Deep in the soul of every writer lies a secret: what does the writer do to avoid writing? I'll empty my brain pan now: I clean every surface, animate or inanimate, in my living space. Having let dust and slime pile up happily since the last story, suddenly I become a whirling dervish who could put hausfrau Pat "Windex" Benatar-Geraldo to shame. Who could possibly type a syllable amid rampant

spores and the cat's spider mites? Nothing escapes my chemical fury—nothing except the typewriter. No, my exploration into the essence of Go-Go must wait until the earrings are cleaned. The cat dried and fluffed to my lisa, she-wolf of the SS specifications, I turn on the TV. So the rules change somewhat, OK. It's Curt Gowdy's weekend sports wrap-up! The Milwaukee Brewers are skidding around the bases singing "We Got The Beat" by the Go-Go's, only it really is the Go-Go's.