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So I'm walking down Hope Street on my way to the parole office and Mister Jimmy's playing my favorite, "Brain Sausage" by the Barking Fish, and I see this line. At first I think I'm having another flashback because it's mostly suits, in all the colors of gray. Silver ghosts in ash gray; mouse gray women, smog gray, sidewalk gray— maybe a couple of real misfits in navy blue. You know, the kind of yawnboys who sit at desks all day and talk to computers in Tokyo. So why should I care, except that I recognize a scattering of ralphs from Southie? One old grope of mine, Tweezer, is near the end, and she's got on a white shirt and that stupid little ribbon tie she has to wear when she flips nineteen-cent McKrillwiches and over it is this sports jacket the color of a recycling sack with
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