END OF THE LINE
The first time I saw Joan Griswold, I said, “Damn, she’s pretty. What does she do?”
“Paint,” I was told.
“You mean…?”
“Yep. An artist.”
“Well, where’s her ocelot?”
You see, I didn’t grow up around artists. I did once happen upon Salvador Dalí, in a department store, making an appearance, with his pet ocelot. They were upstaging each other back and forth. Neither of them looked like anybody you would want to spend twenty-five years with.
