The future, of course, is unaccountable, antiknowable. I came to Milwaukee envisioning the life of a fledging rock star in a blazer and hose, with three-martini lunches, steak houses and cigars, a different woman in my bed each week. All this until my youth, my allocated window of tolerated rebellion, ran its course. Instead I’d ended up with a biohazard of an apartment, a small nest of loving friends, a long wait in the line at St. Casimir. Was now leaving, bank account in tatters, to try to make good on a new coast of this strange country. I would say there is something especially American
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