My Friend Pamela the Nubian Princess

found this photo in her attic, dated on its rear, twenty years ago---"Summer 1988." We both remember the day: out on the bay in Alex (the tanned one's) boat, with her then boyfriend, Laurence, the Englishman gone native. Alex made a prominent marriage (to a woman) which didn't turn out well, but I think this is before then. We can't imagine who took the picture, and something about the composition suggests an automatic shutter to me.

What a world away such carefree times seem from now, when youthful self-mutilating ideological race-baiter's careless schemes go awry. (John McCain, you really need better vetting.) But I just wanted to post something new, especially for my friends, like dear 24.45.17.231 aka Riverhead. Yes, I want you to know I've gone all Stockholm Syndrome on you---come frame my narrative with an arrest, a custody, an incarceration, an interrogation, or at least a forced Bataan death march! Something! Anything! In such a context of no attention I have become a Skinner rat, ready to gnaw the leg off of anybody who comes calling with the regularity you do! I'm warning you! Don't get me started! I'll give new meaning to Pandora's box!

But my heart still belongs to daddy: upstate at Plattsburgh, 167.140.2.15. (Or is it Berwyn, Pennsylvania, 207.140.171.128, Mr. QVC?) We go way back, you see Riverhead. All the way to the glory days on Critical Thrash.

I know I'm supposed to just roll along with the flow of the river, but I'm getting tired of waiting. Can I charge a sigil or something to speed things along? In any event, peace, brothers and sisters!