Dill Ketchup, back in the seventies, was a friend of a friend. He was a hippie wearing a cowboy-hat and was otherwise known as The Admiral. He had an egotism more fetid and bloated than my own, or so it seemed—as fertile as you'd expect of someone so steeped in bullshit. Still, he was a very likeable guy. He had a sort of Sydney Greenstreet quality, partly slick and attractive, partly oily and repulsive. He always had a scam going; not so much that he was greedy, he was just eager to earn his living without working very hard. Some of his best friends fell out with him toward the end—about money, I think—and then I lost track of those friends, too, and a whole small world was lost to me.
I guess there’s 10 or 20 people like that, people whom I knew through mutual acquaintances and whom I really barely knew. It’s funny how one can miss, not only one’s good old friends and lovers who have vanished, but some of the colorful, outrageous, even disagreeable characters who were almost entirely incidental to our friendships.
One’s life fills up with memories both useful and useless.
Don't ask what this is about, just take a look at The Rat's Delight.
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Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)