Life is too literal to be taken seriously. No mail from Marie. Why do all my relationships end after the first date? One of the nice things about growing older is that you have your childhood to blame for all kinds of things. I could have grown to love that woman! On the bright side, she could be my "Desdemona". I wonder how many bad love poems I can conjure out of this experience? During the short time I was able to interact with her- I'm sure I fell in love. She was bright and articulate. The words in her too brief emails were neat and angular. I wonder if she used a gothic font? Oh Marie, your dastardly inability to commit to a relationship has thrown all the responsibility back on me regarding this journal. If I changed my name to Fu Manchu would I be taken more seriously regarding love and the literary marketplace? I wonder.

How do you market yourself in an age that rewards notoriety at the expense of substance? Hey, what am I talking about? This is the perfect age for me! The problem is that while I certainly lack substance, I haven't the energy for notoriety. The unsavory is something you have to constantly strive at in order to reach that feverish pitch people call perfection. Christopher Logue is an example. An 80-year-old communist. The "Howard Stern" of the poetry fraternity. The problem with him is talent. He has it. To have it and use it is a form of democratic sin. Now that he has achieved his well-deserved acclaim I can, in all good conscience, hate him. I can't help it. I'm naturally suspicious of successful people. Blame it on my childhood.

No news from Marie. It would drive me crazy were it not for the fact that I already am. That's all right. She was actually a little too nice. Where can I snare an editor foolish enough to engage in extended conversation? I could advertise in the literary personals:

"Wanted: editor of a pretentious journal. Must have a haughty attitude and lack of humor. Would prefer a graduate student with not much experience; i.e., unable to tell if I'm pulling their leg or not. Other desired qualities are an ever expanding ego, superficial knowledge of everything I know something about and a natural proclivity to be poked fun at." I would need to rewrite the add of course. The talent is in saying the same thing in such a way that the person addressed doesn't know you're saying it. Gosh, I could easily learn to hate myself. I sound like a New Yorker. It's probably about time I went to Divinity School. Are Jesuits agnostics?

(scene shifts into the past)

A plump naive Paolo is nestling into the pillows on the couch with his king-size bowl of potato chips. His Italian sandals don't yet reach the floor. Beside him is his brother. Both are watching television. Ronald McDonald makes his comfortable appearance.

Brother: Notice how skinny that clown is?

Paolo: Never noticed before.

Brother: Can you believe he works for McDonalds?

Paolo: What?

Brother: The guy obviously doesn't eat there.

Paolo: Hmmmmm

Brother: (switching the channel to a news conference) This is interesting.

Paolo: Who is that?

Brother: Former President Nixon. It's a news interview. He's insisting he's not a crook.

Paolo: Hmmmmmm

Brother: (switching the channel again) Look, the Marlboro Man.

Paolo: I like cowboys.

Brother: Sure you do. That's why he's on. He's taking the pause that refreshes. Whenever I smoke those things I choke. Look at him making you think he's enjoying it.

Paolo: Hmmmmmm

Brother: (switching to another channel) Will you look at this for Christ's sake...

I could go on but you get the point. I don't have to blame anything on my childhood. I'm fortunate in having a big brother I can blame.