04/04
          Tonopah, Nevada; old friends of Jurek's, which means cigars and scotch. I don't even know who's driving anymore. Mopy Keil, I suppose. 
          Jurek's pal has lived in this house since childhood. There are five cats; two or three smallish ones and two that are larger, one of which is black and has a lion's mane, the other of which is like a cow; it is fat and mostly white, and its sagging bellyflesh is an udder. One dog, a pit something, has a drooling cough, and another has a crumpled tail and a mutilated and decaying face; gashes near one eye, a crusty white ball where the other eye would be, and a mouth that won't open, so its tongue flicks out the side where teeth are missing.
          The son is younger than I and already has a steady job, which I do not, and the daughter is younger still and already has a baby boy, which I do not. She changes the baby on the couch, comments on the greenness of the poo, then, after cleaning him up and letting him go, instead of washing her hands reaches for a french fry.
          The grandchild looks at me from beneath a table. I make faces at him, moving up eyebrows and contorting my mouth. He smiles, and his own eyebrows shift around.


04/03
          Within the bowels of the house, the Sneckson family secret: a handmade red-white-and-blue quilt, “UNITED STATES OFAMERICA” depicted in the center and images of all the states chronologically occupying their own hexagons throughout the quilt's body, accompanied by state birds, state flowers, and dates of induction. No thimble used.
          “Wow Vander,” I say, “you're a true American. It's in your blood.” 
          “Blood!” laughs his father, “we don't need blood, we need beer!”