The various multi-fangled beaded strings comprising the doorway slither aside to expose the vaulted ceilings, staligmited nefarious upside-down basketball hoops implanted firmly for the purpose of equal-opportunity dwarf dunking, not to mention windows glaringly glinting the sun throughout the room, and causing that odd, dissatisfying (not to mention annoying) reflection on the nine-inch black and white TV displaying an over-lapping tape of the Nixon "Checkers" speech.

(somewhere far off in a distant voice Keira -- the now newly appointed nine-inch pianist -- can be heard singing the lines of "Ave Maria" in tilted Scottish, though perhaps that is only the scotch speaking, as it often does on Tuesdays; it is perpetually Tuesday in my room, except for on those mornings when it is almost Thursday)

There is a single table in my room, whereupon Spettio dances into infinity in a slinky singlet, here nose twisted up in derision as the Bob Dylan song "Brownsville Girl" plays over and over. The sorrowful glare of a restrained Sasquatch checks everyone at the door, making sure they are carrying no instruments of fire, steel, or trans fatty acids. There are a few rugs covering the floor; over yonder, someone is passed out, though it is difficult to guess who. Nixon begins crying, and a game of "who has the crabs!" breaks out over on the couch; Spettio complains of her feet.

There is a fan. But it does not work.



Here be Myth