The Club is a club you can't club in. It
only allows Hispanics who are white
(but exclusive Spaniards) and Whites who
aren't Hispanic (that's a joke, of course). Mex
- i - cans -
are strictly disallowed, but invited--nay,
encouraged, to apply; dishwashers are
needed, and respected. Except when
it comes to their
spectacles; they can't afford them. De-
cent ones, of coures. Ha ha. Milton. M-
an, what a laugh. Camaraderie and its
more black moments, Paradise Where?
The only question that's ever mattered.
Remember when? Even a league called
racist. It wasn't. Maybe? (Negro.) Be-leagured,
is my life. White hair slicked back and old,
old shallow talk. That. Service me a
lemon G & T & I'll tip you. [ ]
(I'll remark ironically later about how
Mark Twain's old mansion
is right next to the projects
in Hartford.) (And omit a racial slur
because I'm afraid as a coward.)
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