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  1. For some reason, the other day I had that old Petula Clark song in my head. The one with the lyrics:

    “Don’t sleep in the subway, darling
    Don’t stand in the pouring rain…”

    Do people really need to be told these things? I mean, why didn’t she just sing:

    “Don’t wash your face with Clorox,
    And hey, don’t shave with a Ginsu knife…”

  2. slope,

    “This was back in the days of the folk music craze
    Lenny and poetry and jazz,
    Cats and chicks snappin’ their fingers
    to Lord Buckley doin’ “THE NAZZ”,
    Kierkegaard, Ginsberg, Sartre and free love
    parties to cover the rent,
    We all wanted to be existentialists.
    None of us knew what the hell it meant.

    (Refrain)
    Now I take the “El” to Loyola
    and I walk along the Sheridan sand,
    Where the waves are breakin’ over the jetty
    and the wind is like an icy hand.
    Theodore says that the criminal always
    returns to the scene of the crime.
    Maybe I’ll see Elizabeth D. one more time.”

  3. I am in a novel writers group, we’re meeting next Wednesday at this guy’s condo on the UES. 26th floor.

    He is a lawyer who does litigation in Manhattan criminal court. His novel is about a guy who goes on the lam.

    He said last time we met, “You know, if I was facing 7 years in prison, and I had the means to flee, I would probably flee.”

    Incidentally, whenever we meet, whoever hosts, always the snacks are the same: sliced slami, french bread, an array of soft cheeses. Except when I hosted it, because entertaining mystifies me and I’m clueless.

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