“Anyhow,” he went on, “my two newest naked friends got dressed. The boy had tattoos on his arms—a Confederate flag on one arm and a marijuana plant on the other. He put on a really swell T-shirt. It had ‘Fuck You’ printed on it. At this very moment, both he and the girl are in the kitchen helping make shrimp salad for forty polka dancers. Jerry’s in there too, cutting Mandy’s hair, and that’s why I say I ain’t bored yet.”
Well, I still don't know what this book is driving at, but that stealth thread-cross felt enough like a punch line that it surprised a laugh out of me. And reminded me of the "cousinly" remark. I'm not getting bored either.
And of course, I'm reading to Johnny Mercer's music
What the hell is going on with those two. My dysfunction junction tag barely covers it.
The stories before reminded me of Allende's or García Marquea's descriptives asides. Conservative snobs are the same everywhere I guess.
The second party is the next night. It’s the one the papers never write about. It’s … for gentlemen only. Which party would you like to be invited to?”
“The one,” I said, “least likely to involve gunfire.”
The other thing I would like to know is what is going on with our narrator.