"::::::::* That's the way it goes. I have a solid, brief note that's been with the readers since before I move to this awful place and haven't heard squat. Re Heaney, yeah, I saw this morning. Not to be callous in the face of a man's death, but my first thought was that my usual 30-second phone conversation with my father will be a solid 5 minutes this weekend because of this. The old man is mad for him, and rightly so. By old man I mean my father, not my scrotum, as I usually use the phrase. My scrotum is indifferent when it comes to poetry. And, for the record, I only read love letters from living people if they take the form of an elaborate priamel that culminates in praise of my old man.     
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