Retraction

I have done a lot of soul searching and have found that a) I don't have a soul, and b) I don't want to write a blog.

Calm down, everyone. Calm down.

And it's not for all the usual reasons, like fearing charges of self-absorption, narcissism, hebephrenia, too many chicks wanting me, all that. No, I don't want to keep a blog because it will be detrimental to our country. How? you ask. The only way I can answer that is by telling a story, a long one, and (hopefully) pointless, if not pious.

First off, let me say that I work in a l--- in the city of D---. Now, in this library in Denver, I have met a lot of kookaburras (that's Australian for beer, mate). One of them was a tall, thin young man who played the harp on a street corner a few blocks away. He was what the kids call a "busker." But on the day I am talking about he was not in the mood to "busk." No, sir. He came into the library, silky and sultry in his cap-a-pie ensemble of motley clothing that was pointedly out of fashion (I asked a coworker if it was out of fashion and she said, "Yes.") Cradled in his arms was a bundle of clothing. Earlier he had told one of the staff that he was carrying a puppy around in said bundle, though no one actually saw said puppy. On this hot July morning, he came in and headed straight for the elevator. A little while later, our custodian, R., came over to me and in a low voice asked me to venture down into the basement. There was an "incident" in the men's restroom.

I reluctantly, sighingly left my desk. While I might be of a somewhat largish stature, I am small on the inside. I do not like "incidents." R., a 58-year-old African-American man of Miles-Davis-ish complexion, a painter of unicorns and lubricious afroed Nubians in his spare time, was no happier with this unfolding controversy. As we rode the elevator down, he informed me that our busker friend had completely undressed himself and was washing his clothing piecemeal in one of the toilets. He wanted me to come along as a show of force when we asked the nude gentleman to egress the premises.

Filled with trepidation, hardly inspired by Reggie's story, I opened the restroom door. There, with no small relief, I found the young man dressed again and using paper towels to sop the spilled water on the floor near the toilet. Clearing my throat, I told him in a voice orotund with authority,

"Uh, you, uh, can't do that here...?"

"They won't let me do it at the office," replied the busking/puppy enthusiastist.

"Well, you'll have to egress the building."

"What?"

"Leave, I mean. Can you please leave...?"

At this point, Reggie intruded, his baritone voice ringing on the tiles. "What's your name, sir?"

"I am Zoey," said the man. Then he turned on us a look blasted with infinite cosmic nothingness. "They sewed up my vagina, and my penis is taped to my stomach."

Before we had a chance to react to this startling bit of erotica, the young man added, almost in a casual, matter-of-fact tone, "I am covered in dog semen."

"Shee-it," Reggie said. Under his breath, he muttered, "Kookaburra."

"You're Australian, too?" I asked, surprised.

The man was marched out of the restroom, escorted by the two of us. We took an awkward ride up the elevator. I deliberated whether we should call 911 since the young man was clearly having some kind of psychotic episode, but it just seemed easier to walk him out instead and let it all be someone else's problem.

So, I ask you, can someone who lets the mentally ill wander the streets be allowed to have a blog??