I have a rocking chair and I don't care who knows it. I rock often and rock contentedly. I was rocking just a moment ago in fact. I come from a family of rockers. You should've seen my grandmother and my aunts all rocking glumly in the dark the day Elvis Presley died. They were listening to Blue Hawaii and rocking slowly, slowly. Such morose and reflective rocking. I took up rocking at an early age under the influence of these rocking women in their living room full of ugly mismatching rockers, sometimes six of them rocking at once but all at slightly different tempos. A disorienting effect. I think I began easing into my dotage around the age of sixteen. I am prone to fidgeting but I like to read so it's only natural that I rock. I also love ottomans and little lamps placed at different locations around a room. I'd like to smoke a cigarette while rocking, with a shotgun across my lap, narrowing my eyes contemptuously at the empty-headed speechifying of an intolerable visitor from town, and then maybe blow his fool head off.