Thank God, too, for Sonny. Yet I'm filled with a great oppression knowing that all that good sense, all that humour is probably wasted. No matter what protestations Frost or Lennon or Hemingway or their countless brothers & sisters may put up, the truffle hounds will continue to snort around with their ugly snouts while moulding imaginary meanings & symbols out of their own shit. Can you imagine how it must be to waken in the morning & know your name is Derrida or Foucault or Trilling or Said or whatever & realise you must face yet another day confronting your own sterility? Another day in which the only way of drowning out that dreary knowledge is to turn up the sound of the buzzing while battening on someone else's meat. Scottie B.