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The man creates a superb flow of incidents…We glide into one of the cozy chairs into the bar and watch, listen and laugh as the evening progresses and the novel itself as well as the conversations McFinn either overhears or participates in develops into something very elegant and stylish…The verbose style proves to be more than fitting as we settle in with characters that are as flippant and peculiar as they are memorable. We deeply regret that the night draws to a close, as it naturally must. There is the urge that we need to stay with McFinn and his troupe much, much longer.
Patrick Tippelt Metro Magazine



Out of the Loop


he problem with these stories," he said, " is that they have no plots. "         
" Deficient in the plot department? "
" Woefully. They just wander around aimlessly."
" Merrily meandering is the way I like to think of them."
" Well, think of them as you will, but a good story needs a compelling plot to keep the reader’s interest, and these stories are . . . "
" Plotless ".


You like plots, I thought to myself, go visit a cemetery.

A Strange Bee

y brother, the foot doctor, once asked me if I ever did anything simply for the sake of converting the experience into prose. Naturally, I repelled the notion with a haughty persiflage in an endeavor to persuade him that such hackneyed stratagems were unnecessary for the genuinely talented gentlemen of the quill. After all, great writers are heralded for their style, not their content. Marcel Proust is a classic example….

Oh, Waiter!

ive weeks ago I bought a gas burner, a silver pot, and a black wok. Opened up my own private restaurant. It's a real cozy little place. Quaint you might sayexcept that word makes me squirm.

The setting is a bungalow verandah under the canopy of coconut palms astride Maenam Bay. It's a small restaurantone table, two chairs.  The name of the joint is "Joe's,” and my name isn't. I'm the proprietor, chief purveyor, maitre ‘d, the chef, waiter, busboy, dishwasher, and so far the only customer.

The Grand Opening

ast night was the grand opening of Pipeline Pete's Whiskey and Beer Bar on the beach road in Chaweng. 

It's the only opening of any kind I've ever been personally invited to in my life. That is, aside from the City of Chicago inviting me to attend court for opening testimony by the arresting officer on charges of drunk and disorderly conduct. (But let's never mind about that.) 

Always . . .

lways there is the smell of the wind and the sound of the sea….
The morning begins with the reveille of roosters. Their throaty exhortations seem to command the respect of nature. They herald the dawn, snuff out the stars, and rouse the sun from beneath the undulating bosom of the bay.

A flush of pastel pink and apricot colors rout the fleeing legions of darkness. Soon, the sea is sparkling as if stars had been sprinkled across its surface, and the sky is a creamy blue. The moon, relieved of duty, yields to the source of the light it reflects, yet lingers awhile to witness the radiant splendor of another birth . . . of another day . . . of another reprieve.
Now what shall I make of it?