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Instead of going straight back to bed, I went into my “study” (the kitchen) and sat at my “desk” (salvaged door over tub). No sooner did I do so than the balled sock in my Speedo declared itself rudely. I ripped it out and slammed it to the floor, then yanked the Speedo off and flung it across the room, where it landed on my dead Mrs. Cox geranium.
Having nothing better to do, I Googled “Brock Jones, PhD.” Aside from web pages dedicated to promoting his book, my investigation turned up nothing.
I shut off my computer, ate a bowl of Raisin Bran with water (I’d run out of milk). While doing so I made the mistake of looking out my kitchen window. There, wreathed by ginkgo tree branches, glowing — insofar as a rusty car can be said to glow — under the pink radiance of a mercury vapo
