The P-Farm Summer Bus Tour

[Steven Maas (CUTR)]

Last night while frenetically dancing to the euphonious swingabilly sounds
of Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys I was mulling over possible
explanations for why I was a middle excluded from the Pynchon Farm--not an
easy undertaking as I was simultaneously puzzling over why all the other
dancers were looking at me like that and attending to the occasional
messages beamed to my gleaming silver cap.  (Dental or cranial?  Wouldn't
*you* like to know.)

Explanations ranged from the ridiculous:  Do my posts to the P-list come
back only to me?  Does *everyone* have a kill file with my name on it? to
the sublime--tugging at my consciousness like a hideous creature from the
amoral and merciless World Beyond tugging at the bedcovers from under the
bed:  Are my posts so lacking in pithy and relevant content that *no one
remembers them*?

Being a resourceful type--as all Paranoids worthy of the name must be
(lemonade from lemons, sort of thing)--while eating my _Breakfast of
Champions_ this morning I hit on the only possible explanation ("only
possible" being of course the one that allows me to retain an inflated
sense of cosmic importance--or is that a cosmic sense of inflated
importance--howbeit. . .)--in hindsight it seems so obvious--the point of
the post was *to see how I would react to being left out*.

	Steve Maas