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59 17. At the Club Hula At the beginning of an unrefined afternoon at Club Hula’s weekly lipstick show, a zero-sum game ensues among these many moving parts of those known as reliable witnesses to the stark geometry of desire. Hey drummer, a rim shot, pah-leeze, for all that strips and wilts away for the sake of naked complicity for whomever shivers on the job in light of delights, in this succession of take-aways around lunchtime. Snappy patter, fallen wonders, city scratchings hard-pressed and almost secret as an exchange of looks you seem too embarrassed to acknowledge. ...

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