Not only did the finest jewels and clothes adorning me but in my haunted state I believed earnestly that I did in fact have a harem of bodacious buxom beauties culled from the New York avant-funk intelligentsia at my disposal to indulge any whim, no matter how trivial, such as researching how many times the word “forlorn” was mentioned in The Rockford Files television series. The fact was that I had two avant-funk feminist models working on that very task, I was sure, and wielding such substantial authority, the mere thought of it caused slippery giggles to bubble up from the reservoirs of my subconscious. The untroubled sounds loomed all too loud in my ears and threatened to wake me from the magical reverie blessing my tortured mind. No, no, I allowed myself to recede into the mists of ho
