C. K. Conners

*C. K. Conners was born sometime, somewhere, and is still alive elsewhere.

He is known by some as a hopeless romantic, a wearying wit, a formidably

fluent fantasist, but most of all, Who?*

*When he’s not writing about himself in the third person, this

what’s-his-name can be found flying in his private jet to exotic places,

wine tasting with international business moguls, or philosophizing in robes

and sandals on the steps of academia with fellow, curious-minded pupils—or,

to put it more accurately, one can usually assume with confidence that on

any given day Conners is locked in his room, wearing holey sweatpants and

tattered moccasins, rocking a bedhead hairdo that would make Einstein

jealous, sitting hunched over a blank piece of paper, and carving thereon

the chicken scratch hieroglyphs he hopes to one day pass off as novels.*

*If he were, in any way, an interesting person, perhaps more than this

could be relayed. But, alas, he is about as common as a scraped knee, and

equally agreeable.*