"What's that drug that helps you remember things?" she asked.

"I used to know the name," I replied, "but I've forgotten it."

"Sounds like you could use some of the drug I'm looking for, too," she said. "I'll let you know if I find any."

I then explained that the reason I didn't remember the name of the drug that makes you remember things is that I've been taking the drug that makes you forget things. Now, I can concentrate on the things that matter.

As if anything did.

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My friend was surprised that I'd taken the time to almost rewrite his piece when all he'd asked for was my opinion.

"After sex," I explained, "the strongest human urge is to edit someone else's work."

"That's strange," he replied. "I've never had the urge to edit after sex, or even smoke for that matter."

What could I say?

"I don't like to take photographs. Photography is a lot like cooking; it always tastes better when someone else does it."

In any case, he had more than a decade's worth of toilet tissue rolls stored in the attic of his Colonial Pines bungalow, and when he commenced to make art, he drove his van down to Virginia and loaded them up.

From what I can deduce, Skinny Legs and All was first published in 1990, some five years after I first witnessed my friend's collection of derders. I'm sure there's an explanation for this coincidence, but I have no idea what it might be.

The bag was "MADE IN THE U.S.A." by Marie Santil. Actually, I doubt that Marie Santil had much to do with creating the bag; I think putting the name of a production line worker on a mass-produced object is one of those things a smart corporation does to keep workers from mutinying.

The bottom of the bag advised me to "Reuse this package for its many alternate uses in the home." The bag really wasn't of much use--other than cosmetic--the first time around; I'm not sure what other use I could find for a 4.75" by 3.375" by 9.75" bag. That works out to 156.3046875 cubic inches, not enough room for the reeking fill of a full cat box, and way too much room for a dead gerbil.

I fear Marie Santil may be wasting her time, and perhaps a few trees.

One of my generous friends has approximately a thousand times more money than I do, so when she bought me a hundred-dollar dinner it depleted her net worth as much as if I had taken someone out to a ten-cent dinner. The math is simple enough to be obviously true, but I can't really imagine what it's like to have as much excess money as excess oxygen.

My wealthy friends didn't provide any conclusive empirical evidence. One of them seemed rather to enjoy all the things that money can buy; the other seemed rather sad at having a small financial fortune but few of the things that money can't buy. This could be one definition of unfortunate.

I have enough of a fortune for a burrito and a few beers whenever I want. I also have, of course, the good fortune of having many friends with many good fortunes.

A dear friend who knows much more about the English language in general, and, the, secret, lives, of, commas, than, I, ever, will, edits much of my work. Recently, a piece I sent him came back to me leaner and trimmer, as if I'd sent it to Wayne's Weight-Loss Hacienda for Overweight Writing. Or perhaps the Betty Ford Clinic for Disturbed Prose. Whatever. He included a preface to the new piece I allegedly wrote:

As you will see, I've preserved much of what you sent, but I've deleted a bit, mostly because I'm not sure that you didn't want to say a great deal more than you did.

Now that's what I call creative writing!