"Tosspots"

Another strange but true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

This episode brought to you the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Many doctors recommend Husky Boy cigarettes with our patented 'Benzo-Tip™' filters for that mid-day pick-me-up we all need on occasion!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of A Gal with a Gun Named Sal: a "Rip Tyde, Private Detective" Mystery

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"Do be careful, Livingston," said Mrs. Lovechild. "I shall try," said Livingston. She adjusted his muffler around his neck. "No fights," she said. "Again, I'll try," said Livingston. She turned to Harry. "Please keep an eye on Livingston, Mr. Peachnut," she said. "I, um," said Harry. "It's Beachcroft, Mother, not Peachnut," said Livingston. "Oh, I  beg your pardon, Mr. Peachcraft," said Mrs. Livingston. "Do those Wellingtons fit you?" "Yes," said Harry. His old Thom McAn brogans were still drying on the hearth, and he had been supplied with these sturdy rubber boots. "My late husband used to wear them, trolling the marshes hunting duck and pheasant with his beloved Purdey shotgun. He was a real man." "Let's go, Harry," said Livingston. "It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Poshworth," said Gwendolyn to Harry. "You too, Miss Lovechild," said Harry. "Please do come and visit us again." "I would like that," said Harry. "Here, old man," said Ralston to Harry, and he handed him a heavy implement covered in black leather and shaped like an elongated teardrop, with a looped thong at the narrow end. "What's this?" said Harry. "It's a cosh, a sap, a blackjack if you will, with a tensile stainless steel handle and a head of molded lead, the whole encased in the finest Moroccan leather. Use it if you have to." "I really don't think," said Harry. "Take it," said Ralston. "If you're going out on the town with Livingston, just take it. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it." "Go ahead, chum," said Livingston, "take it. Me, I have my trusty old brass knuckles," he patted a side pocket of his mackinaw, "just in case." "I really don't," said Harry. "Look," said Ralston, "just put it in your pocket." "Yes," said Gwendolyn, "put it in your pocket, Mr. Peachfast. You never know." "Well," said Harry. "It's just a precaution, Mr. Beachbum," said Mrs. Lovechild.  "Well, all right," said Harry, and he slipped the blackjack into his coat pocket. "Thank you, Mr., uh, Lovechild," he said to Ralston. "Just give it back to Livingston when you bring him home," said Ralston. "If you bring him home." "I, uh," said Harry. "All right, let's bust a move," said Livingston. "'Night all, and don't wait up for us." "Oh, we shan't," said Ralston. Livingston opened the door, letting in a powerful gust of snow and freezing wind. "Goodbye!" said Gwendolyn. "Um," said Harry. "And good luck," said Ralston. "Uh," said Harry. "It was delightful meeting you, Mr. Peachfrost," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Uh, um," said Harry. "Let's shake a leg, Harry," said Livingston. "We're letting the blizzard in. You first." Harry stepped through the doorway and Livingston followed him, closing the door behind them. Even up here in the entranceway the snow was drifted almost to the tops of Harry's boots, and the hillock of snow sloped smoothly down to the sidewalk. "The steps are somewhere under this nonsense, so mind how you go," shouted Livingston over the howling wind. "Grab hold of the railing and slow and easy does it." They managed to get down to the sidewalk without falling, and now the snow was above Harry's knees. "Livingston," he shouted, "if you don't mind my saying so, on second thought, I think it's insane to go out in this blizzard. I think I'll just try to make my way home. It's not really that far." "Balderdash," said Livingston. "Don't crap out on me now, Harry. We have not even started to have fun." "Well –"  "Let's go, first stop is just right up the street." "First stop?" "Yes, only the first. But, God willing, it won't be the last." Livingston put his arm in Harry's and pulled, and Harry allowed himself to be pulled, holding his hat down on his head with his free hand. Fortunately the woolen mittens he had borrowed were thick and warm, almost like small boxing gloves. They trudged on, slowly and awkwardly, arm in arm through the drifted snow, through the thick snow falling and blowing all around them. What am I doing? thought Harry. Where is my willpower? Am I not a grown man? A professional author? Why do I let myself be led about by this madman? All I want is to be back on my barstool at Bob's, drinking my bock until it is time to stagger out and go around the corner to my tiny apartment and to bed. Why is this asking too much? "What are you thinking about, old man?" Livingston shouted into Harry's ear. "Oh," said Harry, shouting back over the howling blizzard, "I was just thinking how, uh, bracing it is to walk in the snow." "Yes, I suppose it is," yelled Livingston, "but, you know, a little of it goes a long way. Fortunately, we have reached our first rest stop and refueling station." "Really?" "Yes, right here," said Livingston, and he pointed to a plaque under a stone lion next to the front steps of a large old brick house. The plaque was crusted with snow, but its engraved legend was still somewhat visible. The Noble Society  of  Convivial Tosspots est. 1832 "That's the official name," said Livingston, "but everybody just calls it the Tosspot Club. Members only of course, but don't worry, you're with me. Come on, pal, you're gonna dig this joint the most." What could Harry do? But then it occurred to him that all of this evening could be written off as research, for stories and novels not yet written. What did he have to lose? Except for possibly his life? "All right," said Harry. "Let's do it." The stoop of the house had apparently been shoveled sometime this day, and so the snow was only about a foot deep on the steps. Harry and Livingston ascended to the entrance area successfully. There were two tall and elaborately carved double doors, on one of them a brass knocker shaped like a man's grotesque grinning rictus, and Livingston took hold of it and knocked, stoutly, five times. "Now we wait," he said. "But ne t'en fais pas, it'll be worth it." Harry hoped it wouldn't be too long of a wait.  He shoved his mittened hands into his coat pockets, and in the right pocket he felt the hard heavy sturdiness of Ralston's cosh.  Would he need it?  And if he needed it, would he have the courage to use it? Or would he instead turn and run?  Either way, mutatis mutandis, it could be good material for a story.  If he lived to write it.

"Blood Red"

Yet another sad but true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

This episode made possible in part through a grant from the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company's Foundation for the Humanities

"Please don't ask me to say anything coherent until I've had my first cup of morning coffee, accompanied by a fine Husky Boy cigarette, now available at vending machines all throughout this great land of liberty!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of A Gal, a Pal, and a Bookie Named Al; a "Rip Tyde, Private Investigator" Mystery

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to begin series, click here

Harry had come to the end of the page, and he turned it over. "So?" said Livingston. "Yes?" said Harry. "You've now read two pages," said Livingston. "What's the verdict?" "My verdict?" "Yes." "Um." "Your considered opinion." Harry found himself taking another deep drag on the marijuana cigarette. "Take your time," said Livingston.  Harry exhaled the thick smoke, a smoke full of dreams.  "I think," he said. "Yes?" said Livingston. "I think –" "Yes. You think?" "I think this is unlike anything I've ever read," said Harry. "Well, that's good, I suppose," said Livingston, "but, more to the point, is it rubbish?" Harry took pause again. "Take another toke," said Livingston. "Toke?" said Harry. "That's hepcat talk for a drag of tea. Go ahead, take another hit." "Hit?" "Boy, you really are a square, ain't you, Harry?" "A square?" "I mean you're not hep to the jive." "Um, no, no, I suppose I'm not," said Harry. "We need to take you out to some 'happening' jazz joints." "Maybe," said Harry.  "No two ways about it, man. Now take another good toke." Harry took another good toke. "Now hold it in," said Livingston. Harry held it in. He looked out the window on the other side of the desk. The snow continued to fall and swirl in the light of a street lamp, and the world outside rumbled and whooshed. What was the meaning of it all? He had no idea, and if he had ever thought he knew the meaning, he had been wrong, horribly wrong, there was no meaning… "Okay, you can let it out now," said Livingston. And Harry let the smoke escape from his lungs, up through his throat and out of his mouth. "So?" said Livingston. "Yes?" said Harry. "Is it rubbish?" said Livingston. "My book. Or would you say garbage. Or, if you will, complete and utter shite?" Harry turned to look at the little fellow sitting next to him, with his thick horn-rimmed glasses and his carefully trimmed moustache on his red, somewhat bloated face. It only dawned on Harry now that Livingston no longer wore the billed mackinaw cap with the buttoned-up earflaps, and he saw that the man's hair was curly and slick with some sort of pomade. The magnified eyes behind the lenses of his glasses were blue and bloodshot and somehow pathetic and pleading, but in them also was the undeniable spark of sentient life. "I think," said Harry, speaking slowly, as if the words had to be squeezed from his brain, and trying to be truthful, or at least not to, to – to tergiversate? "I think that what I've read thus far is, in its own unique way, excellent." "Oh wow," said Livingston. "Really?" "Yes," said Harry. There was more that he could say, much more, the words swirling in his brain like the snow outside the window, but he left them all unsaid. "You know what you have just done, Harry?" said Livingston, after a brief but intense pause. "What's that?" said Harry. "You have justified my existence." "Well," said Harry, not knowing what else to say. "One moment I was just another, what, a clown," said Livingston. "An unemployed drunkard, wasting both his days and nights, but now, now I am a – dare I say – a writer?" "Yes," said Harry, glancing again at the enormous stack of pages before him. "No one can say you are not a writer, Livingston." "Do you want to read another page?" "Um –" said Harry. "Just one more page, just to make sure." "All right." "Take another toke first." "Okay," said Harry, and he took another toke, then picked up the page at the top of the pile and read. Which brings me to my major habit in life, to wit: boozing.  In my days of boyhood I looked on the world with bewilderment. What was it all in aid of, all these people coming and going, doing things? I think I was about thirteen when it occurred to me that people did things so that they could eat, and have a roof over their heads. But what if you didn't need to do anything in order to eat and have a roof? What was the purpose of life then? It had no purpose that I could see. But then at Yale I discovered booze, glorious booze, in all its varieties. Now everything was different, because after a few drinks it all began to make sense. The purpose of life was to be drunk. To have a drink, and then another. To have the unprepossessing fellow sitting next to you at the bar gradually become interesting, or at least not crashingly boring. To have one's own thoughts become steeped in significance, even if that significance disappeared or transmuted utterly by the time the next drink was drunk. To tumble out of the bar and down the street to another bar, and to the next stranger sitting on the neighboring stool, with his own unique wisdom and insights. And so on, ad infinitum.  Let's see, what other habits?  Oh, yes, my club. Because so often I just don't have the energy to go wandering the island in search of alcoholic adventure, no, so much easier just to go up the block to the club and spend the afternoon and sometimes the evening there, sitting in the lounge with the movers and shakers, the men who rule the world, these men who somehow accepted me even though I neither toiled nor spun, but simply because I was my father's son and my grandfather's grandson and my great-grandfather's great-grandson, the progeny of these hardworking industrialists who had built and maintained the fortune I now enjoyed. It wasn't fair, none of it was, but even a fool like myself had learned at an early age (I think I was six or seven) that nothing about life was fair. Did these men at the club think me, at bottom, nothing more than a wastrel? I'm sure they did, and do. But what did I care what they thought? Did I tell them how to run their law and brokerage firms, how to run their factories, how to lead their regiments into battle? Of course not. They did what they felt they should do, and I did what I did. Which was nothing. Except to drink, and to talk nonsense. Hey, don't knock it until you've tried it. Being a lazy idle drunken loafer is not a bad way to live, and it is the life I've chosen. When I lie on my deathbed I shall have no regrets, except perhaps the single regret of having lived at all. Harry had come to the end of yet another page, and he turned it over. "Well?" said Livingston.  "Yes?" said Harry. "Has it gotten boring yet?" "No," said Harry. "There's only about fourteen hundred more pages to go." "I see." "But you don't have to read them all now." "Yes, uh –" "Maybe we've read enough for one night," said Livingston. "Maybe," said Harry. "Because, you know, reading is fine, but it's no substitute for real life." "Maybe," said Harry. "I think so," said Livingston. "And even now I feel that call. The call to life. I suggest that we set forth once again. Out there." He pointed with his chubby little finger to the window and to the blizzard raging implacably outside it. "The night is yet young, and we, if not quite young, are yet not quite old. Let us go and find the madness." "I should really go home," said Harry, knowing of course he had no intention of going home. "Nonsense," said Livingston. "We have the rest of our lives to go 'home'." He gave Harry a light slap on the shoulder. "Get up, old buddy. We are going to paint this town red. Blood red." "Um," said Harry. "We might regret it, tomorrow," said Livingston. "But tomorrow is tomorrow, and now is now." "Uh," said Harry. "And tomorrow may never come. Someday, indeed, it won't come. Now let us go." "Okay," said Harry.  It was too late to turn back now. The only way to go was forward, forward with this madman. Harry took one last drag on the reefer, now burnt down to its last quarter-inch, and he let it drop into the ashtray before him, the ashtray full of the butts of a dozen or so other reefers, the ashtray emblazoned on its rim in chipped golden paint with the legend The St Crispian Hotel Where the Service Is Swell

"Memoirs of a Moron"

Another sad but true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"What more glorious way to pass some several minutes of a summer afternoon than to sit on a park bench in the shade and light up a rich redolent Husky Boy cigarette?" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Rip Tyde, Private Investigator, now available exclusively in paper covers from E-Z Books, Ltd. 

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My name (and don't we all have one?) is Livingston P. Lovechild. I ask you, dear reader, if you exist, what was I to do with my life, cursed with such an appellation? Let's face it, you hear a name like Livingston P. Lovechild, and the first thing you think is, "He must be a cunt." And pardon my language, but I am only trying to be truthful here. No one with a name like Livingston P. Lovechild could be anything less or more than a cunt. His parents have already damned him to cunthood for all eternity. And I know what you're thinking, "If it bothers you that much, why not just change your name?" And I admit that this maneuver has occurred to me. Oh the gloriously resonant names I considered: Jack Jackson. Nick Harper. Joe McCool. I even considered some Jewish names: Barry Rothenberg. Jake Cohen. Barry "Buck" Blitztein. Nor did I ignore the Italians: Lou Santone. "Big Mike" Dallesandro. Al "the Pal" Dellarossa. For a while there I wanted to go French: Jean-Claude Chagrin. Louis St. Louis. Marc Le Parc. Yes, so many names I considered, but in the end I kept the name I had been anointed with at baptism. Because, in the end, who would be kidding whom? No matter what I tried to call myself, the truth was bound to come out, that I was Livingston P. Lovechild and no one else, and that I was an obvious cunt. Harry had come to the end of the page, and he turned the sheet over. "Well, what do you think, buddy?" said Livingston. Unbeknownst to Harry, Livingston had pulled an armchair over and had sat himself to Harry's right. Harry's keen novelist's eye perceived that Livingston was now also apparently smoking one of the marijuana cigarettes from the wooden box. "It's uh," said Harry. "Um." "Yes, but does it breathe?" said Livingston. "Does it have the touch of life to it?" "Yes," said Harry. "It does. But." "Oh. I know. It sucks, right? Enormous donkey dick. You can level with me, Harry. I can take it." "No," said Harry. "In fact I think it's rather good so far." "Oh, wow, thank you, pal, that's all I wanted to hear. And from you, my favorite writer. Even more than James Branch Cabell. Even more than Edgar Rice Burroughs or Earl Derr Biggers." "Thanks, Livingston," said Harry, "but." "But? But what?" said Livingston. "You can't write the word cunt." "What do you mean?" "No publisher will publish anything with the word cunt in it. Especially five or six times on the very first page." "Hey, there's a lot more cunts coming in the next fifteen hundred pages or so, believe you me, Harry." "But you can't write that word," said Harry. "Why not? It's a perfectly good word." "That well may be," said Harry. "But no publisher will publish a book with that word in it." "Well, fuck them then," said Livingston. "Fuck them?" "Yeah," said Livingston. "And the horses they rode in on. Who needs them?" "But, but, um, but," said Harry. "Know what I'll do?" said Livingston. "I'll start my own publishing company. I'll publish this book myself if I want to, and peddle it from door to door. All I need to know from you, Harry, is,  'Is it good?' And don't worry about a few cunts here and there. Is it good, that's all I want to know." "Well, I've only read the first page." "And you sort of liked that, right?" "I actually did, yes," said Harry. And he took another puff on his marijuana cigarette, which he now noticed was almost halfway smoked down.  "How do you like the reefer, by the way?" said Livingston. "The reefer?" "What you're smoking there," said Livingston. "The reefer. The muggles, the doobie, daddy-o." "I –" Harry paused. "I think I like it." "It's good stuff," said Livingston. "And you know what the best part is? No hangover. Smoke as much as you want, and, unlike with the lush, no ill effects the next day." "Really?" "Yeah, like, you take tomorrow, if there is a tomorrow, if the Russians don't drop an A-bomb on us, or if I don't kick off from a stroke in my sleep, but tomorrow what I'll probably do is just lie in bed and smoke weed and drink tea and munch wholegrain rusks and oatmeal cookies all day. Nothing better for the health of the old corporeal host, not to mention one's mental and spiritual salubrity. I call these days my recovery days. Take a day or two off from the bars, maybe even three, possibly four, and then I'm ready to hit the streets and make it real all over again. The call of the wild, y'know?" "Yes, I suppose so," said Harry, taking another deep draw on the reefer. "The sacred primeval call," said Livingston. "The call of so many bars, bars and saloons and taprooms and cocktail lounges, all of them beckoning, saying, 'Come, my son, heaven awaits you here. Come. You are welcome.'" "You should put that in your book," said Harry. "Oh, I'm sure I have," said Livingston. "Do you want to read some more?" "Okay," said Harry, and he picked up the fresh page and read. Perhaps I am wrong to title these pages the Follies of a Flâneur. Would it not be better, more truthful, to call them Confessions of a Cunt? Or, perhaps, The Memoirs of a Moron? Oh, well, no need to decide now. Let's go back to the beginning, to where I choose to begin, my return to the old house on Bleecker Street after getting kicked so unceremoniously out of Yale. This was a dark time for the world at large. War, as they say, was looming on the horizon. But what did I care? Men had always fought wars, and they would continue to do so. But my father had died the previous year, leaving the family quite well off, and with a steady stream of revenue from "our" electric toaster factory. The point is, I didn't "need" to work. I had never set foot in the factory, and never would, and yet its existence provided me with an income more than suitable for my humble habits. And what were these habits? I shall enumerate them: Sleeping late, every day. What luxury to lie abed, comfortably, while the world churns obliviously outside my window? My "strolls". Days when I feel properly rested and full of the jumping beans of life and insanity, after a good lunch to set forth down the steps to Bleecker Street, and to turn right, or left, as the mood strikes me, and to walk on, turning left or right at random, until I see a sign: Joe's Bar. Sam's Bar. Chuck's Bar. Whatever, a bar, and to go into that cave of twinkling dimness and climb a stool, and the barman comes over and says, "Yes, sir?" And I look behind him at all the glittering bottles, and I gaze down the bar at the gleaming polished tap handles, and I say, "Ah, yes, where to begin?" A cunty sort of thing to say to a bartender who only wants to know what you want to drink, but, hey, that's me, I told you I was a cunt, and this is just the sort of thing I tend to say.  I can't help it if I'm a cunt. That's just what I am. "Look, mister," the bartender might say, and has said, "I just want to know what you want to fucking drink…" "I'll take a beer," I say. "Great," says the bartender. "What kind?" "The cold kind," I say, and the bartender, after a brief pause, turns away to get the beer, presumably a cold one, and I can't help but hear him mutter, under his breath, the single word: "Cunt.">

"Follies of a Flâneur"

Another cautionary tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq,exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

This episode sponsored by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"Everywhere I travel across this great land of liberty I hear the proud cry, 'Make mine a Husky Boy!'" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of I Forgot to Forget: a Memoir of Years of Struggle

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to begin series, click here

"Shall we retire to the living room?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "Unless of course you would like another piece of cake, Mr. Plumbtree?" Harry had already had two slices of the chocolate cake, and he could easily have devoured a third, but, despite his gluttony, he said no thank you. Ralston was looking at a pocket watch on a chain. "Good, we can still catch the beginning of The Waldo McGee & Mickey Pumpernickel Show." The Negro maid Matilda had appeared, and with her another old woman who was addressed as "Cookie". "Matilda," said Mrs. Lovechild, "you and Cookie can clear the table now. We're going to go in and watch the television." "Would you like some popcorn, Mrs. Lovechild?" said the woman called Cookie. "That would be lovely, Cookie, thank you," said Mrs. Lovechild. "And don't stint on the butter, Cookie," said Ralston. "Oh, Mr. Ralston, sure you'll die of a massive fatal heart attack if you don't watch all that butter you consume night and day." "And if I do die of a heart attack, Cookie," said Ralston, "I shall die as I have lived, stomping the earth like a man and not trembling and skittering in fear like a mouse." "Are you fond of television, Mr. Plumbly?" said Gwendolyn, addressing Harry. "Well, I haven't watched much of it," said Harry. "I'm afraid I don't own a set." "We finally got one last year," she said, "and now we are profoundly addicted. Wait till you see Mickey Pumpernickel. He's only a wooden dummy, but he's ever so clever, and you can barely see Waldo McGee's lips move. It's like Mickey Pumpernickel is a real person." "Oh, um," said Harry. Livingston pushed his chair back and stood up, patting Harry on the shoulder. "Come up to my room, Harry. Want to show you something." "Oh, but you'll miss Waldo McGee and Mickey Pumpernickel," said Gwendolyn. "That puppet gives me the creeps," said Livingston. "Come on, Harry." Harry thanked Mrs. Lovechild for the delicious meal, glanced awkwardly at Gwendolyn and shyly at Ralston, and then got up and followed Livingston out of the dining room, through a living room draped in shadows and flickering with light from the crackling fireplace and into a hallway with a staircase. "Thanks for being so nice to the family," said Livingston. "I know they're a little eccentric, but they mean well." "I think they're very nice," said Harry. "My mother is quite insane," said Livingston. "Lives in her own world. As does Gwendolyn. And of course Ralston. Come to think of it, as do I. But don't we all? Aren't we all merely prisoners for life in the solitary confinements of our corporeal hosts? Anyhoo, I'm just on the second floor, follow me, old chap." What could Harry do? In his borrowed woolen slippers he followed Livingston and his stockinged feet up the stairs to the second floor and then down a hall towards the front of the house where there was a tall window looking out onto the blizzard rumbling and churning outside. Livingston opened a door to the right. "Here it is," he said. "My sanctum sanctorum. Welcome." He waved with his hand, and Harry went in. Livingston came in behind him, flicked on an overhead light, and closed the door. "Sorry about the mess," he said. The room had a large brass bed with a canopy of faded embroidered drapery, and bookcases lined the walls, with stacks of books and magazines on the floor and on tables on either side of the bed. There was a roll-top desk in front of the one tall window, and in front of it was a swivel chair. A big black typewriter sat on the desk, with stacks of paper on either side of it. "There it is," said Livingston. "That is where the magic happens." He went over and switched on a gooseneck lamp on the desk. "Come here, buddy, I'd like to show you something." Again, what could Harry do? He came over to the desk. "Sit down, Harry. Get comfortable." Harry sat down in the swivel chair, but he didn't feel comfortable. What had he gotten himself into? Was a free meal of Chicken à la King worth it, even with some several glasses of fine red wine? Not to mention the chocolate cake and fresh strong coffee. "Let me give you a little room here," said Livingston, and he pushed the typewriter, an old Royal, inward. Then with both hands he picked up a great stack of typescript to the right of where the typewriter had been, turned the stack over, and laid it down in front of Harry. "And here," he said, "is my little magnum opus. Still in progress of course, but I wonder if you would be so kind as to read a page or two. Tell me what you think. You being a professional author and all. Not to mention my favorite living author." This was every writer's worst nightmare, to be asked to read someone else's work. "I mean, if you don't mind," said Livingston.  "No, of course not," lied Harry, baldfaced, looking at the stack of paper, two reams at least, maybe even three. He picked up the top sheet, on which was typed: Follies of a Flâneur by  Livingston P. Lovechild He turned the cover page over and picked up the next sheet and read. These are the confessions of a failure. But perhaps these confessions will in themselves prove to be his ultimate triumph.  "What do you think so far?" said Livingston. "Well, I've only read the first two sentences," said Harry. "Only about two million sentences left to go," said Livingston. "Don't worry, it picks up."  Harry read on. From my earliest age I noticed one thing that all human beings had in common, to wit, they were annoying. Some more so, some less. And experience proved that even the less annoying people became more annoying the more you were in their company. Not that I was exempt, as I annoyed myself as well.  Harry laid the sheet down. "Oh, no," said Livingston. "Is it that bad?" "No, not at all," said Harry. "But I wonder if I could have a cigarette." "Oh, sure," said Livingston. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em. In fact–" He opened a little drawer in the desk and brought out a small engraved wooden box and opened it. In it were a dozen or so hand-rolled cigarettes. "Have one of these," he said. "Oh, but I have my own," said Harry. "Husky Boys." "An excellent smoke," said Livingston, "but try one of these bad boys instead." "What are they?" "Marijuana. Ever try it?" "No." "Oh, you simply must, old boy." "I don't know. Won't I get addicted?" "Not at all. Go ahead, take one." What did Harry have to lose? He picked one out, and Livingston gave him a light with an Ohio Blue Tip match from a box on the desk. "You gotta breathe it in deep and hold it in for as long as you can," said Livingston. Harry breathed in the smoke and held it in. "Okay," said Livingston. "Now start reading again. The more you smoke the better the writing is." Harry picked up the page, still holding in the smoke, and began to read again: I shall pass over in silence my early years. It was tedious enough having to live through them, let alone having to relive them in memory. No, let us begin these confessions shortly after I was sent down in disgrace from Yale and returned to the familial manse on Bleecker Street, for that was when my life began in earnest, when I finally embraced my true calling as a committed idler, a master of the fine art of doing as little as possible. Harry exhaled the rich sweet smoke. And then he read on.