My sister Sally wants me to read about the new memoir by Joe Queenan, which seems to remind her of me. Which part,I wonder? Not the drunken abusive father (our father was the kindest and steadiest of men--and I never saw him worse than giggly, and that only once in a while). Must be the (adolescent?) desire (as it would have been then) "to make a living by ridiculing people"--? Or perhaps my dismay at all those Irish Catholic schoolgirls who wouldn't sleep with me?
Oh, that. Right.
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