The September issue of fête is out, which concludes that brief chapter of my life titled “Bratwurst.” (See August 22 posting.) Curiously, after so much sturm and not a little bit of drang, the payoff seems piddling. Definitely anticlimactic. My reaction to the piece this morning after not having seen it for a couple of weeks was a barely audible “Meh.” But publication does mean closure, which I crave in regular doses.
Epilogue: I almost never cross paths with Ben Robinson (a.k.a. Death Guy with Bratwurst on Fork) now that Centre Stage is … umm … not somewhere I go anymore … so his appearance at Starbucks yesterday morning scant moments after the issue featuring him had been published was a few cuts above mere coincidence. It was as if the act of publication had summoned him right out of the chrono-synclastic infundibulum.