I'm, like, so totally jealous of this guy who's writing a blog about working at a boobie bar and whose writing style is A-OK but, I mean really, whyowhy is he a blog of note when Yours Truly has never been? Kev, if you are reading this, no hard and craggly-assed feelings, but, again, really.
So yesterday I was fondling (no, not boobies, pervert, skim your thoughts along anew, afresh) articles from the James Joyce collection of Middling City U. It had been a good 20 or 25 years since I had last done so, when ol' pal/flame Patrick G worked there and I rap-a-tapped Joyce's walking stick along the orange carpeting and wrapped his specs around my inquisitive and illustrious head. So now, a few decades later, les lunettes are broken beyond belief and repair and the walking sticks are still intact. I had a walking stick in each hand and walked towards the nice dear folks who had hired me, both not very observant of the most archivist laws of the land (you shoulda seen the way the texts and such were manhandled) so they were not alarmed by Yours Truly with a Jimmy J walking stick in each hand complaining of severe knee pain. Shots by Me of the collection are in celeb of the 100th anniversary of Bloomsday upon the Emerald Isle. My shots'll be used in catalogues, in journals far and wide. And they are smashing. Not as in smashing artifacts. The rez Joyce scholar was a quippa minute about all things JJ and after a few hours of his gushy reliquary reverence I wanted to stuff the large Motherwell-illustrated Ulysses up his arse. Which would have made Joyce, dear sweet stinking coprophilic that he was, darnt proud.
Poop Love.