SuperLefty Pfeffer

Remember how I said I’d get a new email address so you could all get in touch to offer me residence in the shacks on your property or tell me to fuck off? Well, I did. It’s superleftypfeffer at gmail dot com. I’ll put it down at the bottom of this web page so I can start receiving email in a 10:1 ratio of shack residence offers to spam right away. Why the Pfeffer, you might ask? Because the alias SuperLefty is no longer enough of a pseudonym. Just as my own actual name has been commandeered by an assortment of cat artists, fervent Californian Jews and other writers who live in Brooklyn, so too has my alias. So now my alias has an alias. This one, however, is foolproof. There can’t possibly be another SuperLefty Pfeffer in the entire world. I am the only SuperLefty Pfeffer! Also it’s almost 3 a.m. and I’m drinking Tanqueray gimlets at my computer though I have scheduled an early lunch with my grandparents tomorrow. This lunch was several weeks in the making. I cancelled twice, and they, without precedent, cancelled once. My grandfather had to see a team of neurologists because, according to my grandmother, he is “unsteady on his feet.” My grandfather is 87 years old. You might think the fact that he’s “unsteady on his feet” wouldn’t require medical attention, but rather, a little acceptance. But if they want to see a team of neurologists, that’s cool. Rage, rage against the dying of the light! and all that. We are going to have a very large, vaguely French meal. A meal that will be much more enjoyable if I stop drinking gimlets and go to bed. But oddly, the gimlets have given me a burst of energy and now I have no interest in going to bed, though my bed is four feet away. Instead, I wish to mix cocktails for a team of neurologists! But there are no neurologists here, only my one tiny roommate, humming to herself in the other room.

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