. . . Ten of Palace of the Blue Butterfly proofread and posted.
There are days, like today when the cows broke down the fence around the house, and I had to herd them all of the off the lawn (think Dale Evans meets Keystone Cops) when I realize why writers live in studio apartments in Brooklyn. No ranch tasks. Plenty of takeout food. But then you’re in Brooklyn, which I hear is the end-all and be-all of cool, just pas pour moi, as I like to say while I’m rounding up livestock. Okay, so no one can really see me living . . .