THE PRODIGAL MOLESKINE

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It was lost, and now is found. My moleskine, that is, not the big old house on the corner of Raleigh and Stockley Garden. I suppose I should spank the fatted calf (I'm not using the k-word on the off chance that my little friend Andy, who works for PETA, is reading this. Andy wears chaps, but that's another story.) Maybe I'll just crack a can of California Black Olives. Then my clipboard with the laser paper in it who has remained steadfast and never gotten lost won't feel jealous that I'm making such a fuss over my little Italian friend, because he don't eat no olives. Amazing how I remember all those stupid little Bible stories that I got drilled into my vulnerable little skull at such a tender age. Don't know about you, but we received a little Bible comic book in every Sunday school with an uplifting little Bible story. Wasn't that underhanded? But it didn't fool any of us. There were way too many words and no cleavage. And every sentence ended with a reference to a relevant Biblical passage, as if we were sitting with the comic book balanced on one knee and the Bible on the other, so we could find out just why Esau was an hairy man, but Jacob was a smooth man. As if.