On Monday words huddle behind my teeth hesitantly, debating whether or not to come out, causing a disastrous chain reaction collision with some other words coming up right behind them. In the end they simply never decide and instead turn back into ordinary air, which I gulp. On Tuesday not only do I receive a titillating long distance phone call about the shocking defilement of a relative but also a medium-sized piece of popcorn chicken rolls off a steam table at a Lutheran Church smorgasbord in Bethel, Texas and is quickly eaten by a dog whose second cousin sniffed my dog's behind only last week all the way up here in Oregon. On Wednesday the president is stricken with bubonic plague and I am torn between pie and ice cream and decide what the hell why not both since I've had a rough week. On Thursday I die of exposure while writing in my secret diary. On Friday I visit a friend who's suffered a series of excruciating personal setbacks and notice on his coffee table a handsome remaindered copy of Terence Conran's Execution Style. On Saturday I am informed over cocktails that a cosmetologist is not, in fact, a Russian astronaut, but that Laika, the first dog in space, was indeed a cosmetologist. On Sunday we enjoy an Indian brunch at Mimosas And Samosas over on Minty Street near where that family was murdered several Christmases ago casting a pall over the entire season, that little place with the greasy curtains and amber water goblets.