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In the beginning was four drunken editors and their girlfriend/wives in a Midtown Manhattan bar. Four drunken editors et al whose recollections would equal at least eight or sixty four different genesises - or is that genesi? They might have argued the proper plural if given the cue but their lines were cast for bigger fish. They shared a philosophy that was species neutral. An empty hook will snag a catch eventually. And what have you caught? "Well, this looks like some kind of Perch, which reminds me of Canary. And that's the book industry. That's a cage you carry around until its prisoner is dead." "My catch is longer, a slithier silver." "Slithy earn." "This fish is pretty fat, and in this sense not good, but it does have whiskers and what's more this fish brags." "It's too bad the hook gashed up one side of this guppy because if you could excise that whole side, the rest..." "Tasty... Shrimp." "A tiny penis fish." And undoubtedly time went by when no fish were snagged. That's when you turn to talk to the bartender or excuse yourself to where the most genisi are found (empirically, yes, thank you), which are at the urinal. One should piss fish as well as catch them because that's exactly the kind of fish we're looking for. Well, as it turns out, that is to say in the end, it's not the fish you hook but the accidental fish that slaps your ankle. It swims by and you never even really read it. It reads its way accidentally into your boat. Bloog Mandrake NY NY USA
