My friend Terry and I were in a carpeted church basement, DJing Christian Rock during a car rally. The youth pastor bussed in the sound system, and while the basement was empty (except for the women in the kitchen) Terry picked up the mic and clowned around. The youth pastor introduced us to the senior pastor who stopped in his tracks long enough to glance at us like the couple of ass-wipes that we were. Well — I was at any rate. I shouldn’t speak on behalf of Terry.
Some years later I was taking a break from the young woman who later became my endures-all-things wife. I was studying Canadian Literature at the University of Winnipeg that summer and meeting Terry at the library of the Manitoba Legislature. I smoked DuMaurier cigarettes, wore a crimson beater and probably looked like this, but Terry, who was working for the Manitoba New Democratic Party, saw fit to see me anyway:
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