning to hide The fortune-telling lady Has even taken all her things inside All except for Cain and Abel And the hunchback of Notre Dame Everybody is making love Or else expecting rain.