Driving to work this morning and sitting in traffic I thought of two things 1-bloody murder and 2-these two really great mysterious voicemails I received recently.

The first is an unrecognizable male voice that says quick and stern:
'Stop smoking in bed.'

Funny, I don't ever smoke in bed, but if I did, I imagine I would have been pretty freaked out. Might have stopped dancing around my living room in my underwear with the mini-blinds open even. But of course I don't smoke in bed, so what the hell am I gonna to do? Solid Gold!

Then last night I checked my voicemail messages from a phone I'm trying to 'phase out' for now. Three messages. The first was some back ground noise. The second was a long silence. The last was a bit of two young men talking and then the famous shrieking violin that complemented that unforgettable shower scene: PSYCHO.

So, I have no idea who left either note, but I'm hoping it's the same person.

I love you.
Marry me.
I think we could make some really beautiful children together...

______________________________

Please see the below e-mail that was actually forwarded to me by an adult in my office. This is probably the 2nd or 3rd time that this shit has been e-mailed to me, and quite honestly I can not understand the allure.

I bet they all have a stuffed animal collection on their bed, and Winnie the pooh table settings, Sweet Jesus. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, the voting public:

******
******
******
******
**********
(,)(,)

*.....*
You have just been visited by Dr.Suess's Cat in the Hat. He will grant
you
one wish.
Make your wish when the count down is over.
10..
9..
8..
7..
6..
5..
4..
3..
2..
1..
MAKE A WISH
Send this to 10 people within the hour you read this.
If you do, your wish will come true. If you don't it will become the
opposite.
___
screw you. no no no, wait. screw me.

I'm bleeding from the eyes for wanting to go camping so bad, but how does one tear oneself away from a city hosting such major events as the Corndog Festival, or the sister city of Fort Worth's Colon Cleansing Vegan Chili Cookoff both in one weekend?

My brainwaves are running steady and flat today. I've been over-indulging myself lately, so I needed a bit of soma to get me back into reemission.
__________________
Old people eating lunch in soft white plastic bibs, and I want to touch everything as a dare for myself. Their exposed toe nails are crusty and shapeless, the dark bony joints of their fingers jet off into different directions, and that smell... Not the smell of wet diapers, of bloody sheets, of hospital food, or sweaty wrinkled thighs...It's so...Unfamiliar...but distinct to these places. The smell doesn't scrub off of visitors in just one shower or two. It clings to your frontal lobe where the water won't rinse.

Kay, the woman I met on Sunday, parks her scooter just in front of the staff entrance and waits for someone to open the door so that she can get a breath of fresh air. She tells me she doesn't know how long she has, only God does, and then she cries a little bit. I don't know what she is wishing for.

Since then I've felt like taking long strided walks, and getting out of the city. I feel like cleaning the lint out of my toes and belly button, and looking around closely at stuff. I think it's good for me to check out that residence every once in while- accustom myself to looking at old faces so I don't wake up one day freaking out on that one. The residents think that I'm sweet and an idiot at the same time, because I'm interested in listening to their stories and because I put up with them never hearing a word I say.

I've been to jail before and wished for the mercy of change. The waiting is the worst part: you just want to know what time it is. How much longer. You can take anything if you know how long it will last.
Like Kay's texas colloquialism: It's longer than a wet week.

She didn't show me the 2nd and 5th floor which is what I specifically wanted to see: the Alzheimer's Ward. Maybe she thought that she could lure me back in to see her because she saw I was a voyeur. I didn't get to see the third floor either. I got the feeling that she didn't want me to ever have to see the third floor. Right now, I have the soul I want to have for my first visit to that floor, so that when I land in the bed there, I know how people that come into my room are feeling me.

What's better than renting a husband?
Having 10 husbands to rent out to other's less fortunate than yourself.

Interview with a carnieI’ve never actually attended the fair, because of the crowds, but the pre-fair setup was wide open on Sunday. I got a chance to experience the fair without all the lazy moving crowds, without all the loud ride noises, or the high-way robbery booths with the stuffed animal farmers. It was an agoraphobics dream come true. I told everyone with a security shirt on what a good time I was having, thanking a bit too much even. They’d smile and wave me on.

No lines in the parkway. Everything calm except for the sound of wrenches tightening bolts on rides, the moving of poisonous snakes, the building of little prefab greenhouses, and the soft sweeping of leaves. Security stood everywhere in clearly defined stations. This one guarded the dismantled Big Tex, another guarded the park way to direct and instruct the builders, another watched the swan shaped paddle boats to make sure no body got any funny hijacking ideas (I was filled with ideas.)

My favorite part of the fair, was laying on my back at the bottom of the faris wheel, watching the sun go down behind it. Then I got to interview, a carnie. Sort of. Skinny little man with a long grey beard.

Hi.
Hiya.
Does this ride belong to you?
Oh no, I’m just the mechanic on this ride. This ride actually belongs to a man who owns roughly 20 of the rides here in the kiddie park at the state fair.
Do you operate the ride too, and pack and unpack it?
No, there are different guys that do that. Call ‘em carnies. I just work on the mechanics:wi-ring and whatnot.
So, is this your specific ride that you’re accountable for, or are you accountable for all the rest or some of the other rides?
There are about three other guys that are mechanics like me, and we work on all of these here. They’re pretty much the same central arm mechanics. This one here (he point’s to a small kiddie ride with flying pink elephants who’s ears probably flap) is about a ‘53 or ’54 model mechanics with brand new cars on it.
And what about safety rules?
Oh, we have lots of those. See that orange tag there?
The one attached to the exposed wires in the center of the ride?
Yeh- that’s done by the State Fair of Texas Inspector.
And why is it sitting in a pool of water?
That’s on accounta all the rain we’ve had.
(pause)
The State Fair of Texas is the safest fair in the US though.
So, where does your boss get these rides?
That’s funny you ask. Kinda interesting. All the rides in the park pretty much started out being built and used in Italy. The Italians make some beauties. See that ride over there? (pointing to a ride shaped like a line of semi-trucks that move along a track) That one is the only completely electrical ride in the park. Zamperla, the maker, see the name on the truck up there, has been trying to buy it back from my boss for years, but he won’t sell it.
Italian huh? They are beautiful.
Yeah. See, they start out in some park in Italy for about 3 or 4 years, and then someone buys them and brings them over here. They spend another 3 or 4 years here and then go down to Mexico for a little while longer, and then even further south to Columbia or wherever. That’s when they get really scary.
(3-4 years my ass. Try adding another 6 or 7 years to each stop I’m thinking.)
I won’t even ride them here. What sort of insurance does your boss pay?
I wouldn’t have no idea about that ma’m. But you better believe they’ve got it. Probably some sort of bulk rate.
Have you ever seen anything…you know pretty bad happen? I mean I’m not saying I’d assume it was ever your fault, but…”
No ma’m not for as long as I’ve been here. But I think they just finally settled what happened on the Skyride…must’ve been 7, 8 years ago now.
Skyride? What’s the Skyride?
You don’t remember that? No? Well it was one of them cable cars that went across the top of the park. One of them cables snapped and there was one person at least, dead. Lots a people hurt. Guess they just now settled it ‘cause those people and the insurance companies try to you know, drag it out. I think they hope people will just want to settle and be done with it. Everybody’s just looking to sue somebody anymore, sad.
So did you always do this job?
No, ma’m I got this job as an accident. I came here to the fair wantin’ to be like a custodian or something, and I seen all these people huddled around a trailer. I told ‘em I wanted a job pushin’ a broom or somethin’. They told me they didn’t have nothing like that but if I wanted to learn to fix rides…Learned from the best. I’ll tell you one thing though, every time you move a ride, you’re bound to leave something behind, but you think, awe shucks, it’s just one little bolt. I got to thinkin’ the other day though about that…hell I’ve probably said that to myself at least twenty times about that ride over there. (Crazy laughing)
(Laughing too) Kind of the same phenomena when I go camping and loose my stakes. Pretty soon there aren’t any stakes left.
Yep.
How much do these rides cost?
I wouldn’t know that ma’m. The Indyana down there though is a good-sized ride, and I know that cost about 2 million. My boss bought that one in Germany, and he watched them take it down once, and he took good notes and pictures. We flew in a guy from Germany to run that ride this year, and he was pretty upset about the condition of it ya know? It’s like his bay-be. I do know my boss makes about 3 or 4 million gross at the Fair in just 3 weeks ttime. He’s got ‘bout 150 employees working for him.
Wow.
Yep, and see those booths right there?
Those are the booths were they rope you into gambling and winning toys and shit right?
Yep, that and food. Those cost about 25,000 to rent for three weeks, and you have to pay a year in advance. There’s a waiting list too, so if you sit out one year, you won’t get back in unless somebody retires or dies. (Crazy laugher)
So, do you travel from place to place?
No. I work two or three gigs a year. The rest of the time I’m restorin’ rides. Some guys though that work for other companies, they’re all over the place. Entire eastern seaboard and stuff….

After our talk, I walked around and really looked at the rest of the rides in the park. Beautiful hand painted ride and fun house facades from all over the world, but mostly Germany for the larger rides, and Italy for the smaller ones. Makes me wonder what them guys State Fair of Texas looks like.

I love food. Furthermore, I love people who love food.
There are two kinds of people I don't trust:people who don't love food and people suffering from the disease OCD. I'm certain that both kinds of people are hiding something very sinister.

You might pretend that you love food, and you don't; I'll know. Do you wanna go get something to eat? People who love food don't need a rumbling tummy as an excuse to sit in a cafe, and the answer is always yes, yes, marvelous idea my best friend yes.

OCD people are easy to spot- they have a sterile apartment, they wring their hands a lot, and they paint their sneakers with white shoe polish. White sneakers are a dead give away for OCD people. White sneakers after 7 means you've got a big problem and it's the very strongest woman repellent I know of.

Last night after having a couple of drinks with the guys, I cut out early to indulge in Wednesday Linguine Night at Peter's house.

Peter warned me that he was not a neat-freak gay, and that I should be forewarned before entering his house that it exists in a state of perpetual disaster. That put me at ease right away. Messy people mean they don't have shit to hide; they are completely honest and comfortable.** They invited you over so you can learn all about them and their most favorite stuff...and it's everywhere.
Ceramic Elvis busts, live parakeets in the corners, a monster fish tank in every room, one very red velvet couch pushed against lime green walls, pictures of people now dead on the refrigerator, crucifix on the wall, silverware imprinted with the Buddha. But the food...

Clam Sauce
3 tbsp. dried basil grown in Peter's garden and dried in the sun on his front porch
10 leaves fresh basil picked from the basil bush in Peter's garden just minutes ago
1 stalk of celery chopped paper thin to disguise it as this dish's 'secret' ingredient
2 jalepenos with hearty kick a plenty
1 shallot sweet
2 cloves garlic lifted and sweaty from the heat
2 tbsp olive oil pressed and hardly noticed
1 can clam juice and clams giving identity and name to it all
12 fresh clams in shell-screaming decadence.
(optional 1/2 tsp fennel seed, and grated Parmesan sprinkles to top)

all over simple bed of pasta.

and on the side, together peter and I made pesto in the cuisinart:
2 fists of fresh basil from Peter's garden
1/4 cup pine nuts all fleshy and pinched at the ends
1/4 cup olive oil to make creamy and delicate
1 tbsp fresh squeezed tart juicy lemon, the bursty meat digging into your fingernails
salt to taste to bring everything to attention.

all served in a dainty porcelain teacup with tiny toast to dip on the side.

And Cabernet sauvignon Blanc in giant bulbed wine glasses.

And we talked about our mothers- which basically amounts to wild audience applause at the end. Peter sat on the floor glowing, and smoking, and a satisfied saint indeed.

**Not that messy people are always good people. I once took a little tour of a real life crackhouse, and they were not pretty people at all. Brillo pads pulled to pieces everywhere (like the plastic straw in easter baskets or tinsel on christmas trees that turn up everywhere) white chips of plaster mashed into the carpet, and a mattress in the living room. Drug houses I've discovered, always have a standard sized mattress resting up against the wall in the living room.

Okay- a little lighter...
I must plug an event that's coming up in the next few weeks; I look forward to it year after year. It's a little consolation for the torture that is the Texas State Fair: The Annual CornDog Festival brought to us by the good folks at Ozona Bar and Grill, State Fair Corndogs, and Dog and Kitty City.

Friends, this is really and inspiring and worthwhile event, and the $10 cover goes to a good cause- the Dog and Kitty City Animal Shelter. There is nothing this f@#_ed up in the Lone Star State I dare say. Last year they didn't provide vegetarians with any tofu pups as I hear that they did in years past, but there are some mighty fine tater-tots to fill up on. Something about chomping down on one variety of dead beasts to save some others.

I plan on submitting an entry as well...so...come check it out

Last year's highlight, for me, was the Last Supper, and the Anna Nichole Dog. However the winner was a rather graphic porno involving corn dog characters that snuck into a professional baseball player's locker room for a rather disturbing shower scene. I had to walk away, because it was way more than my PG-13 eyes could take, but folks, sex does sell...

I promise your date will freak out with delight she'll be so impressed. She'll never forget....

AN E-MAIL FROM A REAL LIFE PIRATE GOES LIKE THIS:

Date: Mon, 15 Sep 2003 15:42:41 -0700 (PDT)
From: "Cap'n Slappy"
To: hschauf@yahoo.com
CC: webmama@talklikeapirate.com

>Thank you so much for concepting Talk Like A Pirate
>Day.

>I am an intense pirate fan, and look forward to being
>part of the festivities.
>sweetsweetjane.blogspot.com (Sept. 15)

>Thank you,
>heather

Thankee heather...I am forwarding this to our webwench, Jezebel for a
possible link to yer blog.

Have a Lusty Talk Like a Pirate Day

Cap'n Slappy
_______

mmmm. cap'n slappy is a pirate GOD.

NEWSFLASH! NEWSFLASH! NEWSFLASH!

Talk Like a Pirate Day, I have just found out, will be on Sepetember 19.

sigh.

A few favorite old boyfriends will attest, that this will definitly be a big deal to me. Huge. I have a 'thing' for them you might say. Can't be explained.

Slip out the Back Jack
The subtlety of this life is what I've come to be so in love with. The details that bring people to share time with eachother when they ordinarily wouldn't. Or shouldn't. Or maybe they should. That's what I'm picking at today.

Last evening I sang. I drank me some drinks, I grew me some nuts, I took off my shirt and I let loose (Hey, I had a tank top on underneath). It was pretty much a disaster, and by the time I finally figured out how the song worked, it was over. But forget about that. It doesn't matter, I'm over it. The detail that tosses our little story into action, was the song that I chose: '50 Ways to Leave your Lover.'

Oh yeah, you do remember that song by Paul Simon. It's a little story about a man stuck in a bad relationship who turns to a woman for advise. He gets some good advise. Real good. Hubba-hubba. Get's himself free and shit.

So I fight my way through the song and head back to the bar to fight my way through another drink. And man was Mike impressed by how I could embarass myself on a whole new level. He calls it 'postmodern'.

Now I don't remember the segway, which must mean that it was really good, but a stranger materialized in front of me. He's from Barcelona, Spain. Fascinating.

Mike decides to push off. He's done. I don't blame him. He's about postmoderned out.

The Spaniard and I sit down at a table next to a woman. The stranger begins to tell me about his girlfriend. That's her, right there next to him. He's been with her for two years and he can't understand why. Me either. He's hot. She's sitting right there. He hands me his card. I think he must be joking. Just e-mail me he said. I object...because....she is sitting right there! Oblivious! Just e-mail me.

A man comes to the table and sits down next to me at our table. He's got a pretty face and sandy blond hair, and is as gay as I'll get out. We get along famously. (I'll be a diva in my future life.) Suddenly, he motions for me to get up. He'd like to buy me a drink at the bar, and I need to get up and go to the bar with him to get it. Like, right now. At the bar. Drink. Now.

A jack and coke is what he orders for me. Strange, come to think of it, because people only order shots for other people, they never tell you what to drink.

That girl is my friend he says. Susanna right? I ask. Susanna. I've known her for years, she's great. Yeah I've met her a couple of times and she seems really cool. She is. But that guy... Her boyfriend right? ...Yeah, him, I can't stand him. We don't like eachother at all. Apparently, he is interested in you...

Manuel walks up interrupting. Probably he is very curious about the pow wow going on. He stares us down, and the jack-and-coke guy pulls me outside where we can talk.

What he proposed to me is that I pursue this... Manuel. I don't get it I said. Listen, he said, this is my motivation: I can't stand this guy. My friend should dump him, but she never will. Call him. Go out with him. Please.
I can't say for sure, but I'll consider it.

Would you please explain about the fifty ways.

So, what to do. I read the business card today

Manuel H. Basora
Artist

Images by Basora
Visualizing the Unseen

Phone: 214-344-5215
e-mail: basorame@hotmail.com

The first time I met Susana, it was Christmas Eve a few years ago. Somebody had punched her in the face and her eyes were shining. That was it, and she was done with the looser and she'd kicked him out. For as long as he'd stay out I guess.

I think I'll e-mail him and ask if he's the very same.

Fascinating

In fourteen days the State Fair of Texas comes right and ready to our little neighborhood.

For 340 days of the year we live, we work, we play next to eighty acres of haunted fairgrounds. It is a cement life with booze and tatoos and stories that get told soley for public interest. Exposition Park creates our own side show parties, and the lonely fairgrounds serve as a backdrop for us. We hate the State Fair of Texas, because that's when the background overtakes us; it steals our parking spaces, it commandeers our barstools, it crowds our safe streets with corn-dog-sucking, Coors-long-neck-straddling strangers. It surmounds to anal date rape. What ever anal date rape feels like.

Our home town becomes a barbarians Meca, and to kick off the invasion- a college football game that rivals every bit of the film Gummo. They paint their faces, they mutilate their bodies, destroy their cars, and then go home and beat their wives and/or girlfriends. It's how babies are made, how ex-cons find work, it's how the great state of Texas earns it's beer-gut-flauntin', gun-wieldin' reputation. They all come here to the Texas red-neck convention to fill their bellys with top shelf grease, tounge eachothers missing teeth on the farris wheel, and start fist fights over who's got the best hefer.

So, I'm preparing myself for my exile: visiting with old friends I won't get to see so much, sifting through old hobbies I've shelved to the closet, and scoping out temporary digs until this twister makes it's way out of town. The shop keepers prepare signs with special fair hours (that relieve their staff of the torture), stock up on domestic beers they normally refuse to carry, and pull in television sets for people to watch the game on.

I'll miss you Expo Park. Take care.

I need a cold shower now
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I believe.
Enough grands to send me on my way to a new life experience; adjusting clothes that will last me the rest of my life. I feel better. I am heather's open arms, and I build armies with my hang-ups. The white-noise machine, the security system, the twin mother I swap out with myself. I am always not quite myself, and we are the same person. Freedom and it's potential is what I call dove huntin'.

Good fences make good neighbors
Yesterday at Claudia's, we began to clean out the vines that had overgrown her backyard.
It felt good to separate the good guys from the bad guys because it was so obvious and easy.
It became clear to me again why people want houses. To be able to manage what is good in their very own backyards, to take their shirts off if they want, to and eat a turkeyburger off the grill as the sun goes down and the crickets start singing.

The night before I ran into Eddie at the coffehouse. He wanted to know why I gave credit to the full moon and none to the stars. I don't want to know the future, this is overwhelming enough I said. Well maybe not the future perhaps, but to know when things are a good time to do this or a bad time to do that, he said. I can't even keep track of my car keys I said. Now you're just being silly he said. I don't want the insights I said. Why? he asked.

I can never understand why people have such a hard time with this. Why do they think people lock so much of it away in their unconscious ... the reason is because it is as horifying as it is beautiful. I tried to explain this to Eddie- that my underlying problem with it was the real selfishness that you discover about people. The motives become clear and it's usually very sad and sometimes desperate. Selfish, yes, he understood that, but where was the problem with that he wanted to know. I'd hate to pull the gender card, I said, however- I think it's because I'm a woman, and the selfishness is what really bothered me. I'm selfish too of course...I admitted. So, you'd rather close your eyes and pretend it doesn't exist he asked. It's not a question of indulging or denying it, because there are different degrees and variations inbetween. Our conversation trailed off when a blond women walked up behind him. His attention turned to matters of sex. My resolve justfied in his distraction, I turned away and back to an old schoolmate I was with. I wanted to tell her what had just happened, but knew she wouldn't understand.

Sometimes people get offended at the pressure like I got that night. I'm not offended or intimidated. People like Eddie are lonely, and I believe that there are certain places in the concsious world one should not open if one does not like to be alone. From what I understand there is a benefit to those people as haveing a deeper understanding of eachother and they feel seemless amongst themselves, but I do not see many of them that are that way; like Eddie they are incomplete too. There are just too few of him out there.

My boss has just logged on, and I hear the windows greeting music come out of his office. 'Such a sweet sound...' he says softly to himself, only he is deaf, so when he speaks softly to himself I can overhear it...
The work day starts.
Adeu.

I watched Contempt on Monday night (upon everyone's high recommendations). When the screen went FIN, I spit on the floor, and then I kicked the cat.

Today I reflect on a few things offered up by a barfly they call Mosquito: a confident tatooed man, of average height and shave-ed head, that plays in a band on a drum set that he lights on fire at Bar of Soap- a punkrock laundrymat/cantina in the neighborhood. I think it caters to people who otherwise wouldn't give attention to laundry. It caters to me.
Anyways, the point. The point is, I accredit Mosquito to two blurbs.
"Jesus Gail, I can't think of the WORD. Hell.... this scrabble mentality is killing me!"
Funny how you trap yourself into little games that when the fun wears off, you can't find your way out of.
The second was a little sidebar talk we had. At least I think it was him. We were talking about what it meant to say "I'm sorry." I told him I didn't think very sorry was shit, and that it was nothing at all. What he said never made sense to me until yesterday.
You're right, for sorry doesn't mean anything at all.
...until you mean it."
I AM sorry. I am sorry. I am SORRY.

It has been almost a week since I quit meds cold turkey. An act of rebellion- as my doctor told me from the get go to do everything sloooooowly. Physiological effects include: foggy head, morning dizziness, and some funny tingling. Itz nod da twoomoor. Psychological effects include: increased sentimentality (guilt for not visiting my family, not calling old friends, not developing new friends fairly), regret for past sins committed, empathy for characters I may or may not have personal relationships with, and long pauses in conversations and normal daily routines to consider everything fore-mentioned. Ironically, my brother commented yesterday on the phone: 'Are you taking some of them pills that makes ya think?' when I trailed off in the middle of my own sentence.

I'm not a disaster. I am not catatonic. I'm functioning fine. So is basic human giving-a-fucking-shitedness something that I have been relieved of in my red pills haitus? Something I can choose whether to be accountable for? Upon understanding this insight, does that therefore leave me accountable? Can I just say that the snake made me taste and go on chomping away in ignorant bliss. The brutal honestly I had attributed to confidence in aging, may instead be numb insensitivity.

....Eso
es la pregunata.

"No vacillating or uncertain interest can produce a unity."
On Thursday I got a lead. An honest lead from a man I suspect has midgets for parents, but wishes to keep it secret. It was a lead so obvious to me that I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before: Starbucks. Lakewood.
A man, rather professional. Glasses. He's there all the time. The perfect sized little man.
Today is Monday and Labor Day. My weekend houseguest has just left, and I am readjusting to being alone again. So, it occurs to me to head out for some coffee, and maybe...just maybe.
And here I am.
And holy shit there he is.
And I am speechless.
He drinks tea. He carries a paper back Merriam Webster that is falling apart and bound together by a rubber band.
His back is lopsided; bulky on the right and weak on the left.
There is no better table for me to position myself at, and even this one is not good.
My anxiety starts acting up and I cannot catch my breath. I yawn to fill my lungs up and calm myself down. A handsome man beside me yawns loudly too and distracts me from my notebook to say that I should stop it, it's contagious...but that it shouldn't be on account of all the coffee.
I have no tongue, but smile like a cat.
The midget stirs.
Obviously, this man must shut up, and I must find my voice. Perhaps my breath will be found sitting beside it.
My fingers tap the table as I try to think of a segway. The handsome man mimics my taping with a clicking. It is an old sales trick he picked up somewhere, and guess what somewhere I've heard it too.
Small man can sit quiet and still for such a long time, while the salesguy shimmies to burst god damn him.
"One cannot finish a thing lest one begins it."
My subject has a very bad haircut, or rather, he does not get it cut very often. He has a red zit on his neck.
He closes his plastic covered book around a bookmarker.
He is leaving...
no, he is relieving...
and comes back again.
He is reading Wayne Dyers Wisdom of the Ages, and he has nearly finished it.
I am reading the art spirit. I am on page 29.
"The later type of worker generally manifests a mental activity of much higher order than his apparently safe and secure confrere. He must know and he must know that he knows before the model is snatched away from him. He studies for information."
I know that I don't know what confrere means.
Eureka, I know an old tattered lady named Merriam who sits close by, and I know that she does.
Main Entry: con·frere Variant(s): also con·frère: COLLEAGUE, COMRADEA cold exchange. Worthless. One: may I?. One: yes. One: thank you. One: welcome.
The salesman clicks and softly moans in caffeine-induced frustration.
Mine.