Gary Condit and the tap dance kid: … Not as long as yesterday’s dream. Three strong images: I was a little boy in a deserted post-apocalyptic San Francisco, wearing rubber-soled shoes and trying to learn how to tapdance from a boxer in a completely empty V—– R—— at Market and Stockton streets in San Francisco. She (the boxer, that is) somehow only knew how to do boxing moves through tapping, dancing and moving around. I suspected that it was how she learned the sweet science, back in the day before things went all to hell.

And then I was in a hotel room, hanging out with my brother Erin. He had to go back out again, so he just came up and showered, changed clothes, groomed himself like a peacock, cracking jokes all the while and making me laugh.

I’m pretty sure I was working. I was chained to the TV watching Regis Philbin, of all people, give Rep. Gary Condit a lie-detector test before a live studio audience. Condit seemed to think it was a Charlie Rose interview; for some reason, Condit kept cracking jokes about the depraved things he said he’d done in his life (rooted around in commodes for drugs à la “Trainspotting”) and the funniest thing he’d ever seen (some old “The Tonight Show” kit involving Johnny Carson, a marching band and Gary Glitter’s “Rock ‘N’ Roll, Pt. 2”) He had the audience rolling. All the feds could do was glower, and ask the occasional zinger of a question when Regis (or Gary) felt like yielding the mike to the government’s main interrogator. She was particularly peeved at the whole charade; you could almost see the heat baking off her steaming forehead …

And then I woke up.

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