1. Sunday, December 1, 2002

    havent had any rum in two weeks 

    and all it’s doing is letting the dreams seep through while im at my most vulnerable.

    did i say dreams?

    nightmares were more like it.

    went to the printer to pick up the books. hi, tony pierce, i have an order.

    when did you place the order?

    about three weeks ago?

    oh yes, mr. pierce. we cannot print this book. it’s obscene.

    pardon me?

    we dont print obscenity or pornography or anti-american sentiment.

    exactly what part of my book is obscene?

    several parts, if i recall.

    tell me which ones and i’ll take it out.

    mr. pierce, we are not editors, we are publishers.

    youre fucking assholes is what you are! you just didnt want to do the work.

    see, thats profanity.

    youre out of your mind.

    please exit our place of business, here is your manuscript.

    so youre saying you wouldnt print the Catcher in the Rye?

    of course we would.

    it has lots of Fucks in it.

    no it doesnt.

    it certainly does!

    well, thats art, its different.

    next riot, im coming here and burning this place down. i dont care if im in maui. im getting on a plane and burning this place down.

    good. we have plenty of insurance, and now we have a prime suspect. good bye.

    then i found myself in france and they too were debating as to whether it was obscene.

    oui, they kept saying.

    mais oui.

    barberman