They Call Me Mr. Kitsch

I see now that this should have been his moniker in my blog for all those months, for that is his chief function in my life, or so it would seem based on the very pleasant, dime store variety telephone conversation I had with him last night.

Maybe I am still too influenced by Kundera, and have now superimposed his literary, communist paradigm over my emotionally capitalist landscape but there seemed to be something not fated and detached in that conversation, even on my end.

So here I am at the start of another potentially banal week. Where is Peter Farrow when you need him?