Toddy: Not having read Mr. Thomson's work of the imagination, as I say, my purpose is to gain insight, to be informed. But your denial is not an explanation. To be wrong is one thing, a condition I'm familiar with; to be TOTALLY wrong is something else. Are you saying that Thomson has Virginia Woolf , Franz Kafka, Ernest Hemingway, and Charlie Chaplin all piling on the memory and reputation of Orson Welles? Or are you floating an idea that Thomson uncharacteristically revives his early admiration for his hero, Welles, but does so in the careless, factually licensed, slipshod manner, you, Peter, and others have condemned in years gone by?
To say that I'm totally wrong, I'll accept, grudgingly. To say that Peter is totally right leaves me wondering, what does such a statement mean, given what he has written? You're the guys who have read Sweeney's #31, right? I'm puzzling over the meaning of the paradox which I see.
[Perhaps, you might use some of your "Desperate Gin-Drinkers Fund" money to purchase for me an extra copy of Sweeney's #31. We have no doubt sold a few copies to the more affluent among us by now. Or at least sent them out to a library which carries it.]
I'm just asking for a little clarity! A little Socratic clarity?
Meanwhile, though you may be counting your Bombay Gimlets before they're mixed, I also look forward to the August meet -- that would be mid-August, I believe -- especially now that you have awarded me the title of "Don Fraser" in your Mafia Family Wars context.
Additionally, though I'm suppressing growing suspicion that you and Mr. French, at least, have become secret tools of the DAX Foundation, I welcome the possibility of meeting a new SF Wellesnet recruit. Who could it be? Peter, Nick Badseed, Michael Jackson, King Tut . . . or David Thomson himself? I put nothing past you these days, Baesen.
Next, you'll be telling me that this Gordon fellow is a philanthropic representative for DAX. Wait a minute . . . Gordon . . . Gin?
I GET IT!
Until I look once again through that mask of unkempt hair into those glittery eyes of yours, perhaps across brimful glasses of plain old Ha-Ra Club gin, I remain, obediently yours . . . .