New Season

The new site. W., in overalls, straightens the Late Victorians photo; MICHAEL KAULKIN, also in overalls, closes the last cans of teal and gray paint. B. makes his way in past the crowd in the pachinko parlour. Both see each other, start. KAULKIN observes, warily.

W. What are you doing here?

B. What are you doing here?

W. Finishing 2.0.

B. You’re blogging! After that pompous, finale-of Götterdämmerung number in June—

W: Your venom sacks have refilled, I see.

MICHAEL KAULKIN: I’ll just see myself out…

W.  Thanks, MK, for everything…

B. smugly Blogging.

W. Look, I finished revised these pieces for the concert in April; I’m ahead of schedule for San Francisco; and there’s stuff to write about.

B. And your big crisis of conscience over the winter?

W: If you’d bother to read your own damn hyperlinks, you’d remember that you actually solved that problem.

B. As I do so many. What if you fall behind in your work?

W. I’ll tell people, and I’ll cut back, with regret. I was the only person trying to hold myself to this twice-a-week quasi-journalistic schedule. Even in June, I really should have just announced a summer hiatus and been done with it.

B. But, no, instead you withdrew into the West, trailing faint clouds of Joyce and regret—

W. You still haven’t explained what you’re doing here.

B. gestures vaguely. Two tickets drop from his pocket to the floor. W pounces, retrieves them, crows in triumph.

W. These are Esther tickets!

B. And your point is?

W. You came back to blog!

B. Did not!

W. Did too!

B. Did not! Although I was struck by Davis’ article in the Times

B. catches himself, winces.

W. serenely. You just linked.

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