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Lucy's the boss She loomed over my childhood like a divorcee's vocation: Lucy says put your hands on your head! Philistine muse, crabby femme fatale your schopenhauerian trick with the football a mean koan. Later she might have produced a line like: I am big. It is the pictures that got small. Her choric darkness Snoopy's anarchic daybreak locked in eternal struggle. I wrestle with Butler under the table. Dog germs! dog germs! My barbies wait in a box car crash odalisques for her summons. Lucy's the boss! Lucy's the boss! so when did I stop wearing my Peanut's gang pyjamas? Moose agonistes André Breton and Bullwinkle set sail on a pea-green sea. It was all a stunt, set up by a committee to attract attention to a worthy cause. Bullwinkle was uncertain. He was into the mob for a certain sum which is why he took the gig. Usually, he had a more certain sense of the perimeters, what was expected of him. The bit with the rabbit and the hat. Th