Listen!
PERSONAL APPEARANCE BY THE AUTHOR I didn't shave or comb my hair this morning. The long coat I wear is very handsome, but all the buttons are missing, and the lining is torn. I go into a diner where I'm not known and sit at the counter. The waitress has clearly given a lot of attention to her make-up, but the end result is similar to embalming fluid. I look down the counter and I see a guy who reminds me vaguely of Bukowski sitting three stools away, hunched over a cup of coffee. He looks ill. I pick up a dis- tant aroma and wonder if it is him. "Fuckwad pansy," he says, "how can you sit there and not shoot yourself?" I am terribly terribly torn--on the one hand, I want to show that I instantly understood his presence there, and his commentary on mine; on the other, anything but rank flattery is likely to piss him off. I sign to the waitress, who I now see looks like Marianne Moore. Gesturing, I say quietly, "Give him a piece of pie. On me." She smiles, shaking her head, but goes off to get the pie any- way. I stare at my water glass. What have I written that has any worth? Is there any way to persuade my public that I'm for real?