Helmintholog

or at least badly reviewed, for collapsing in hysterical laughter in my seat on a subway train when I read this in the New Yorker.

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where what was once achingly hip now just looks inconvenient. It’s housed in a converted warehouse tucked under a feeeway on 3rd street, abou a half mile walk from the subway. Up at the top is cool clean chic: MOMA, the Moscone centre, stuff like that, but as the road goes on, it’s obvious that the tide of gentrification lapped up to the freeway, and has since receded.

At the crossing just before a middle-aged black guy in front of me says to his companion: “See that flag there?” I thought it said M&M. But it’s ‘wired’.” He sounds beildered that anyone would put something so stupid on a flag. Inside the walls are whitewashed and the doors painted primary colours.

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lives in a sunstruck bungalow that consists almost entirely of books, though there are a few walls scattered around for verisimilitude. At her desk is a monitor, a small dot-matrix printer, and a big flying saucer Microsoft ergonomic keyboard, same as I use, but no computer.

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Felix took Anita and me to a wine bar on the edge of the Sandy Row Ghetto, which hadn

Julie-Anne, Felix