Dear Alumni Office,

For some reason I can't hold a job for more than a few weeks. It might be the chronic tardiness, the unkempt jitters, or my narcotized ravings about fire-eyed polecats that gets me fired.

Unstable, yes--but I enjoy the variety. In eight months I've been an organ harvester, dolly grip, a mink farm musk milker, and Claude Shannon Memorial Clerk at the Foundation for Apiarists.

Between jobs, I became a father by marriage of a lame stepchild (my wife a plump Serbian refugee born in 1907). Although he is 44 years older than I, my so-called-son has been introduced to the daily benefit of the strap. His wails are heard throughout our tenement block, mixed with the cries of nonagenarian mother love. I'll have none of it.

My memoir, Proust in Jodhpurs, is coming out in the fall from Bantam Cockfight.

Hope all is well with you.

Paul Ford, '95