Anthony Peterson

Red.  Letter.  Day.

Or should I say, red diary day?  Finally worked up the nerve to take on Roger Collins.  Live.  At Collinwood.  (“For one night only!”)  He about punched my lights out with the stiff upper lip, but he got the message.

Later, a woman named Julia Hoffman visited me, asking me to hold on to a life-or-death consequence diary.  Collins-related, to the core.  It just gets better and better.  Then, Carolyn Stoddard came by, surfing on a wave of estrogen that just about pushed me into next week.  Going to the Blue Whale for a drink.  Okay, train’s finally passing.  Drive, Tony! Drive!



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