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- To: firstname.lastname@example.org
- Subject: Z.B.
- From: UZS106@ibm.rhrz.uni-bonn.de
- Date: Sat, 5 Sep 1998 10:06:49 +0200
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Date: Sat, 23 May 1998 11:39:11 -0400
From: John Young <jya@PIPELINE.COM>
Subject: 42nd Street
Rebuilding Times Square has caused us to move a tad
north, along 43rd across from The New York Times,
which has led to encounters with several international
stars of newspaperdom who at first whisked right by
without a glance at our small pile of papers -- small in
height, nver more than 5, and format, 2 x 3 -- probably
thinking they were cards for monte, for they are crimped
in the middle to make tent-like structures when arranged
on an unfolded table at noon each day of 7.
Yesterday, though, Frank Rich paused to watch as we
set up the display at the door of the auxiliary bulding
used for administration by the Ford Theater (and whose
side wall is propped against collapse by steel braces between
the new and old), one card upright, one on its side and one
What caught Frank's attention was our use of a laser sextant
to get the tiny structures precisely aligned, using thin dried
spaghettini to minutely postion the three tipsy papers into
zyzzygy despite gusts of rushing passersby jostling our
efforts and repeated rebeginnings.
Fact it, in ten years we've never got the triumvirate exactly right,
and have to close the op nightly frustrated and forced to
recommence the morrow.
What initially surprised us is people finding what we were
doing worth spending time watching. Year after year we've
found our tiny effort has attracted an audience, some of
whom quietly murmur encouragement, to not give up, hang
in there, you'll get it someday, but most of whom, of those who
speak at all, say what is it, what are they doing, are they con
artists, or religious recruiters, come on honey it's just an act
to get us to gawk.
Frank Rich, may god forever bless his curiosity and courage to
act on it, asked, would you mind telling me what you're doing?
It was that question which we had never been asked, and the
one for which we strived and endured the 7-day weeks of
incessant tinkering and toying with our small show to gain
the attention of the wide world.
At that moment of Frank asking, the three papers came into
zyzzygy, the success bell sounded on the laser, the down
facing card turned upwards showing ace of spades, the side
card broke into smoky incense, the up facing card curled into
a pipette and commenced to emit single file flea classical violinists
pumping their bows madly, multiple, synchronized, tiny Vivaldian
sublimities wafting off the edge of our table, across the sidewalk,
up Franks pants leg, into his privates, vibrating, caressing him
with beeper-tone ecstacy, inducing him to cream and scream, oh
my god, heaven help us, it's nothing more than inescapable
- Re: Z.B.
- From: firstname.lastname@example.org (Ulf Möller)