Jan. 10, 2004
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We came back from a cold afternoon tramping
around Carroll Park and the Lower East Side to
find the contents of my unzipped sundry kit scattered
creatively around the spacious wood floors of Kristen
and Jonathan's flat. It had happened too long ago for
either of the Boston terriers to remember any remorse;
they were too happy to see their warm parental bodies
back in the flat anyway. I scrambled around on my knees,
gathering up an embarrassing collection of pills and salves,
trying to remember, counting, wondering what's in
Olive's belly and what it might do to her.
The morning came, and both dogs were still peppy, so
whatever they got, they could handle. Stuck around for
delicious pancakes at Banania, then on the way to the
airport, Alex of the car service regaled me with his tales
of strip clubs from Los Angeles to Amman. Once in Amman,
he told me, he asked the club boss how much to spend
some quality time with a Russian woman working there.
The boss told him $300. "Three hundred dollars?!"
he told him. "I could marry
this girl for less than three hundred dollars!"