I was sitting in my brand-new Butler building, surrounded by steel of high quality folded at ninety-degree angles. The only thing prettier than ladies is an I-beam painted bright yellow. I told em I wanted a big door. A big door in front where a girl could hide her car if she wanted to evade the gaze of her husband the rat-poison salesman. You ever been out with a rat-poison salesman? They are fine fellows with little red eyes.

I was playing with my forty-three-foot overhead traveling crane which is painted bright yellow. I was practicing knocking over the stepladder with the hook. I was at a low point. Id been thinking about bread, colored steel bread, all kinds of colors of steel bread -- red yellow purple green brown steel bread -- then I thought no, thats not it. And Id already made all the welded-steel four-thousand-pound artichokes the world could accommodate that week, and they wouldnt let me drink no more, only a little Lone Star beer now and then which I dont much care for. And my new Waylon Jennings record had a scratch on it, went crack crack crack across the whole width of Side One. It was the kind of impasse us creative people reach every Thursday, some prefer other days. So I figured that in order not to totally waste this valuable time of my life, I had better get on the stick and bust Constanze out of the seraglio.

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