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Every once in awhile, a flash of it: Time to go the fuck home. Semi-random times it comes, tonight on the stupid bus from Finsbury Park. For the familiar groceries and pizza, for the Yankees game on at an appropriate hour, for the New York Times not disguised and shortened as the International Herald Tribune. But mostly, honestly, it’s for people that I understand implicitly.

Someone was joking today about having no Gaydar. I said, yeah, that’s because you’re British, but what I really wanted to say is Imagine feeling that way all the time and not just about sexuality. I am an intuitive, empathetic guy, but that all goes wrong when stationed in a seductively similar place like London.

There’s always the job-list in September, especially if my book gets taken up by the Prestigious Press. Mid-June. We’ll see. I might not say, but you’ll be able to tell.

There’s always a post like this, which will truly have to be deleted when I go post-pseudonymous.

Written by adswithoutproducts

May 5, 2010 at 7:21 pm

Posted in america

One Response

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  1. ads,

    Could it be that absence makes the heart grow fonder for the pizza, the Yankees and the New York Times than those things objectively deserve?

    A-Rod’s wallet is so fat (almost as big as his head) it steers him off course when he tries to run across the infield, causing him to blithely violate the sacrosanct space of the pitcher’s mound. With impunity of course, because he is A-Rod, it’s the Yankees, there’s the pizza waiting in the clubhouse, etc.

    Respect, nah.

    And nostalgia, any more, maybe not so much, back here.

    Around the home fires it’s more like Tea Party, Arizona Immigration Law, Palin for Pres these days.

    But perhaps it’s as they say, distance lends enchantment to the view?

    tom clark

    May 10, 2010 at 1:29 pm

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