verywhere I see
Rettbergs Rettbergs Rettbergs goddammit I cant find the bar. It must
be somewhere behind that swarming drunken mass of Rettbergs. Pixilated,
German, Irish, French, British, Chicago Americans. The world is overpopulated
with Rettbergs. Curt White is talking to Tom
LeClair about the future of American fiction. The conversation is
heated. Charlie Harris is mediating. Some genre fiction people are arguing
that mystery is a more literary mode than
romance. John Barth is playing poker with Chuck
Aukema. Aukemas winning. Scotts grandmother is dancing on a table, glass
of white zinfandel in her hand. She looks every bit the Irish
lass. His Uncle Bob, I think, is telling Pynchon a joke. Pynchon is laughing.
Many people are overheard saying Never thought Id see the day. There
are a lot of people with English accents. Scotts brother Kyle is unpacking
the tale of our copyright dispute with Disney for a rapt audience of wine-swilling
poets. People keep hitting their wine glasses with spoons. Scott keeps
kissing Marla. Gilliam is talking to Katie inbetween
shooting film of the whole ordeal. Coppolas telling Barbara Trent how
much he admires her work. I dont understand. How many of these people
are Rettbergs: how many Kleingelds? Im surprised Rettberg even remembered
to invite me. It was probably just for the sonnet I read at the ceremony.
He made some crack about poets actually being
useful at ceremonious gatherings.