Bangkok

There are a lot of lemons on the tree in my back yard. But they taste like what a lemon would taste like if lemons went on strike to rally for higher wages and they smell like a hospital. The streets in this town are lousy with flying ants and pregnant cats and orange caterpillars. The man across the road does not roll his own cigarettes anymore.

Dream: I am sitting at a small wooden desk working very hard on a significant problem: how to get all the dogs in China to be quiet. They’ve been making too much noise lately and I haven’t been able to finish my important, groundbreaking work of fiction called “It’s Complicated.” The dogs of China make noise at all hours. It’s important that they stop. In order to silence them, I have kidnapped a dog from Bangkok; it has a nondescript, beige appearance, like a small, stocky whippet. I put it in a box under my desk and start typing.

The programming language that will shush the Chinese dogs forever goes like this:

same dealio if{
bark, moan, whine, howl, woof, yelp, yip, yap}

else

The language is elegant, if incomplete and somewhat campy. The dog from Bangkok begins to frighten me. His demeanor is nothing short of spooky. When I open the cardboard box he will not come out. The only sound he makes is a silent pant.