The Grind House

Many years ago, or months, I can't remember, I lived in a circular tabernacle dormitory for mostly undergraduate students and emeritus Mossadish-friendly members on the shoreline of a particulately smelly and beachless (but not bikiniless) midwestern lake.

The previous occupants of the apartment I rented were evidently even more popular than myself, constantly ringing the doorbell and demanding HERB or ECSTASY. I had no such roommate by that name. Still, I buzzed them up, hoping to get me sumsumsum.

Knock, knock, I would hear at the ungodly sleepytime hour of 2 p.m. It was really hard to explain to these hopeful drug-purchasers that this was my residence and that the most I could provide was a free referral to the next door neighbours, who always had a partay no matter what hour or who was a'callin.

Langdon. Canteloupe. Raw eggs. Frats. Le Chateau. Stay tuned.