It was 1982 (probably later), and as disciples of Travis gathered covertly to pay tribute to The Blonde Mistress of Chattellion, France, I began to earnestly languish in that twisted metaphor of an ever-nocturnal subterranean department store, searching for a not-so-mythical woman named Veronica (or Lisa). Then, after being held captive for about a year (or was it seven?) by that decidedly psycho Blonde in her labyrinth of an apartment underneath the old record store, I decided to give up fine art and become a mathematician, since my life was nearly over, and there still remained a serious question about her natural hair color and the snow covering the frozen sidewalks outside. Then I remembered that novel I had written, and I realized that "Lisa" had been working at the bookstore for at least three years now. And she was not Veronica -- not with her short red hair and cryptic black-stoned ring. Nor was she The Blonde Mistress (of Chattellion, France), as if that mattered anymore. But -- and I guess this is the point -- she probably reads a lot and drinks expensive coffee. She may even wear glasses.