No bibliothèque today. No, today I am at the cigar shop. Apparently Shlomo, Israel and Brandon had a meeting. I wasn’t privy to it, but still I was requested to come in. The only one in today was Shlomo and he’s gone already. I expect to be out of here in about 3 and a half hours. That should be fine, and will be fine as long as Shlomo stays away. I know it’s his shop but his lack of communication skills are better served if he is away. Plus there is no reason for the both of us to be here at the same time.

Where yesterday was cold and damp with a lot of rain, today it’s merely cold. But it’s a dry cold. I was thinking about various people that I came across in my life and figure that sooner or later everyone Google’s their name and by writing a little bit about them here, perhaps Google will lead them to this here blog and perhaps open a line of communication. Either that or it is a chance to tweak Norton Reamer’s nipple and that is always fun to do. I write that with the intention of being figurative since I have never tweaked Norton Reamer’s nipples, nor if I am sure if he even has them.

Then there are the two ghosts that don’t seem to exist anymore, or at least very good at avoiding me, Jim Carley and John Nesselt. Two geezers that I went to high school with 30 years ago, and even attended the bloody 20th anniversary reunion with the hope that they would be there. They weren’t and despite intermittent searches on Facebook and whatnot, they seem to have fallen off the planet or at least, very good Luddites. I do hope they are well and happy.

Bill Carson is another name from the past. He is someone I greatly liked, and I was always happy to help him out whenever I could. He tried to get me to where he was when he left the investment bank that was started by Ashish Sanghrajka. It would have been nice but they couldn’t fit it in the budget and it’s just as well since the company he jumped to doesn’t seem to exist anymore. His wife, Laurie’s charity is still up, so that’s a good sign that all is well in Carson land.

Errol Stewart, guitarist for Fetchin’ Bones and the guy who got me into Murdoch Magazines all those years ago. He was a good guy and we even jammed at one point, making a tape called Driving in Arabia. The tape is long gone, eaten by magnets or swept away in Sandy’s wake.

And Darrell Holloway. Well I know what happened to him. He pops up in various emails and there is also a Facebook page featuring his nom de porn. I’ve suggested poses and made a few references to our mutual past which went without a reply which led me to believe that this was not Darrell Holloway at all but a reasonable facsimile thereof.

Look what I got!

A spy in the apartment of love.