I guess it's just completely natural that an author and the barman would be one and the same.  No one listens to either.  Intelligence obscured.  Too quiet to talk much.  Too much the careful facilitator of language's flow, the curated conversation that allows the guest to say more than the server.  Both allow the inner workings of the mind to remain secretive, behind the screen of a largely scripted exchange.

The great problem--particularly to the polite circles of a city's pecking order--is the natural super intelligence of the creature, the incredible capacity for skill in all things, really the very excesses of the abilities of the human being, and that this creature is stuck, just so, in the modern world that gives far more credit to the expediency of the machine than to all this native genius.  Sad.  Mired in politics on all levels.

Within the creature is the cave painter, The Beatles, the evolved monkey dog with a seal's personality and the dolphin's, who if left at a typewriter would indeed write all the great novels if you gave him long enough, indeed as if by sheer random mathematical rule.  Stuck in the zoo of modern life, to be ogled and prodded.



Is mom's cell phone working?  I've left three messages...

She seems to have misplaced it.

She needs it to travel.  Try find your iPhone.

She doesn't know her apple password.

You can do it remotely.  Her laptop is probably signed in...

Uh, remind me, is it under applications?

Go to apple.com.  Look it up!




Mom:  You should have joined a monastery six months ago...