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Show 83, Jeffries, Islamorada Clayton making off toward where the woods were lovely, hobbled and stumbling as his pants dropped while his partner boomed 'You just hold it right there' over their PA, he was able to dismiss his teacher as a sort of Chekov figure in a stand of white oak, especially as the man had been hollering back and apologizing as he ran, "It's all right, it's all right; I think, for a time, I've played my last tune on her lute-shaped bottom. . ." * * * The little park ranger would dress for work in the morning and he'd be asleep. She'd leave for work in the evening and he'd be in bed. One bright winter's day he awoke to think of Robert Louis Stevenson's poem of himself as an ill child building a toy city on a bedspread, leaden soldiers drilling across the bed-clothes, a giant over the pleasant land of counterpane. He was reading Saul Bellow's story about Hender son. There was the part where the rain-king told his host African chief that if it hadn't been for the hazards and excitements of his expedition, Henderson probably would have stayed home in bed. Yeah but was he being honest--shouldn't he have acknowledged that despite blasting the frogs out of the well, |