Mutti is back from her sojourn in the hospital, and now lays around keening and playing with her colostomy bag. Atzel, the pickpocket, promoted himself a $60,000 industrial salad slicing and packing machine, but he’s having difficulties finding a buyer, so we’re waiting on the proceeds.

 

Helmut crabwalks up to me on a regular basis (“Tristan, what I wanted to say was…”) to borrow money and then disappears into the casinos for days at a time. The boys prevailed upon me to write some short anecdotes by way of publicity for Ella, the massive female wrestler (fights under the nom de guerre Miss Molly and yes I threw in the good golly business) and I am now the champion of the Champ. PURE DADA. She actually only wrestles men -at $250 a throw- and now giggles at me more than ever, and even offers to fight me for free.

 

And that real juggernaut, Rosie, my moll, drives her cab every weekend from 2 pm to 7 am, and is otherwise devoted to her implacable goal of killing me with kindness.

 

Silke was drinking overmuch and threw Atzel out of her house in a rage, only to find her ex-husband launching himself onto the sofa. Now it is flat-out war between Atzel and his fellow semi-Serbs and the ex and his sprawling Albanian family. Everybody’s packing heat. By dint of my father’s birth in Belgrade -plus I have the hair- I am the mascot, at least until they figure out that I’m jewish. Oddly, however, I’m parked in Atzel’s former digs, and it is conceivable that not every Albanian knows of his relocation.

 

I’m still waiting on dates for London and Copenhagen, but believe me, folks, this place is hi-fuckin-larious.

 

Cheers,

The Professor