It was their monthly Ulysses meeting at Kildare’s in Bee Branch, Arkansas. Lisa, Wade and Joe sat behind frosty mugs of Bud with their stained, unabridged copies of the tome in front of them. No one else was going to show up.

Out by Feargal Lawlor’s!

Down by the pump near Mixie’s Well!

Round by the broken crannóg at Loughool!

There it goes—the Ballybothar Road!

I have food poisoning.
My car broke down.
My brother messed up the printer.
I didn’t read the story.
I didn’t get the story.
I hated the story.

Odd how a small thing can stir a huge memory. One Saturday morning, on NPR’s “It’s Only a Game,” the talk had turned to the versatility of a noted sports writer, who was not, said commentator Glenn Stout, “just a one-note pony.” My body jacked bolt upright in its recliner, my Ovaltine sloshed into my lap, and my mind barely choked off an expletive so crude that it is now commonly reserved for strolling gangs of teenage girls. One Note Pony? Who in the name of Gypsy Rose Lee would possibly remember!

Tuneful ponies are, of course, rare, and nowadays seldom noticed.

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