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what we call an ‘apporepo,’ or apport of repossession—vulnerable,
Turns out that in response to the local ass/app situation, a trade has sprung up in counterfeit apports,
Sürgős,
Urgent!
St. Anthony of Padua, patron saint of the lost and found.
Lost people, lost hope, by extension patron saint of apportists.”
“agrabla revidi vin!”
Esperanto for “nice to see you again”.
“Az Isten faszára—who
Hungarian. “For fuck’s sake.”
the Crossword Suicide Café.”
kemény gyerek
specially designed for the theremin.”
“It’s a musical instrument.”
the bass contratheremin
“And all I’ll have to do, let’s see, is track down Hop for you, and you’ll pack right on up and head for home?”
Does this mean that you might help me find Hop and get him out of any trouble he may’ve gotten himself into? Oh, how can I ever…”
“Yes and while we’re on the subject, you’re sure, Daphne, now, about your—about, um, that Hop Wingdale?
“Not that it’s any of your business, but we have a free and forgiving arrangement,
why brewed, as Schlitz said to Pabst,
if it will get Hop back to me safe and sound, OK?
Hop Wingdale
Pareidolia
Seeing meaning in an ambiguous image
the hopeless awareness that what may have been possible for them once is no longer so.
“So…all this time you were pretending to be a klezmer clarinetist, romantically involved with an heiress to an American cheese fortune, meantime gathering intelligence on the sly, sending faithful summaries, about what and back to whom, exactly, not for the likes of me to imagine.”
Shrug. “Not my ticket, even if somebody tells me what in heck’s going on, which ain’t about to happen.
this current ride is no substitute for his old Harley Flathead, which, though less of a coherent machine than a history of maintenance melodramas each waiting its turn to be enacted, he now misses heartbroken as a cowboy in a song, convinced by now that it is Bruno Airmont who’s responsible for its loss,
the secret equations of social turbulence are once again in effect as in the days of D’Annunzio.
Wagnerian sopranos are learning the hillbilly guitar chords to “Wabash Cannonball.”
“What now, this is somebody’s sending me to Sicily?”
Just better not count on gettin back to the States anytime soon.
