Several New Exchanges

Excellent English is forgotten, former compadre. Likewise Tundra. Just me and Yeti to sour in the limelight. Funny appraisal. We talk Paris Hilton into not avoiding suicide. We select Tom Cruise as our actor of the year, and the year is all but dead. We summer in the Hamptons, where we can boss wait staffs into forgetting our names. Verandahs appear in our dreams. That should be the first clue. We repair verandahs, all the verandahs that we can find. We thereby return to a real world in which, after all, you must nail nails. We do, good and hard, proving our interest in fixer upper heaven. When the first tidal wave slaps the televised part, we grip our selfless poll numbers and exaggerate our panic. Now the control seasons. We see Paris Hilton floating. Tom Cruise grosses heavier, which is a space/time thing, recognized finally as an able dispensation. Anyway, here Yeti and I part company, in the space of a chilly iced tea in some ravishing restaurant where all can be forgiven. Yeti hammers home on seafood, but I can't abide any such feeding. We wrinkle our respective noses, even as Paris Hilton bumps against the ceiling. Tom Cruise, we can easily see, has become a chair. The political situation turns, shall we shall, lambent. Yeti and I split up, each to discover the meaning of lambent. That was the most obvious course for the present.