Now there is a clever reply. I bet you watch Good Will Hunting over and over. And tell yourself. It is okay. It is okay. Oh to be a Hollywood dreamer boy, living the life of movie stars. Ma, I got a new agent this week and now I am the new Tidy Bowl Man. The old fucker died. Drown. The irony. Hooray let's have a party and shoot up and relate our tough lives in purely confessional tones and call it fucking inventive. Oh yes. We are we are, the youth of the nation! Now that takes a wealth of imagination and a nation of millions of echo BOOMers. Come on young Genet. Come on the ghost of Ionesco. Give me a Zebra to go with that Rhino. Let's read poetry in airplane hangers while swinging upside down on trapeze. You are walking in the wrong shoes, my friend. Please.

Can you what? Masturbate? Can you? Can you what?

Your loss. Trust me.

Well considering I have only seen Henry Rollins on stage once (as lead singer of BF) in god knows ?1984? at the VFW hall in downtown KC comparing you with his spoken word performance, which I can only imagine, is out on a limb. But he rambles, you ramble, he rants, you rant. And I imagine when you are on stage doing the slam thing that you move your arms like a suburban white kid trying to be black. Out of rhythm, but the other white suburban white kids watching you don't know the difference and they nod that hipster nod and they pull up their stocking caps (but it is California) and look at their girlies in the eye and say he ain't that good lookin' baby, but ooooooooooooh is he deep and he speaks the streets. He is the street. And actually, I have not listened to all 50. Sorry. But I am fond of the Petty cover and the Joe Dynamite. I forget the title of the others. And Sara (the student) well who knows. But she got a B on her paper. Keep on keepin on. Art rules. Poets unite. 10-4.

Come on, I can dust it of just for you.

Just so you know, I do not have a link to a page where I keep my diary of redundant doings and mindless suburban thoughts of how I lounge about in my days as an undergrad submerged in deep profundities while perfecting the art of hand eye coordination over video games and masturbation. Just so you know.

do you also want to see my income tax records for the last 10 years? Just drop me line if so. Or naked pictures of my wife. I also race (well more like raced these days) bikes. I can send pictures of that too.

No problem. Send me your e-mail address to the account listed under babbit11 and I will be more than happy to send you links copies, etc. Shit, I will send you my dissertation. No one else reads it any more. If you are behind the times though, as your rejoinder the other day showed, 60% of my living is based as a freelance journalist. The more to read my work. The merrier. What subjects are you found of? I am sure some of the stuff would bore you to no end, as it does me.

Please tell me you are joking. Yes, yes, you are poking fun.

You reduce many subjects to their erotic foundations, find cock and tits in many a subtext, set yourself up through poetry and comments as a sexual object, and then cry foul (i.e. call me the lonely old bastard) when you are treated as such. It is a bore and makes me think you are merely a one-dimensional thinker.

Now we are in agreement. And that is why I gave my dear friends this tribute poem in the spirit of Ogden Nash. I wish I like honey, but I don't. So I can be on there side there. But I am a very principled eater, I suppose.

You are too funny. And I am far from mysogynist you goofy little girl. I am playful and enthralling and you are simply out of touch.

Of course, we are jesting; as is the poem. So in that sense we can both back up out statements with facts, man. Just the facts. All fair and balanced, of course. The poem never mentions the poor worker bees. I do in a comment. It mentions oppressed nest, which they are, regardless of who is doing the oppressing, and therefore, Vegans do not eat honey and therefore "i" find that "funny". And so should you, at least the poem. Thus, the poem is mocking a lifestyle that (only at times) takes itself excessively seriously. Which I find cute and noble in an odd way. And that is my right as a citizen of the US of A.

But what exactly are you reporting: a book, an article (propaganda) from veggie times? I am reporting from the front lines. Directly from the Vegan mouth. For Christ Sakes, next to Hawaii and parts of California I live next too the Vegan capital of the nation (Boulder). And whether or not they are armed with every detail of the reasoning behind their noble choices, it usually deduces to statements like these, for time saving purposes I suppose. We all deduce facts to make the sound humorous and ultimately erroneous at times; it it the nature of conversation. Thus, if you sit down at the dinner table with Vegans long enough and not just read about the diet and the reasons of the diet, I swear (scouts honor) that this will eventually pop out. It has not failed yet. And to the other statement, forget bees and sugar: just say eveything is oppressed. It, we, you name it. Birth, whether from the womb of mother or from the factory or from the pollen down the way gives life, which is oppression in itself. And "fair and balanced reporting" -- seriously now!