At Gatling-gun Tempo Word-perfect The First Time

Ballet's Image Of Perfection Is Fashioned Amid A Milieu Of Wracked Bodies, Fevered Imaginations, Balkan Intrigue And Sulfurous Hatreds Where Anything Is Likely, And Dancers Know It.

The Rich Plankton Of Pop Heroes And Pop Villains On Which We Americans Are Accustomed To Feed, The Daily Media Soup Of Sports Figures, Ax Murderers, Politicians, And Rock Singers, The Ever-running River Of Celebs, Heavies, And Oddballs That We Use To Spice Up Our Own Relatively Humdrum Lives Has Of Late Become A Very Watery Gruel. Where Have All The Good Guys And Bad Guys Gone? Why Does Everyone Out There Look So Gray?

Rumor And Gossip, Like Sound Itself, Appear To Travel By Wave-effect, Sheer Preposterosity Being No Barrier.

Tourists Moved Over The Piazza Like Drugged Insects On A Painted Plate.

The Difficulty With Becoming A Patient Is That As Soon As You Get Horizontal, Part Of Your Being Yearns, Not For A Doctor, But For A Medicine Man.