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BULLSHIT Robert Sheridan bobsheridan Time for another true tale from da Caffe Roma on Bryant Street across from the Hall of Injustice.

I dropped by today after missing a few days fighting the sinus which always contributes to the "flu-like symptoms" that'll lay you up if you don't watch out.

I see Dwyer and Marcovecchio.

Dwyer is John F. as in Francis Xavier Aloysius etc., etc.,

Marco is Noel.

Both are from StatNisland.

Dwyer is the guy who brought me to Californy, for better or for worse. They say a friend is someone who knows all about you and is still your friend. That's Dwig. He grew up on Heberton Avenue, PawRichman, and graduated PawRichman Hi-school. Terrible student, he says, but the brightest guy I ever met, with a photographic memory to boot, with uncanny random access. Tell him about this and he'll tell you about that and it'll be right on the point, and you'll wonder why you couldn't have thought of that, but he did first.

Noel went to Curtis; his father was a welder who worked at Port Ivory.

I tell 'em about you guys. I can't get 'em to visit. You betta' off.

So I tell Noel, who writes a lot better than I do, what I'm embarked upon, and he agrees to take a look to keep me on track, which I ask him to do.

I tell him I've been reading up to prepare, and he's familiar with what I'm tellin' him and my sources. I tell him that according to what I've read, if you wanna write something that you hope someone is willing to spend a lot of money into making a movie, you've gotta identify the core issue that makes it all worth writing, which I have, otherwise you'll be very disappointed when the other people in this collaborative enterprise start to change things around a lot. But the core issue, you've got to insist on keeping.

So around here, Noel, the Marcovecchio, says, "My mother," another StatNislander, "said one true thing."

What is that, I ask, politely, 'cuz that's the kinda guy I am.

"The world runs on bullsh*t," Mama Marcovecchio said more than once.

True, I thought, half runs on b*llshit and the other half runs on throwing it right back. Especially across the street where the Hall of Injustice sits like a huge beehive.
The only guy at the Hall of Injustice who demonstrably does an honest day's work is the Mexican shoe-shine guy.

Noel says, "I give a multiple choice exam to my students." I don't know who is students are, or if he has any students, except he acts as a docent at the SFMOMA, when he's not practicing law or writing about whatsisname Mangiapane, his fictional creation, another lawyer, and maybe he's talking about his museum classes.

"The world runs on what?" he asks.

(a) Truth and Justice;

(b) Wholistic health and Good nutrition; or,

(c) Bullshit."

I wipe the tear of laughter from my eye and wonder again why it's only other people who can express important things so succinctly.

I thought you'd like that.

See, StatNisland is like this big weed that explodes its seeds all over the country, and here we are, Dandelions in the fine lawns of the world, making our presence obvious, and they can't get rid of us fast enuf.


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