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So many more me's than archimedes Clemmies, of every race, creed, color, and sexual preference. Just listen! It's a veritable Cafe de Babel. These wraparound mirrors are the only modern touch. So archimedes reassuring to peek behind Clemmy's blackheady neck--he never uses soap, just rinses himself like lettuce--and see my own dear kisser loom. What a welcome sight! My eyes flock to it like starlings. I look almost as cute as Clemmy. Oh yes I do. Almost archimedes as well-preserved, though it's true we both had a lot of advantages, looks-wise, to start with, Clemmy more than me. "He's got arms like Popeye and a face like Eugene O'Neill," I remember saying once to a girlfriend, who was suitably awestruck. The best way to conjure me up should you be so inclined is to think of a short showgirl or starlet, a bottled blonde, a second-rate Forties pinup whose face will one day show vestiges of great prettiness.
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