Every Tuesday, after I watch reruns of "Keeping

Every Tuesday, after I watch reruns of "Keeping Up With The Wests," I get a lesson in plagiarism-sorry-sampling from Johann Sebastian Kanye. Kanye says I got no rhythm-what does
that have to do with the Kardashians anyway. I scoffed at his remark and sat down at the Baby Grand to compose what I would call
"concerto leviosA in c-minor." It was a piece that could only fully be appreciated by intellectuals, the common folk found the twelve minutes of clanging keys to be rather
annoying, this writer included, especially when a certain neighbour of mine blasted out this hack songwriter's infinitely looping jangly key noises at four in the fucking morning.
"That's it, I've had enough of this fucking shit!" I said, rhyming in my head. I took out my MP5 submachine I bought in Hong Kong and shot the little bastard from my window.
I love shooting little bastards.
Being head of An Conflagration of Arsonists, He had played it to the gallery, Now it was
His turn to pass the baton. Peter was next and happily took it. Peter was poring over a list of places to go and start new fires. There were a lot of good choices. His assistant,
Pi Rho Mancer, suggested somewhere near Barcelona and something about flamenco. When I hear flamenco I zone out into another world. A world where everything I write makes sense.
But it only makes sense if you listen to flamenco while reading it. And dancing, with a rose in your teeth and castanets in your hands. How you'll hold the writing, I have no idea.

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