Not just a Sunday, but an above-freezing Sunnyday in New York, during which I strolled parallel to the water — inland side of the expressway — on the first leg of a foraging expedition that, for financial reasons, yielded the following well-matched culinary bounty — pickles, milk, and granola.
Returning past coffee samples and tiny cups of chicken and rice, I entered the chain bookstore and searched futilely for books made of chains (an independent bookstore might, ironically, have had them). Then, liberated by the shop’s lack of hardbound shackles, I moved upstairs and found my diversion: “The Last Testament of Kevin Pollak” (or something like that). In this pamphlet, the Falkian raconteur recounts (perhaps he is really a recontour or reupholsterer) a youthful spell in the presence of a major comedic name. And his overwhelmedness at the simple fact, in the room, of the man’s talent.
And it occurred to me…
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