BEAVER, LAS VEGAS!

It always surprises me how eloquently foul-tongued my apartment mate can be. It shouldn't; an expansive ability to curse is often a sign of genius. And some people also have a talent. In consequence of this some of the stuffed creatures in this apartment may severe need talking-tos by both the she-sheep and the venerable head roomie (a stern bear less than a foot tall, and very awesome).

The rest of us live in a state of fear about what comes out of their mouths.
At some point, I shall have to ask Ms. Bruin to speak up.

My apartment mate is home today.


Because I am not the most social of creatures, and desire to smoke my pipe, by myself, while pondering my navel, I shall have to leave the apartment for a while. Fortunately the weather is half-way bearable, even though we've gone from the cold of winter to the frigid winds of Summer in San Francisco.

The small orange-ish beaver has spent some time telling me about a song written by some rock and roller about his kind while visiting a convention. Which was fun, but the all-you-can-eat buffets were very over-rated; no trees. The discussions with the other engineers at the pool were fine. He doesn't really like the place, though. Not enough water, too hot, slot machines do not pay out in bark or saplings, no streams, and no orthodontists.

And why, he demands to know, are there no dental plans for beavers?!?
It's a dam shame, he says. For crying out loud.
Hey.


This is more serious conversation than I am usually capable of so early in the day, even with coffee. At work I merely have to deal with senescent old farts hooting and grunting in the morning, which is easy.


He's also told me that I should become a writer.
And contemplate my novel. Not navel.

Help.



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