After a few low blows I found myself yet again in reduced circumstances and an '82 Chevette. My familiar me needed a brain-crackle and pronto. A chuggling voice on talk radio told me to seek out professionals, so I hit the big Vegas trade shows. At the home improvement fair I strode the floor like I belonged somewhere. A man with futile hair and a suggestion of hidden moisture armswept toward a row of chromed contraptions and asked me if I had any chafing issues with the fabric of everyday life. I did, but in my pre-nod I noticed the buttons of his shirt went askew on their downward trajectory and entered the slacks at a whimsical point at least three inches to the left of his belt buckle. His left. His torso evoked the lid of a jar of sweet gherkins that someone had tried and failed to twist off. Careless tucking implied urgency. I was forced to imagine him with freshly burst capillaries, hastily emerging from a men's room stall at JC Penney followed by the boy who played one of the Kevins on that show I used to like when I got my own apartment downtown, The Kevins. I backed off, remembering that radical placket swerve is one of the warning signs of something. I staggered from vendor to exhibit thinking about one of the Kevins bursting a few of my capillaries until the revolutionary drywall sanding tool caught my attention and held it gently but firmly like one would the scrotum of someone one truly cares about. My lips went dry, both of them. I murmured to myself this smacks of something. I narrowed my eyes at the revolutionary drywall sanding tool. I headcocked. I intuited, riskily, without credentials. The revolutionary drywall sanding tool might be just what I needed. But how would I bring it into therapeutic contact with my brain without additional implements? Assuming my determination frown I went off to find some but before I could even get cracking I was herded toward an exit by a menacing woman who tasted blood. It's true I badgelessly quailed but I had a brainchild of retort and my eyebrows ascended. Recomposed I said to her it almost always fails to amaze me MISS but the door had already wheezed and I was a man squinting on hot asphalt soon enough. DIRT LADY! I had been rudely donated to the street in a thwarted condition of defeated slump. I gestured my way across gulping traffic to the snack foods expo, specifically the Archway Cookies Soft Baked Suicide Pavilion, and there's a whole story about that let me tell you.