I just got kicked out of the Dimitri Shostakovich Fan club... It was crazy...how it went down. My face is still raw, my eyelashes heavy with the sprayed vitriol of lickspittles. I should write about it. I should call the New Yorker or the Paris Review, The Salt Lake City Salter for starters... Someone should know the miniature of my inflammatory exit from the third seat of power in this provincial yet immensely important fan club. The final argument with Pieter and Rafael, the nail biting luncheon that finally elicited Carol's true feelings for me and the woman who works at the Getty Station by my house that also recently joined and was ignominiously tossed from DS's fan club as if we mocked Piano Sonata No. 2, Op. 61 as performed by Tatiana Nikolayeva while giving each other a tongue bath in a decrepit stationary store, pawing dirty gazettes and smoking Old Banana cigarettes. They tried to blackmail me....all sorts of weird shit went down. It would be a racy tract. As of now, I throw a blade of grass to the drowning ant, and wait for Ray Manzark to eat Falafel with me at Rachel's Pita.