If home-gallows prices keep coming down, people won't go to public executions anymore. The home brothel has reduced the amount of cash American men spend each year on banging strangers. And thanks to the home sweatshop, the CEOs of all the major clothing manufacturers have been forced to take pay cuts. (I mean, come on: It was either that or something totally unimaginable, like shipping American jobs overseas, or cutting healthcare benefits for the rank and file.)

<B>TARIK O'REGAN: <I>Threshold of Night</I></B><BR>
<I>Had I Not Seen the Sun</I>, <I>The Ecstasies Above</I>, <I>Threshold of Night</I>, <I>Tal Vez Tenemos Tiempo</I>, <I>Care Charminge Sleepe</I>, <I>Triptych</I>, <I>I Had No Time to Hate</I><BR>
Conspirare Company of Voices, Company of Strings; Craig Hella Johnson, conductor<BR>
Harmonia Mundi HMU 807490 (SACD/CD). 2008. Robina G. Young, prod.; John Newton, eng. DDD. TT: 59:31<BR>
Performance *****<BR>
Sonics *****

It was November 1999, in New Orleans. I had been on the road for almost a month, traveling on my own aboard Amtrak trains. I had a rail pass that allowed me to get on and off wherever I pleased. That freedom was great, but I became terribly lonely. Part of the deal was I had to make at least two stops in Canada. So, I went from New York City to Rochester to Niagara Falls and then up to Montreal, Quebec City, Ottawa, and Toronto. All the while reading crazy shit like Pauline Reage's <i>Story of O</i> or Henry Miller's <i>Quiet Days in Clichy</i>, meeting beautiful people, falling in love with perfect strangers a hundred times a day, discovering wonderful new places and then leaving almost as soon as some hint of a connection was made.

She had short brown hair, brown eyes, and wore a brown bomber and a blue and green checked ivy cap. Every ten minutes, we'd have to stop so she could take a picture of something.

She wrote your name down in my notebook and circled it and drew a bunch of funny pictures of cats.