Reading Page 947...

...On a bench in the morning sun in Idyllic-Pre-ONAN-Torontonian-Park (teeming with hot-young-fleshy-thirty-something-Moms) with requisite tennis court in background while 7-year-old daughter complains that she is now "too old for this park, Daddy" and I reply, "how about some tennis then?..." but am suddenly horrified by the thought of her becoming a neglected-sad-over-trained-under-loved-uber-intellectual-pot-smoking-academy-resident-who-ends-up-in-a-halfway-house-instead-of-the-Show, while I try to escape the responsibilty of fatherhood by creating ironic art with revolutionary technologies.

The good thing is that I have not made the mistake of giving up drink and my wife is not Xing a teenage tennis prodigy and her stepbrother, nor am I in turn Xing my son's girlfriend - which would without a doubt make me at some point want to eliminate my own map given that my son has just turned 10 and the oldest girlfriend he's ever had was a year older than him which would of course make me evil and jailable - and we know that I cannot accept cages and cannot nobly Abide by much pain any more unlike the heroic and godlike Don Gately.